Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
The front door of the bar creaks open, and I pause mid-sip. The music is loud, tons of students going back and forth, yet somehow the noise of the door skates down my spine like a ghost brushed past me dragging chains.
I feel the electricity in the room before I lay my eyes on him.
He blows in like a king ready to receive his subjects.
At six foot three and almost zero body fat, he’s tall and lithe and tightly muscular—and beautiful. Can a man be beautiful? Fuck yeah. His thick, dark brown hair has grown out, and the top strands are swept back off his forehead, carefully styled, the sides cut shorter. The lengthier hair on top is edgy looking, totally different from how he wore it last fall in a short fauxhawk. Douchebag Extraordinaire has lighter colors interwoven, giving it depth and accentuating ice-blue eyes. He asked me to highlight his hair once during our whirlwind. We never got around to it—but someone has.
Another change? He’s sporting dark scruff on his jawline, giving him a slightly dangerous look.
I suck in a gulp of air. I never pictured him with sexy facial hair, and it’s…it’s…
It’s nothing. My heart is pure, hard steel.
The lights from the ceiling bathe him in a spotlight as he presents the entire bar with that famous sexy grin, the one that melts your insides and makes girls fall at his feet.
He turns when someone calls his name, and my eyes eat up the line of his profile, strong and defined and chiseled. His nose is straight and patrician looking, his cheekbones high and sculpted, carving out a perfect face. And even though it’s January, his face is sun-kissed from playing football outside for months at a time. He’s a damn Adonis.
Piercing, intense eyes are set underneath dark brows. His lashes are long and thick and you’d think it would make him look feminine, but nope. All it does is call attention to the hint of laughter there, as if he knows something you don’t, as if he’s playing you.
Which he is.
Blaze Townsend is a player.
Tonight he’s wearing a Wildcats National Championship long-sleeved navy shirt that clings to his biceps. I think about the skin under that shirt, those granite-hard abs he works so hard on. I’ve had my hands there. I’ve kissed each rippling muscle, worshipping him with my lips and tongue. God. I was crazy about his body.
My eyes move down, taking in the dark jeans encasing long muscular legs. I recall those powerful thighs under my hands, the dark curls I ran my fingers through.
Oh, just stop already!
F’ing hot.
F’ing asshole.
My libido frosts over when I see who’s with him.
On either side are two gorgeous girls with varied shades of blonde hair. They’re everything I’m not: tall, skinny, beautiful. My throat tightens at the perfection of them, and for a second I want to run out of here, but I hold steady. I’ve had three months to prepare, and I’m tough. I CAN DO THIS.
Yeah, but you can’t compete with that, a mean voice whispers in my head.
Applause breaks out inside the bar. Blaze lifts a hand and mimics a Miss America wave, his full, carnal lips tugging up in a slow smile that grows, becoming broader and wider. Dude could be a toothpaste model. I swear I hear a gasp from every female in the room. The effect of his mouth is positively infectious. If he were a preacher, he’d be saving souls left and right.
I roll my eyes.
He’s with Dillon McQueen, the backup quarterback, and several other players.
“Oh, yay, the team is back on campus. Let’s celebrate. Yippee,” I mumble to myself as a girl in a Wildcats shirt nearly mows me down in her quest to get to them.
“I know, right?” She stops next to me, stars in her eyes. “Blaze is just…gorgeous, right?”
My lips flatten. “Totes.”
She licks her lips, her eyes darting from him to me. “Wait…did you date him?”
“No.”
“You sure? Now that I think about it, I thought I saw you guys together at the Chi-O homecoming party last fall. Aren’t you that girl, the one he dumped—”
“We never dated,” I practically spit.
We only had sex—three times, to be exact, one time for every week we were “together”. Once in the library and twice in his dorm room. Not once did he buy me a sandwich or offer to take me to a movie—not that I would have accepted, but that’s not the point. The point is he never wanted anything from me except sex.
“That was a banging party though. Glad you came,” I say with a bright smile, keeping my turbulent feelings under lock and key.
She’s not even listening anymore though, her gaze on Blaze and friends. “Yeah. Who are those girls he’s with? You think I have a shot?”