Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Like she’s not allowed to make plans without informing me.
I lift her to her feet, keeping one hand molded around her cute ass. “What scholarship?”
Her face is red, her gaze furious. I sense her legs trembling. “To ASU. I have to maintain all A’s if I want the three-quarter scholarship.”
All A’s.
So Rayne’s smart.
I didn’t know that, either. It seems there’s a fuck-ton I don’t know about this girl, and I suddenly make it my business to know everything.
“I still don’t want you seeing him,” I grouse.
She throws her hands in the air with exasperation. “I’m not seeing him! He’s literally a kid at school who is good at math and helped me go over the problems on the test I just choked on.”
“Next time bring him here, so I can supervise.”
She cocks her head, her upper lip lifting in scorn. “You are not my chaperone, Wilde. You’re not my anything.”
I squeeze her buttcheek and shake. “Oh, but I am, Runt. I’m your everything. Now, get out to my Jeep. It’s time for your driving lesson.”
Her jaw drops. “I’m not driving with you! I’m not doing anything with you, Wilde Woodward. You just assaulted me in my own room. I don’t feel safe with you.”
I stand, towering over her. I lower my face to hers until we’re nose to nose. “First of all, it’s not your room. It’s mine. And you’re not safe with me, Rayne. Not unless you learn to obey. The sooner you accept that, the easier it’s going to go between us.”
Rayne
In the next moment, Wilde tosses me over his shoulder, his hand somehow still firmly on my tingling ass, and walks me out to his Jeep.
I’m the definition of hot mess. I mean, my ass is burning, my pride is in tatters, and I just orgasmed three times on Wilde’s fingers!
For all the porn research I’ve done to become a foot fetish goddess, I’ve been more or less asexual during my teen years.
I swear, I never even thought about having sex until that first night Wilde showed up in the house and saw me in my underwear. Now, I’m feverish. All I can think about is him touching me there again.
I mean–did that actually happen? Was it a mistake?
No. He knew what he was doing. Maybe not consciously when he pinned me up on the wall, but after he let me down, when he started moving his fingers to get me off–that was intentional.
Did he know what it did to me?
Gah. Of course, he did! He can probably smell the fluids that leaked from me when he stimulated me.
He opens the Jeep door and drops me into the driver’s seat then fastens my seatbelt across my lap. Which is weirdly pleasurable. So is him adjusting the seat forward.
It’s almost like…he cares.
I hate the riot of sensation that thought produces. Like a tingle just below my skin all over my entire body.
“Rayne.” Wilde’s in the open doorway, looking down at me.
I don’t look over. I can’t. I’m way too raw and horribly confused about the nature of our relationship. I mean…doesn’t he hate me?
Is he interested sexually?
What in the fuck is going on?
And even just that notion of him being interested sexually sends fresh flames licking through my core.
I fantasize about him reaching between my legs to rub there again. Want his thick, warm digits in my most sensitive place.
“Rayne-bow.”
I look over, surprised at the name. Bailey’s mate Cole used to call me that, but he did it in a derisive way. Even so, I liked the nickname enough that I’ve come to use it in my head when I speak to myself.
“I wouldn’t actually hurt you.”
Holy. Shit.
Is he actually feeling remorseful for what he just said?
“I know you’re fragile, Runt.”
Fragile. Right.
Another dig at my defective genes.
I snap my gaze straight ahead again. “Fuck off, Wilde.”
He chuckles as he swings the door shut and walks around. After he climbs into the passenger side, he leans across me to put the key in. “You can start it this time,” he says, reminding me of my stupid mistake last time, of trying to start a running car.
I reach for the brake pedal, depress it, and turn the key. It starts up. I blow out a breath and put the car in drive.
As I start to take my foot off the brake, Wilde’s hand drops over mine. “Hold up.”
“What?” I can’t help sounding defensive. Like I said, my pride is in tatters.
“Are you going forward or backward?”
Oh.
Well, fudge.
I shift into reverse. Wilde keeps his hand over mine the whole time, which sends spasmodic quivers through my belly. Not just butterflies, but seismic shifts. Knots that tighten and loosen at the same time.
I start to press the gas, and he squeezes my hand. “Hang on, Runt.”
For fates’ sake. What am I doing wrong now?