Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 33433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
This is the first time we've been in a room together since we met at the engagement party. Hell, it's the first time we've even been in the same city since then…and I'm guessing it is not going to go the way it always does in my fantasies.
The thought pisses me off. So does the way she skirts around me when she reaches the landing, walking all the way to the far wall just so she doesn't have to come near me.
Nope. Fuck that noise.
I don't care if she is pissed. She doesn't get to ignore me like I'm a stranger instead of the man she's been messaging damn near daily for the last four months.
I drop my bag and stalk toward her, planting myself right in her path. She's a dainty little ballerina. I'm built like a brick shithouse. She has no choice but to stop.
"Excuse me," she says, irritation painted into every gorgeous line of her face. "I was walking there."
"I saw you." She has no idea how often I've seen her over the last several months. She'd probably kill me if she knew how many times I've stalked her social media, just to see her.
I never knew ballet could be so erotic until I was beating off to clips of her dancing every goddamn day.
I'm mad as hell that I can't do it anymore, believe me.
I'm also mad as hell that I let her run at the engagement party instead of taking her home with me. If I'd been smarter, this wouldn't even be an issue right now, but no. I figured we had time, that I could take it slow and ease her into the idea of us.
Well, that backfired in my fucking face.
"Of course you did." She sighs, flicking her gaze up to mine. Her eyes are the sharpest emerald, cold enough to cut. "I don't want your autograph, Mr. I'm-a-Real-Athlete."
Ouch. She definitely saw that bullshit article, then.
"Fine. How about that dinner you owe me?" I ask instead of trying to explain what I actually said to the interviewer. I already know she won't accept it, not right now. She has that same look in her eye that Hattie always gets when she's going to be unholy stubborn about something.
It's sexy as hell on Sophie. It's also more likely to cause actual damage. Sophie isn't tame. She isn't sweet or delicate either. She's a badass, all the way to her core.
Something about that is so fucking sexy to me. Women have been throwing themselves at me for years. They all want to be caught and kept, to be perfect little trophies who bagged an athlete. I'm rude as fuck because I'm not interested in being someone's show pony.
Sophie is different. She doesn't throw herself at anyone. She isn't interested in being kept. I'm not entirely sure she's even interested in being caught. The more people ask when she's going to settle down, the less she seems to like the idea.
I fucking love that she defies the rules and does what the fuck she wants. She doesn't bow to the world or its expectations. She forges her own path.
"Are you kidding me right now?"
"Do I look like I'm kidding?"
"I don't have the patience for this," she growls, crossing her arms to glare at me. I'm not entirely sure she's talking to me, though. I think she's talking to herself. "God gave me grace, not patience."
My lips quirk. "He gave me both."
"And yet, he didn't give you a lick of common sense," she says, trying to slide past me. "What an absolute tragedy."
"You saw the article."
"You mean the one where you said that ballet isn't a sport and it's insulting to compare ballerinas to actual athletes?" She rolls her eyes. "Oh, I saw it."
Damn. It sounds even worse than I remembered.
"Why do you think I blocked you?" She bats her lashes at me. "You didn't need little ole me and my Not-an-Athlete self distracting you from your big, manly game of sportsball. What would your real athlete friends think?"
So…she's big mad, then.
"Unblock me," I growl.
"Sure." She takes a step toward me, so close, I feel her tits graze my chest. Precum spills into my boxers, and I want to press her up against the wall and grind my cock against her until we're both ruined. "As soon as hell freezes over."
I try to grab her, but she moves like a dream. Before I can even react, she's got the heel of her shoe digging into the top of my foot. One perfect hand presses against the inside of my thigh, her knuckles grazing my shaft.
The fucker throbs, cum spilling into my boxers. There's no stopping it. She's touching my cock, and I'm just done.
RIP to my dignity.
"Fuck," I groan, swaying on my feet. And then she turns pleasure into a goddamn firestorm by grabbing a handful of thigh muscle and squeezing. Hard. A jolt of pain goes all the way to my foot.