Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
But then, I stare harder at the photo, my eyes widening to the size of pucks.
Fuck me, are her nipples pierced?
I blink a few times before I look up at her, and she looks back, confused. “What?”
“You picked this photo?”
Her brows draw in, her face showing pure annoyance as her little nose tips up. “Yes, it’s a good shot. I look approachable.”
“For a Hooters,” I say, my cock wanting a front-row seat to her in that white shirt with those tits on display.
Her eyes widen as she gawks at me. “Excuse me!”
“Princess, your nipples are hard and showing.”
She yanks the paper from my hand, and then a look of horror passes over her face. Her brows shoot up, her cheeks blazing red, and she coughs on air. “This isn’t the right picture.” She runs her hand down her face and shakes her head. “I had on a jacket that hid my breasts in the other one.”
I scoff, trying to hold back my smirk. “I don’t think a jacket would hide those babies.”
Her eyes darken. Fuck, she’s stunning. “You’re a pig,” she accuses, and I shrug.
For her… Yes. Yes, I am. “We can’t use that photo. Or, we can…and you’ll get all the men of Thistlebrook as students.” I give her a pointed look, and her scowl deepens. “If that’s your goal, just come to a game in that outfit, without the jacket, of course, and you’ll leave with someone.”
The look of disgust that covers her face pleases me entirely too much. She gives me an irritated look. “As I said, it’s the wrong photo, and I will be replacing it.”
“Good,” I say, and then my traitorous eyes fall to her lovely breasts, and I drink in the sight for a moment. She’s always had small, teardrop tits that would fit in my mouth perfectly. Now they’re just a bit bigger, but it’s all good, because I have a huge mouth.
When I look up, I meet her eyes with an over-exaggerated, bored gaze. She caught me staring at her, but I don’t care. I grin widely at her, and her breath catches audibly. “Can I ask a personal question?”
“You cannot,” she quips back, her tone breathless as she tucks her paper back into her file.
“Why not?” I ask, unable to stop grinning. She’s so flustered and I love it. “We’re friends.”
Her eyes cut to me. “Friends don’t talk about their friends’ boobs.”
“Me and my friends do.” She rolls her eyes. “And how do you know it’s about your boobs?”
Her eyes narrow. “Because I just caught you trying to look through my shirt and bra. So, no, I won’t tell you a thing about them.”
“It’s a simple question.”
“No,” she says before turning the page. “Now, I looked at the budget, and I have a list of things I want to upgrade in the west rink. I also—” I didn’t even realize my eyes have trailed back down to her boobs until she stops. “For real, Jett?”
I lean back in my chair and shrug, not the least bit ashamed. “They’re all I can think about.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“You’re the one who gave me a picture of your nipples in 3-D! I think you did it on purpose.”
“On purpose!” she complains, her eyes wide and full of irritation. “What would be my endgame in giving you a photo of my boobs?”
“To distract me and take the building,” I say simply, feeling pretty damn good about myself for coming up with that on the fly.
Maybe I can get her mad enough that I can steal that paper back.
She scoffs. “Well, you’re playing right into it, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am,” I say without any shame. “I am very disappointed in myself.”
Fable laughs to herself and shakes her head. “That’s not my endgame, Jett. I want to work together and not talk about my boobs.”
All I hear is boobs. Yes, I’m disgusting. No, I don’t care. “It’s one little question.”
“Do you know how unprofessional you’re being right now?”
“Is this a professional meeting? I’m not dressed right, if so,” I say since I’m wearing jeans and a tee. “But if you want to change into that little number you’ve got, sans jacket, I’ll wait.”
I swear I see lust in those green depths. “Disgusting.”
But she doesn’t seem to be that disgusted by me. If anything, by the tint of her cheeks and the playfulness in her eyes, I’d say she appreciates that I want to know about them. Unable to resist, I say, “I think you’re enjoying my curiosity.”
She blinks. “I most certainly am not.”
“I think you want me to just ask.”
“I don’t,” she insists, but once more, her cheeks fill with color, and is she pushing her shoulders back?
What a naughty ice princess.
I cover my mouth as I drink her in, wanting desperately to gather her hair and pull her head back to reveal her throat. I’d suck and lick my way down, pull her shirt completely off her shoulder before yanking up that bra to find out the answer to my question. Would she let me?