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)
Jude released an exasperated sigh as if he was used to this, and I, for some reason, did not like it. “I get your order right every other day. It’s not my problem you changed it today. If you keep bitching, I’ll kick you.”
“Try me, big man. I’ll bury you ten feet under.”
“It’s six feet, idiot.”
“Ten for you. So no one ever finds your sad, little corpse.”
I suppressed a smile, because, truly, he can be the most adorable grump, which is odd, because he’s also usually cheerful. At least, that’s the propaganda image he wears on campus and in the league.
Preston the prince. Preston, who has the personality of a saint, when, in fact, he’s the most high-maintenance person I’ve ever met.
I’m at a loss for what I can do to make him fall in line. Because he’s right. There’s only so much time I can go without him before it feels like I’m punishing myself instead of him.
I speed back home as the rain pours down harder, filling Stantonville’s roads with puddles.
The lights in the neighborhood are almost all broken, and only my headlight offers a reprieve from the night.
A tall, dark figure cuts in front of me as I’m about to stop. I hit the brakes hard as my eyes adjust.
Who the fuck—?
Wait.
Rain hits the pavement in thin silver threads, catching the beam of my headlight as it illuminates the shadow of a body I know so well. A body I’ve learned by heart. A body I’ve been commemorating to memory despite myself.
Preston.
My lips tremble, and for a second, it looks like the whole night is falling sideways. I kill the engine, the sudden silence sharp enough to breathe beneath my skin as I stare at the mythical being standing dead center in the glow, soaked to the bone.
Preston looks ethereal.
So beautiful and afar and…wrongly fragile in a way that snaps something inside me.
A feeling so foreign, it makes me tighten my grip on the handlebars.
His cashmere coat hangs off his shoulders, the fabric plastered to his defined muscles, dripping steadily. His shirt beneath is soaked through, clinging to his chest, almost transparent. The faint fracture tattoo on his sternum glints each time the rain hits it. His hair is darkened and stuck to his forehead in wet strands, water dripping down his face in rivulets.
But his eyes—those fairy-like green eyes—are bright in the light, too bright. Intense in a way I can’t read.
Too still.
Too quiet.
I pull off my helmet, water running down the leather of my jacket, and he doesn’t move or blink. Just stands there in the beam as if he’s almost not here.
As if I’m staring at a man made of smoke. I’m apprehensive that if I touch him suddenly, he’ll disappear.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, my steady voice loud in the silence.
Nothing.
Not a word.
For a second, I think it’s the ghost Preston. The one who slips to somewhere I can’t reach.
“Isn’t this where you wanted me?” he whispers, his voice small and raw.
I inhale once, slowly. “I never wanted you in the damn rain.”
“Well. That’s where you got me.”
The wind cuts through, and he shivers so hard, I can hear his teeth click. My throat tightens as something hot spikes in my chest.
“How long have you been standing out here, Preston?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
He lifts one shoulder in a shrug that looks more like surrender. “I went to the arena first, but your team was there, so I figured waiting here was better.”
“You’ve been here for fucking hours?” The words tear out of me sharper than I intended. Because why the fuck would he freeze himself out here like a reckless fucking idiot? He has a game tomorrow, for fuck’s sake.
He glares at me. The freaking minx actually glares. “You’re the one who wouldn’t text me back. It’s your fault.”
“My fault?”
“Yeah, so you need to make it up to me.”
“What?”
He steps closer, rain dripping off his chin. “Shut up for a second.”
His voice shakes, but his hand doesn’t as he grabs the lapel of my jacket, his cold fingers fisting the leather, resting against my collarbone.
Before I can figure out what the hell he’s doing, Preston drags me toward him and kisses me.
Hard.
Desperate.
Like he came here to drown and decided to pull me down with him.
His kiss is intense, shocking, with nothing soft lurking beneath. He tastes like rain, bitterness, and something warm and primitive. Something so raw, I can’t put a name to it.
His lips are cold, almost numb, but he pushes into my space with a sort of wretchedness that steals my breath. As if he’s dying and needs to take his last drag of air through me.
There’s something uninhibited about the way Preston kisses. It’s kind of innocent, unpracticed but full of visceral energy, like he’s never kissed before.