Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 147801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
But he is giving me his time.
His attention.
He’s here because he can’t not mess with me.
When I continue watching him in silence, he narrows his eyes. “Aren’t you cold? Your lips are blue.”
“You’ve been looking at my lips?” I let my mouth curve in a grin. I can’t help it.
This little fucker merely exists in my vicinity, and no amount of ice can numb me.
“Observing your sorry state,” he says with that natural condescension, and the arrogance he hides so well in public rushes through in warm waves against my freezing skin.
“And you do that by watching my lips? If you want a kiss, all you have to do is beg.”
“Get over your fucking irrelevant self.”
“Language. And if I were irrelevant, you wouldn’t be standing in my bathroom like a lost puppy looking for his master.”
His lips lift in a snarl, and I wait for him to attack me so that I can yank him into the depths of the bath. My fingers twitch around the cigarette, and any trace of fucking numbness disappears.
It must be the look in my eyes that gives me away, because his widen a little, and he presses his lips in a line. The dimples appear in his cheeks, but they’re not deep, not like when he smiles.
And he does that a lot on campus. With his fake friends and fake acquaintances. He smiles like it’s a sport.
He never smiles around me, though.
I wonder why.
I know exactly why, but it doesn’t make me despise the others any less.
“Just come out. I’ll wait outside. If you faint, I’ll let you die.”
“Ever thought of writing a How-to Tough Love book?”
“No, but I’m thinking of writing a How to Murder Your Professor for Dummies, though you might not get to read it.”
I laugh, and he pauses, a curious look lightening his bright greens, but then he seems to shake off his thoughts as he stalks out the door.
I tilt my head, watching the way he walks. He’s confident, but it’s not that. It’s the posture.
The upright, perfect posture. I want to break that fucking spine so he never lifts his head again.
But maybe I should have a picture of that posture first.
I kill the cigarette in the ice, then get up and go into the shower, turning the water on full blast. My muscles protest and the lavender scent is barely there, now overshadowed by sandalwood and bergamot. The smell is so male and him, I drive my fist into the wall as I stand under the hot shower.
The pain does nothing to expel the foul energy rippling my abdominal muscles and twitching my cock.
Because he’s outside.
And I can’t stop thinking that he’s outside. In my space.
Around me.
Because he also couldn’t stay away.
I close my eyes and summon every ounce of control I have, but that only lets me stand in the shower for a couple more minutes.
“Fuck this.” With a mutter, I step out of the shower and dry myself.
After putting on a pair of silk pajama pants, I cast a glance around my bedroom and then focus on the nightstand’s drawer. I wouldn’t have noticed it if I weren’t anal about fucking details, but there are fingertip traces. Not mine, because I haven’t touched that drawer. Not since the night he was first here.
Someone was snooping around.
Trying to figure me out.
Good luck with that.
I walk into the living area and pause. Carson is in the bar-style kitchen, sitting on the stool with a bowl of strawberries in front of him.
He tilts his head in my direction as he wraps his lips around a large strawberry, the red flesh parting under his teeth as he bites down. My gaze zeros in on his mouth as the juice stains his lips, his tongue flicking out to catch the remnants.
And my cock is noticing it, too, getting all fucking excited as if he’s that strawberry.
A rush of awareness flickers in Carson’s gaze, and he licks his lips as he pulls off the cap. “Stop looking at me with those eyes.”
“What eyes?”
“You know exactly what eyes.”
“If you don’t want these eyes, maybe you shouldn’t seduce me.”
“I was just eating strawberries.”
“That’s subject to interpretation.” I walk toward him and sit on the stool beside him.
He recoils a bit. It’s barely noticeable, but I put him on edge.
Good.
Can’t have him getting comfortable. He’ll be miserable for the rest of his short life.
“Were you rummaging through my fridge, Carson? That’s inappropriate behavior.”
“We have that in common. Inappropriate behavior, I mean.”
My mouth twitches in a smile. “You like strawberries?”
“What made you think that? I could’ve picked them randomly.”
“They were tucked away at the very back of the fridge, hidden among all kinds of fruit, which means you were deliberately searching for them.”
He purses his lips. He really doesn’t like it when I read him.
I should do it more.