Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Bingo.
I grab it, flop onto her bed like I own the place, and flip it open to a random page.
Page 247.
“His fingers slid beneath the waistband of her panties, slow and teasing, like he had all the time in the world. She gasped, arching against him, and he grinned against her throat. ‘You’re so wet for me already,’ his voice was deep enough to undress her.”
I blink.
“What the fuck?” The cover has a cartoon on it! I flip back to it and stare. “Huh.”
I clear my throat and flip the page, purely for scientific purposes.
“She tangled her hands in his hair, pulling him closer, begging without words. He didn’t need instructions—he knew her body like he’d mapped it out himself, and he was going to worship every inch with his swollen cock.”
I glance at the door guiltily.
Still no Nova.
Still just me. And this book. And a growing realization that I am way out of my depth here.
“She reads this stuff,” I whisper to no one. “On purpose.”
I flip to yet another page.
“He dipped lower, his mouth hot on her skin, his tongue tracing a path that made her whimper. ‘Tell me what you want,’ he said, and she did. God, she did.”
I shut the book. Quickly.
Chuckle under my breath and place the book on top of the small stack, careful not to disturb the others.
I lie back on her bed, arms behind my head, trying very hard not to think about what I just read.
Which is impossible, of course. Because now all I can picture is Nova pressed against me, book and vibrator and who knows what else hidden inside this room.
This is getting dangerous.
I’ve officially crossed into enemy territory.
A bored, unsupervised man in a beautiful girl's bedroom, armed only with poor impulse control and way too much time on his hands? This is how people end up on TikTok with videos that begin with, “So I was hiding in her room…”
“All right. No more lying around.”
If I’m stuck here, I might as well do something with myself.
I root around and find a whiteboard leaning against the wall, behind a small desk, markers attached.
I pick it up, grab the blue marker, and write in block letters:
NOVA’S BEDROOM SURVIVAL GUIDE: By Luca, prisoner of boredom
Do NOT open mysterious drawers. You will learn things. Things you can’t unlearn. You will regret it.
Avoid page 247 of romance novel.
Vibrators are stronger than they look. I fear them. Respect the buzz.
If you hear Gio approaching, roll under the bed and pray.
I add a little stick figure of myself at the bottom before leaning it against her bathroom mirror for her to find later.
Snatch up the sticky notes on her bedside table and write “SO HOT.” Stick it to the lamp.
“TRAPPED.” Stick that to the headboard. I leave a third on her pillow: “THIS BETTER BE WORTH IT.”
I take a step back, surveying my art. My legacy. My descent into cabin-fever madness made tangible through neon paper. I flop onto her bed again, a bit lighter now. That weird kind of calm that comes after doing something impulsive and stupid but feels extremely satisfying.
The kind of calm you got when you were a teenager and would prank phone call people.
I glance up at the ceiling fan, still spinning lazily. Breathe in the faint scent of lavender, cotton, and sin.
It’s oddly peaceful now. Cozy, even.
I grin to myself.
This evening has been totally worth it.
And just as I start to doze off for real—mind blissfully quiet for the first time since I read page 247—I hear the click of the front door.
Footsteps. Soft. Familiar.
Then a pause.
Then the very distinctive sound of her laughter from the hallway. Low. Distant.
Uh-oh.
The bedroom door swings open and Nova appears, blinking once. Twice.
Her gaze sweeps the room slowly—whiteboard. Sticky notes.
I sit up slowly. Smile like I’m innocent. Like I wasn’t just leaving breadcrumbs of unhinged thoughts all over her room.
“Hi,” I say, voice calm. “Welcome back. Nice of you to show up.”
She looks at me for one long, stunned beat—like she’s trying to decide whether to laugh, cry, or back out slowly and pretend this never happened.
Then she breezes across the room and flops down beside me, burying her face in the comforter with a muffled groan. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”
I blink, not expecting the immediate guilt. “For what?”
She rolls onto her back, eyes wide, one hand gesturing vaguely toward the ceiling. “For leaving you alone. For letting Gio linger. For trapping you in here without food, water, or even Netflix access. I am a terrible hostess.”
“You are,” I agree. “Truly abysmal. I nearly died of boredom.”
She groans again. “I knew he was going to overstay. He brought spring rolls, Luca. I couldn’t just throw him out.”
“Yeah.” I nod in agreement. “That probably wouldn’t have gone over well and would have looked suspicious.” My stomach growls. “Did you remember to take the chicken out of the oven?”