Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 48601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
Stop that.
I scowl at myself for letting my mind come up with things like “perfect chiseled jaw” to describe Jamison Scott, or for suddenly flashing back to the image of him shirtless in the garage just now—those stupidly perfect abs so defined and grooved, and the tattoos swirling up and down his arms and teasing down his ribs.
I blush furiously, shaking my head as I grab the waste basket from under my desk and storm back over to my bed. Two, three sweeps of my arms sends the whole pile of dicks into the trash, which I quickly cover with a few old magazines from my bedside table and then tie it up to take out later. You know, before anyone spots me with hundreds of freaking pictures of penises in my waste basket.
I take a deep breath, my pulse still racing from my encounter with Jamison as I make my way to the shower to rinse off the sweat from practice. The water from the four side-jets and big overhead rain-nozzle is steaming hot by the time I shed my clothes and slide open the glass door to step in. I sigh happily, the water soothing the ache from cheer practice. My fingers find the buttons to the sound system built into the shower, flipping past some early-morning “get hyped for school” pop music to something smooth and sultry—the newest Lana Del Ray song. Crooned lyrics and velvety soft bass wash over me as I sag under the water, soaping off and then just standing there relaxing.
And yet, it’s impossible to. Not with my run in with Jamison. Actually, it’s impossible to relax at all, ever, with him living in this house. Sleeping down the hall from me. Smirking at me at the breakfast table. Invading my fever dreams at night. I bite my lips, water teasing over my skin. And as my thoughts linger longer on him, and my mind replays the way his abs rippled and his biceps curled as he smirked at me in the garage, something… wicked teases through me.
My nipples begin to harden under the spray of water. And when I let my hands slide down my sides and then over my stomach, I feel it cave beneath my fingers as I suck in a breath of air. I push my hands lower, blushing furiously and closing my eyes as I mortifyingly let my mind wander to that dark place I’ve let it wander to before.
…That dark place where Jamison Scott has his damn way with me, in my head.
My hands push lower, my legs spread slowly, and my skin tingles all over. And when I let one finger push down over my mons and then slip between my pouty lips, I gasp quietly as my whole body clenches in pleasure. I moan, my legs shaking as I let two fingers push deep between my legs, spreading my lips and slowly curling into me. My teeth rake over my lip, my pulse hammers, and I let go as the horrible, inappropriate, sinful thoughts about Jamison fucking Scott sear into me like a sunburn.
My fingers slide inside, I gasp as my palm rubs into my clit, and the moan is about to tumble from my lips before suddenly, like a flash of lightning, reality and sanity come rushing up to yank me back to earth.
God, what the fuck am I doing?
I angrily yank my hands away from my pussy, furious at myself as I scowl and rinse off under the spray of the rain nozzle. I shut the water off abruptly and yank open the door to grab a big, soft, fluffy white towel. And as the steam begins to dissipate, so does the haze of wicked lust in my head.
Get ahold of yourself, I mutter to myself as I quickly towel off.
Back in my room, I yank on my pjs and climb into my big, comfy bed. I glance around my room primly, now that it’s devoid of dick pictures.
Much better.
It’s back to its normal pink and white, probably more than slightly too young for me bedroom. A little too pink. A little too cutesy. But screw it, I love my room.
I make a mental note to put a better freaking lock on my door, though, that’s sure.
I lie there, scowling up at the gauzy pink canopy of my four-post bed, my thoughts swirling all over the place. And slowly, I begin to think of ways to get back at Jamison. It’s not the first time I’ve thought about it. It wouldn’t be the first time I have done things to get back at him. When I was younger, “getting back at” Jamison Scott just involved tattle-telling on him. But even when teachers or parents or babysitters gave him stern talking-tos, and even when I was young, I knew it wasn’t doing anything. I knew all it did was fuel his little fire. I’ve tried giving him the cold shoulder, too. But that also just seems to fuel his desire to keep teasing me.