Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65884 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65884 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
So did Ty.
“Come for me, Red. Come on, baby. Give it to me.”
My orgasm ripped through me a moment later. I’d barely caught my breath when Ty lifted my right leg, changing the angle slightly as he dropped his forehead to my shoulder and chased his release. He bucked, trembled, and fell apart.
I twisted, offering my mouth. We might have kissed, but don’t quote me. It was all very wicked and wild. And wonderful.
Ty didn’t seem to be in a hurry afterward. We cleaned up and drifted to the living room to watch an old Spider-Man movie, sharing a pint of vanilla chocolate chip. The arachnid film choice was Ty’s, the ice cream was mine. Ty fed me large spoonfuls whenever my strong anti-spider opinions threatened his enjoyment.
“Could there be a less sexy comic hero? I want to like Spider-Man, I really do. The ‘journalist fighting crime’ story is something I can get behind. Clark Kent, Peter Parker…yes, yes, yes. But spiders are positively repug—” I paused for an ice cream bite and continued as soon as I’d swallowed. “Repugnant. The lucky bastards know I’m an easy target. I could never kill them. I’m just not a killer…of anything. Ants, mosquitos, flies—” More ice cream.
I studied Ty’s profile spotlighted in the glow of the television, fighting a smile at his put-upon charade. He was funny and endearing, a good son who adored his parents, a loyal friend, an amazing lover, and…he was still here, watching a movie with me instead of hanging out at a party with his teammates.
And he’d asked me on a date. The butterflies in my stomach had butterflies.
Ahem. Puh-leaze. I was a realist through and through. I wouldn’t let my heart lead me astray. We were the definition of a casual collegiate fling. A secret one, no less. I wasn’t about to lose perspective and create a magical romantic fairy tale with an unattainable jock. I was too smart for that nonsense.
But I liked that he’d chosen me tonight. And I liked that he’d stayed.
He’d wanted to say good night to Mabel, who was curled up asleep on my pillow in my room. Next thing I knew we were naked and Ty was on top of me, gazing into my eyes, whispering, “I’m addicted to you.”
Was it terrible that I loved it? That I wanted—no, needed—confirmation that for once in my life, I wasn’t completely alone?
If only for a little while.
CHAPTER 16
TY
This was not a real date. I repeat…not a real date.
First of all, Vincento’s wasn’t the type of place you took someone you hoped to impress. It was ordinary and unpretentious, and it had zero aspirations of grandeur. The family-owned pizzeria knew their clientele, and let’s be real…college students were all about a good deal on a budget.
So if the red vinyl booth was a little sticky, and the bulb in the ancient stained-glass pendent over the corner table was on the fritz…so what? The pizza was amazing, the garlic balls were served warm and coated with olive oil and a fine layer of parmesan, and refills were on the house.
It was perfect for postgame celebrations or commiserations, perfect for pre-party meals, or study-break chow sessions, but not dates. Which was usually fine because I didn’t date. Or not often. And I’d never ever, ever gone on a date with a guy.
Ever.
Yet here I was, sitting across from Walker Woodrow, wondering why I’d thought this might be a good idea. And yes, it had been my idea. I wouldn’t have used the word “date,” but I’d gone along with it. Casually.
Problem: I was really fuckin’ nervous.
Christ, just look at him. Walker was hot. Geeky hot, yes, but still hot. His crisp blue oxford shirt complemented his tawny eyes and his gorgeous hair. I stared at the laminated menu I hadn’t bothered reading in years to avoid staring at him. Then I swiped my clammy palms on my jeans under the table and internally chided myself for being a coward.
In spite of the fact that I was sweating through my T-shirt and actively hoping my deodorant didn’t let me down, I had no regrets. Especially when Walker flashed a bashful half grin while perusing Vincento’s pizza selections as if the choice between the meat lover’s and the Sicilian with prosciutto was the equivalent of ordering the lobster or the filet mignon at an actual fancy restaurant with linen tablecloths and sturdy silverware I couldn’t easily twist into a knot with one hand.
If he was nervous, he was better at playing it cool.
A glass of Vincento’s weak-as-hell beer later, I removed my head from my ass and remembered that Walker was an actor. Well…sort of, anyway. He played a role in front of a camera that required a friendly demeanor and a congenial show of interest in topics he didn’t always care about.