Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 85608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Good. Good. That was way better. Just how it had always been. Real flirty and a current of desire under every interaction. I’d liked her the first time I met her, but she and I were the same in that neither of us ever seemed to want to settle down. I’d thought our endless flirting was standard order until I realized that maybe that flirting was going somewhere.
Sure, it’d gone somewhere—up in flames.
Court made some ridiculous toast, and then we downed the shots. Whitley wobbled on her heels. She was pixie short. Even in her heels, I towered over her. I liked that. Her makeup was light, highlighting her big honey eyes and her pouty, full lips. They were certified DSLs—dick-sucking lips—and looked like she’d injected several vials of filler into them, but they were just her lips. They were currently a soft pink color, and man, I was trying not to think about exactly what she’d done with them when we hooked up on vacation.
We danced the night away, as if she hadn’t been gone at all. I was even on the drunk side by the end of the night. Whitley grabbed my arm as I stumbled toward the bar.
“Hey,” she said, stopping me. “Can we talk?”
My eyes widened in surprise. “Yeah, sure.”
We moved away out of earshot.
“I just … I wanted to say thanks for not making this awkward.”
“Why would it be awkward?” I asked, grinning down at her, waiting for her to admit why she’d left.
“Shut up. You know why.”
“Oh, but I want to hear it.” I leaned toward her.
She rolled her eyes and slapped my arm. “You’re obnoxious.”
“Am I?”
“I’m trying to thank you, and you’re flirting with me.”
“Have we ever done anything else?”
She paused, as if giving it real thought. “I think we have.”
She was right. We had. We’d spent two weeks in paradise, doing a lot more than flirting.
“I want things to be like before. Before, before. You know?”
“Before what?” I asked, really pressing the issue.
She giggled. “Stop. Stop. I don’t want to talk about that.”
She was drunk and her shoulder was pressed tight against mine. I could smell the perfume she wore. Lavender to match the color of her hair. I could have devoured her whole in that moment, but my brain was catching up to what she was really saying.
“Tell me what you want, Whit.”
She bit her bottom lip. Fuck, I wanted that in my mouth right now.
“You know, just be friends, like before.”
Friends.
A cold bucket of water was thrown over my head. She wanted to be friends.
Fuck, I could do that. But I didn’t want that.
I didn’t want to lose her either.
“You want to be friends.”
“Yeah. I mean, like how it’s been tonight. It’s been great. I was worried that you’d want to talk about …”
“What exactly?” I asked, pressing again.
She gulped. “You know.”
“You’ve said that. Maybe you should enlighten me.”
Because I remembered her watching me masturbate in the shower and the feel of her lips on my cock and how it had felt to sink into her cunt. And for a second, as our eyes met drunkenly, she thought about it too. Then, her eyes shuttered.
“That’s what I mean, King,” she said, swatting at me and pulling away at the same time. “I don’t want things to change with us. You don’t either, do you?”
“What if I said I did?”
She froze at those words. Her lips opening to a silent O. Her eyes going wide. She didn’t know what to do with that. And Whitley Bowen was terrified of relationships. She thought she was the stereotypical “bad girlfriend,” and if she felt the slightest pressure, she’d ditch. I’d seen her move across the country because of it. I could see her brain, even her alcohol-addled brain, considering it now.
“I’m kidding,” I lied.
She broke out into laughter. “Jesus, you’re the worst. Such a goddamn flirt.”
“That’s me.”
“I’m still the best wingman you’ve ever had, right, King?”
“Something like that.”
“Glad we had this talk. I need another drink. Come dance with me.”
“I’ll be right there.”
She bit her lip and winked at me as she scampered back to the dance floor. I kept my smile on my face until she disappeared. Then, I let it fall. I wanted to punch something or someone. Whoever had hurt my little pixie enough to make her run away from the first sight of something real.
Fuck.
Just … fuck.
5
WHITLEY
My brain was mush when I woke up the next morning, naked in my hotel room, alone. I reached haphazardly for my phone and saw the three missed calls from Lark.
“Fuck,” I croaked.
I clicked the voicemail button. “Are we still on for today? I can meet you at the building in ten.”
Beep.
“I’m here. Where are you? Whitley, are you still drunk and in bed?”
Beep.
“Well, the apartment was lovely. Are you going to be able to come to the next one, or should I reschedule with my real estate agent?”