Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
“I’m sorry,” Miley whispers, staring up at him, and her little eyes widen.
I know the feeling, Miles of Trouble.
“Don’t worry about it.” He smiles down at her as he lowers himself to his haunches and offers his hand. “I’m Marcus. What’s your name?”
She peeks at me, as she should, but then when she finds me too busy looking at him, she shakes his hand. “Miley. This is my brother, Preston. He’s so cool and famous. You can be friends.”
“Friends,” he repeats the word in a drawl as his gaze flits up to me. His eyes are still unreadable, the gray dark gloomy like that fucking static in my head.
“Yup!” Miley pulls at my hand. “You can, Pressie, right? Right?”
A twitch lifts his lips before he sighs dramatically. “I don’t think your brother and I can be friends.”
Miley frowns. “Why not?”
He smiles at me, but it’s dark and almost…what? As if he’s holding a grudge against me?
It should be the other way around.
I basically apologized. Just how far does this lunatic expect me to lower myself? Does he even know who I am?
“I tried, Miley,” he says to my sister. “It didn’t work.”
She throws her hand in the air. “You can just try again! Pressie is really nice.”
“Is he now?” He stands up as I pull Miley to my side. “Are you nice, Preston?”
“Whatever do you mean? I’m the nicest person you’ll ever meet.” I lift my sister with one arm, balancing her on my hip. “Isn’t that right, Mimi?”
“So nice!” She drops a kiss on my cheek. “And so cool.”
“Hmm.” Marcus glides toward us, standing close enough that I’m assaulted by the smell of him that’s so intoxicatingly potent, it goes straight to my starved lungs.
“I wonder why he’s not so nice to me, Miley?”
“Cut it out,” I mouth, but he’s just staring at my sister, who pouts.
“Why aren’t you nice to Marcus, Pressie?”
“I am—he just doesn’t appreciate it.” I plaster on a fake smile. “Me spending time with him is already a privilege. He should be thankful I give him anything at all, Mimi.”
“But that’s not how you treat friends.” She squirms, so I let her down, and she hikes both her hands on her hips with so much attitude. “Don’t be a meanie just because you’re cool.”
This little shit is changing allegiances faster than the Cold War’s double agents.
“Right?” Marcus, the asshole, is feigning a pout, and now, I’m staring at his goddamn lips like a sexually-frustrated maniac.
I mean, I am, but still.
“I’m sorry Pressie is a meanie,” my sister tells Marcus. “I can be your friend.”
“Mimi!”
She holds her hand up. “You’re in time-out. Don’t talk to me.”
Marcus suppresses a smile.
“Can you skate?” she asks.
“A bit,” he says, like the humblest bastard he most definitely is not.
“I can teach you some moves!” She skates away, then spins. “Like this.”
“I don’t think I’m as elegant as you, Miley.”
“That’s okay, you’ll learn. Come on, follow me.”
Marcus starts to skate toward her, but I block his path, standing so close, our skates touch. For a moment, the hustle and bustle and the noise just disappear.
Fuck me sideways. I don’t tend to forget about the outside world when I’m with a fuck buddy.
Is Marcus even just a fuck buddy at this point?
No fucking has been detected lately, and yet I feel as if that lava is incinerating me alive in the middle of the ice.
Maybe it’s because of pent-up sexual energy.
It has to be.
An incurable hypersexual like me doesn’t usually go long without fucking.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper in a low voice.
“Skating, just like you.”
“You want me to believe it’s a coincidence that we happened to come here at the same time?”
He shrugs but says nothing.
“Have you been following me, Marcus?”
“No clue what you’re talking about.”
My lips lift in a snarl, but I force them into a line because I refuse to allow him to get the better of me like every other time.
He curls his index finger in my sweater, his eyes darkening. “What are you wearing?”
I frown, looking down at my green-and-blue striped sweater. “Clothes.”
“With your money, one would think you’d be able to afford finished clothes.” He reaches up and slides his hand along my exposed collarbone through the wide collar.
My skin prickles again, his touch igniting those familiar feelings of lust and abandon. The furious sensation spreads across my spine and shoots straight to my throbbing balls.
Flashbacks of slapping and jerking and thrusting pour into my head like lava, incinerating me from the inside out. I want…no, I need that again.
“It’s called oversized,” I grumble, trying to sound annoyed and not at all embarrassingly turned on.
“It’s called too much visible skin.”
“My collarbone isn’t fucking cleavage.”
“It’s much worse.” The rough timbre of his voice, coupled with his seemingly explorative but firm touch, thickens my cock. “You don’t seem to have any fucking clue how effortlessly erotic you look right now.”