Total pages in book: 11
Estimated words: 9924 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 50(@200wpm)___ 40(@250wpm)___ 33(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 9924 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 50(@200wpm)___ 40(@250wpm)___ 33(@300wpm)
Sebastian Weaver.
Star quarterback.
A former senator’s grandson.
And dangerous.
It’s not only because of his lethally attractive looks, because honestly? He could be the most beautiful man God has created. Okay, in the top five.
His face may as well have been sculpted from granite, all rough edges and with predefined expressions. Not in a serial killer kind of way, but in a ‘hello, I’m your next fantasy’ kind of way. His cut jawline and sharp nose add to the general perfection that God bestows upon only some of his creations.
His eyes, though, tell a completely different story. It’s not solely about their light green color that resembles the shade of a tropical sea that I’ve only seen in pictures. But what’s most striking about them is the fading light in their depths, almost as if he’s mad with the supremacy he was given. Or maybe he considers it a burden.
Gee, if having his looks is a burden, we can switch.
Or not.
That would make me a guy and I’d have to carry the cheer squad.
Okay, wait. Am I really thinking about carrying the cheerleaders when I’m trapped under Sebastian’s body?
A very hard one at that. No, I don’t mean his dick is hard, though I think it’s getting there, but all of him, from his chest to his thighs and even his whole face.
His dark sandy-blond hair falls across his forehead, creating a dreamy contrast against his sun-kissed skin and the light color of his eyes. Eyes that are currently narrowing at me as if I committed a mistake by merely existing.
“Move,” he says in that slightly raspy voice of his, one that’s meant to whisper dirty things in the dark.
Or maybe in the light. Who cares?
“What?”
“Either you heard me and you’re playing dumb or you have hearing issues. Both of which I don’t give a fuck about.”
My small ‘worship at his altar while ogling him’ phase comes to a screeching halt at both his words and their condescending tone.
Who does this asshole think he is? He might be a little attractive—okay, a lot, whatever—but that doesn’t give him the right to treat me like the dirt under his shoes. I wasn’t born for that position.
I adopt my half-mocking, half-snobby tone that I usually use when talking to Brianna. “Uh, hello? You’re the one who’s pinning me to the ground.”
“Because you’re wrapping your leg around mine.”
I lift my head and search around until my abdomen aches from the half-lifted position, and sure enough, my leg is definitely looped around his. And are his muscles twitching beneath mine or am I imagining things?
Way to go, me. One to nil, Black Devils.
But instead of acting like the idiot my brain is telling me to emulate, I don’t release him. “That’s only because of the fall. Don’t get ideas in your twisted head.”
“Maybe you’re the one whose head is twisted since it went straight there.” He grins, showing me his perfect white teeth, and while that’s considered a friendly gesture, the emptiness behind it forbids me from considering it as such.
I’ve been well aware of Sebastian’s reputation ever since I transferred here during my senior year of high school. One would have to be blind while simultaneously living under a rock not to recognize Senator Brian Weaver’s only grandchild and Blackwood’s favorite quarterback.
He’s the definition of a cliché with his mesmerizing all-American looks, background, and skill.
Everyone believes his grandfather is preparing him for a career in politics as soon as he’s out of college and that football is merely a stepping stone. The NFL is too small for his ambitions and his future.
But that’s not what I first noticed about Sebastian. It was neither who his family was, what he played, nor even what he looked like.
It was always his eyes.
The way they’re muted, like right now, as if he’s falling into a role.
He plays the social game so well, I’m jealous sometimes. I wish I could fake it as convincingly as he does. I wish I could smile at people when all I want to do is hide.
“Let’s agree to disagree.” He’s still smiling, but he’s not attempting to conceal its fakery anymore. That’s what people do when they’re fed up. They let the masks fall and allow their true selves to show through.
And right now, what he’s projecting is entirely different from what he is.
“So are you going to release me or would you rather feel me up some more?”
I move my leg with a jerk. “You’re the one who’s doing that.”
“Yeah, yeah, and I’m also the one who caged myself against you. Do you hear yourself?”
“Yes, I do, and I make more sense than you… Why aren’t you getting up?”
The empty mockery on his features slowly breaks as a gleam shines through. “Didn’t you say I was feeling you? Might as well go with it.”