Total pages in book: 188
Estimated words: 179812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 899(@200wpm)___ 719(@250wpm)___ 599(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 179812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 899(@200wpm)___ 719(@250wpm)___ 599(@300wpm)
“How would they even know to write something like that?” I ask him one night, my heart racing.
He’s in another hotel room, propped up on generic pillows and as usual bare-chested and lazy-looking. “Baby, you have to calm down, okay?”
I’m biting my lip. “Do you think they’re hacking our phones and reading like, our texts?”
His lips twitch. “If they’re hacking my phone, then the most interesting stuff on my phone are your dancing videos.”
I wave that away, but yes, I do send him videos of me dancing, especially on game day. Because he calls them his good luck charm.
“Listen to me, okay?” he continues when I still look worried. “This is fucking parasitic garbage, do you understand? It doesn’t mean anything. And I’m never, not ever, going to let anything happen to you. Or Snow. Nothing will touch you, do you understand? I will take care of everything—”
“But what about you? You could lose your place on the team and—”
“I’ll be fine,” he says, his features tight.
Also regretful. I can see it clearly on his face. He hates being away from me. And he hates that he’s the reason I’m being dragged in the media, Snow too. He hates there’s a legal case happening and it’s for the violation of my privacy. I don’t know how to fix that, his guilt, or convince him that while it is scary to be on the internet, I’m more worried about him and the impact it may have on his career and our family.
In any case, since I can’t erase his guilt, I can distract from it. I am the distraction, after all.
“You know what,” I begin, raising my eyebrows, “you should change my name on your phone. Like put in a code name or something.”
He stares at me a beat, possibly coming to the same conclusion, that distraction is good. Although, only in moderation. Anyway, his features soften, and he asks, “Yeah, what code name?”
I twirl a strand of my hair. “Something that only you’ll understand.”
“Do you have a code name for me?”
And I freeze and of course, blush. Stupid redhead skin. I did not think that through.
Before I can recover and say something, he goes, “So you do, huh?”
“No,” I tell him, sitting up straight on the bed.
He tsks. “Lying’s a bad habit, Little Strawberry.”
I clench my thighs at the nickname. “I’m not lying.”
Smirking, he reminds me, “I’m your mind reader, remember?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I hate you.”
He chuckles, his pecs twitching. “You wish.”
“You—"
“Tell me what it is.”
I stare at him for a few beats. Then, “Promise you won’t laugh.”
His smirk is still in place as he makes a cross over his left pec with his finger before whispering, “Hope to die.”
I bite my lip really hard because that was sexy. God, everything about him is just so sexy and I don’t know how long I can take this. I know he’ll be back soon, but that soon won’t be happening for weeks.
Exhaling sharply, I say, “Well, it keeps changing, but this week it’s… Ugh, My Toxic-Haven’t-Tasted-Him-Yet-Stepbrother.”
Yikes. I can’t believe I said that or even typed it on my phone. But the other night, we were talking and one thing led to another, and we started playing with ourselves. Which basically means he dirty-talked me to horniness and I couldn’t stop myself from sticking my hand down my panties. So of course, he brought his big cock out—which I still haven’t tasted yet—and started jerking off, and when he came, he came so much that his cum flew everywhere, including the screen and the camera. And Jesus, that was so hot, I had to change his name on my phone.
“So maybe,” he goes, his voice a deep rumble, “I should put in My Sweet-Tastes-So-Fucking-Good-Stepsister.”
I gasp. “You’re laughing. You promised. You—”
“I miss you,” he says and steals my words.
“What?”
He clenches his jaw, no signs of humor anywhere on his face. “Let me out of your promise.”
I fist the sheets and move restlessly. “No.”
“Let me the fuck out, Jupiter,” he commands.
And since he’s using my actual name, I know he’s serious. Well, I can see how serious he is. How strained and tense, like an animal shut inside a cage. Not only because of the physical signs but the actual fact that he said he misses me. When has he ever said that? When has he ever told me about his feelings without me forcing him to talk?
So it literally makes my tummy hurt to say, “But Shepard, you have to focus. You—”
“I can’t focus,” he snaps, leaning forward, his eyes flashing. “All I ever think about is you. Your smile, your strawberry hair. Your fucking freckles. I think about touching your skin. Tasting your lips. Fucking sliding inside of you, inside of your warm, snug, cozy pussy and finally feeling like I’m home. I haven’t felt that in a long time. In years, do you understand? I’ve been trying to make our childhood house into a home, but it only felt that way when you moved in. It only felt that way when I got to see you in there every day, cleaning, dancing, laughing, cooking dinner, taking care of Snow. I… It only felt like home when I got to touch you, got to be inside you. And that’s all I think about. I think about going home. I think about catching the first flight out and somehow getting to you. Somehow flying, running, walking, fucking crawling just so I can look at you without this fucking screen in between. So no, don’t ask me to focus, because all I can focus is on you.”