Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 80643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
I’m losing my mind.
A loud, booming sound comes from down the hallway and I jump, whipping around to look behind me.
Christ.
It's just music.
The beginning of a loud, bassy song coming from the speaker system in someone else’s room.
The crazy is contagious, apparently.
I glance around the room another time.
Despite the condoms, I haven’t seen Torin take home any hookups since he’s been here. Whatever his sex life looks like, it’s not my concern.
There is something I could look for here, though.
Hmm.
Do you potentially have a weapon I could borrow in here, Stepbrother Psychopath?
I’m pulling open the top drawer of his nightstand when I hear a floorboard crack behind me, and this time I’m certain it’s not part of the song.
I turn around and curse under my breath.
Torin’s leaning in the doorway, giving me a calm stare.
My chest goes molten.
He has a white towel slung around his waist, his hair still wet from the pool.
“Care to tell me why you’re rifling through my things?”
He barely seems bothered.
I’m sure he’s actually fucking delighted that he caught me doing something I shouldn’t be doing.
“I was looking for weapons.”
Kind of the truth.
“You assume I brought weapons with me into Onyx House?”
I slam the nightstand drawer shut. “Plenty of guys in Onyx have weapons. It’s not like we’d kick you out. I just needed a weapon for something.”
His gaze narrows for a moment.
“Stalk me much, Noah?” he asks, stepping in and dropping his towel to the ground. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his swim shorts and tugs them down in one quick motion.
I pull my eyes away.
“For fuck’s sake, Torin.”
He’s fully naked now as he walks further into the room, ignoring me. I glance back over and get a glimpse of everything, and the back of my neck rushes with heat.
Even when his dick is soft, it hangs long and thick between his legs.
I feel like I’m looking at an ancient Greek statue, except Torin’s way more endowed than any of those ever are.
Not that I need to be assessing the state of his cock.
He faces away from me and opens his dresser drawers, giving me a full view of his ass as he looks for clothes.
I turn away completely this time.
I need to get the fuck out of here even more than I did five minutes ago, and I’ve been given more than enough cues to exit.
As I’m walking toward his door, he finally speaks.
“Noah.”
“What?” I toss back in a clipped tone.
He’s still not looking my way.
“Are you in here because you’re looking for a repeat? Because I’m a little busy tonight, but if you need me to watch you come that badly, you could just ask.” He finally turns, looking me in the eye. “Or if you need a hand on your throat again.”
A flare of heat moves through me.
Bitter rage that’s so white-hot that it feels dangerously close to arousal.
“You’re never touching me again,” I tell him. “But keep dreaming if you want, bro.”
He turns around to meet my gaze. “Later, stalker. Why did you need a weapon, by the way?”
I flip him off and walk off without answering.
My cock is still hard under my pants, and it’s not helping that he brought up the idea of watching me come.
Certifiably fucking insane.
Why do I have to be so easy to turn on?
I head to my room, lock the door, and throw off my pants the moment I’m alone.
I collapse onto my mattress, looking up at the ceiling.
When I pull out my nuisance of a cock, I squeeze hard around it like a punishment. Finally gripping it is a massive relief after it’s felt like an itch that I haven’t been able to scratch all night.
I need something.
Badly.
I have to release whatever weird pent-up feeling that’s been bothering me all day, and for the past two weeks, and be done with it.
At first I think of nothing at all as I start to stroke. My cock feels so hard I swear I could come in two seconds flat, but I try to keep it at bay for a minute.
I keep a tight grip and force images into my head that have always worked for me, like Vela Dryden, the intensely cool punk rock girl from Luros who never wanted me back but I was helplessly obsessed with last year.
I used to love her tall black boots. Her sheer tights. Her dark eye makeup, and her commanding attitude.
But I feel nothing as I think of her.
And even as I think of other women, like celebrities and old crushes and people I thought I loved, nothing works.
I’m close, but I can’t finish.
Like I’m endlessly edging myself to the line but unable to cross it.
And then I picture something less tangible.
Intensity.
Fire.
Things I can’t control.
My cock throbs in my hand as I imagine someone pinning me face down on the bed. A heavy weight behind me.