Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 95627 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95627 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
"Sorry," Adam said, holding up his hands, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "I didn't mean any offense, just trying to get her to loosen up and have some fun. Is there something else I can get you?"
Everyone in our little group stared at me, waiting for my answer, as Amy nudged me encouragingly. This was what I asked for. A roomful of strangers, each one measuring my worth with a glance, sizing me up like meat at the market.
"Two Jell-O shots?" I asked, batting my eyes the same way Amy had earlier.
The white shirt tightened across my chest as I straightened my spine, forcing confidence I didn't possess.
I felt ridiculous.
Everyone erupted into a cheer as the frat boy handed me two Jell-O shots and leaned down to whisper in my ear, his breath hot and sticky.
"Good girl," he said with a wink as he tapped his cup against mine and tossed back his own shot.
Those words sent a thrill through me I didn't expect, but it wasn't the frat boy that I wanted to hear whisper those words to me.
I didn't need the praise of some drunk kid living off of his daddy's money.
This frat boy was cute, but I didn't want cute.
I wanted a man.
I wanted hot, powerful, and dominant.
A man who didn't play at being in charge, a man who had the world at his feet.
The type of man who took what he wanted, demanded control and had earned every single bit of it. That was who I wanted whispering "good girl" into my ear in dark praise.
I closed my eyes for a second and all I could picture were steel-gray eyes burning with desire.
Artem's gaze, hungry and possessive.
His broad shoulders blocking out the rest of the world.
His large hands, rough with callouses, gentle on my skin.
My chest tightened.
Would he burst through the door if I were in danger?
Would he sweep in like some dark knight?
The very thought ignited a flash of anger.
Artem was no savior.
He was just another man who wanted to control me, to own me.
I didn't need saving—especially not by him.
Shaking myself out of it, I took the shots while Amy handed me a Smirnoff Ice.
I looked at her with raised eyebrows as she took a sip of her own and called it chick beer.
Whatever that meant.
It was sweet like strawberries. I'd barely swallowed my first taste when she pulled me to the dance floor, where strobe lights sliced through clouds of smoke, turning faces into grotesque masks one second and shadow creatures the next.
We danced and laughed and everything was perfect.
Whenever I finished a drink, the empty bottle was pulled from my hand and one of the other girls replaced it with a new one.
Amy called it "girl code."
We only ever gave each other drinks. Never taking drinks from men we didn't know or didn't see them make. The Jell-O shots were an exception only because one of the girls brought them.
I hadn't even thought of that, but I felt safe as long as Amy was with me.
The music had taken control at some point and my body moved with a weightlessness I'd never experienced. My skin buzzed, as the room tilted and spun in kaleidoscopic fragments.
Suddenly, everything the frat boys said was super funny.
I was laughing more than I had in all the years since Dima died.
I was letting myself live, letting myself be free, and it felt so good.
Like every other good thing in my life, as soon as I let my guard down, it turned dark.
Suddenly the hands touching me weren't small, delicate hands tipped with pink acrylic nails, they were large and rough and grabby. Fingers pressed into my skin, leaving invisible marks that burned like brands.
The room spun, colors bleeding together, faces morphing into caricatures.
Some guy had worked his hand under my shirt. The owner of the hand was behind me, no longer dancing so much as rubbing his hard stubby cock on my ass. Each thrust through our clothes sent another wave of nausea up my throat.
I didn't like his touch.
It made me feel claimed, but not by someone who had earned the right.
Instead he made me feel cheap and dirty.
I pushed away from him, my boots catching on a sticky patch of floor.
He was immediately replaced by another frat boy, this one pressing his body to my front, putting his hand in my hair and tilting my head back so he could whisper in my ear, his teeth grazing my earlobe.
"Why don't you be my good girl and come upstairs with me.”
What the fuck?
“Whaa? Huh? Sorry, no, I—" I stammered, tongue thick in my mouth, words slurring at the edges.
His fingers tightened in my hair, pulling strands from my scalp. My skin crawled, goose bumps racing up my arms despite the heat.
I pushed him away from me and stumbled off the dance floor, my ankle twisting as one heel sank into a gap between floorboards.