Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 125213 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125213 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
And maybe I was.
Maybe this was years and years of pent-up energy finally bursting loose.
Maybe this was seventeen-year-old me finally getting her chance.
“Mia,” Aleks warned, and when I felt his erection pressing against my stomach, a rush of power flooded me, replacing the heat.
I smirked, sliding my hand down his chest and tickling the skin just above his shorts with one long fingernail.
“Woman,” he cursed, and then with his teeth gritted and as if it pained him, he wrapped his hands around my arms and firmly put space between us.
He didn’t shove me away, didn’t do anything so drastic that the cameras would notice. But he held me at a safe distance, tonguing the inside of his cheek as he shook his head and let his heated gaze rake over me.
“What’s wrong, Suter?” I teased, hoping the way I was quite literally panting would come off as part of the play. “Afraid the world will see your… situation?”
A challenge sparkled in his eyes. “Oh, you think you’re slick, huh? Think this will embarrass me?”
I shrugged with a coy smile, still trying to catch my breath and come down from a fake kiss that felt anything but.
“Naïve little thing,” he said, running his thumb along my lower lip. “I thought you knew by now that nothing embarrasses me.”
Then, suddenly, he released me, stepped back, untied his board shorts, and ripped them down to his ankles.
I didn’t dare give him the satisfaction of looking down, not even when he smirked and waggled his brows before jogging off toward the water.
But once he did, I let out a fizzle of laughter, covering my face as I shook my head.
That was it.
That was the money shot.
And within an hour, all the headlines had shifted from Garrett Orange and his opinions on my music to my new boyfriend’s gigantic cock.
Drafting Process
Aleks
I realized two things very quickly as I washed the sand and sunscreen from my body later that evening.
There wasn’t a cold enough shower to rid my dirty mind of Mia in that yellow bikini.
And there wasn’t a day I would exist and not think of what it felt like to kiss her — even if it was fake.
A thunderstorm rolled through the bay not too long after our little stunt, and Mia and I retreated inside, both of us running through the downpour as I attempted to keep her dry with a flimsy beach towel held over her head. We hadn’t had a moment to breathe once we made it inside before Marci was grabbing Mia by the shoulders and shaking her with a high-pitched squeal of victory.
“Oh, my God — that was incredible. Isabella is calling in ten. She’s overjoyed. Everyone is losing their minds!”
I’d slipped away while Marci dragged Mia over to her laptop to show her the media attention, smirking to myself a little as I disappeared up the stairs to the room I was staying in for the weekend.
Now, I was standing under the frigid water, trying to scrub the image from my mind of Mia’s perfect body and the memory of her mouth opening for me.
But it was useless.
I’d told myself it wasn’t her I was thinking of as I stroked myself when the water was still running warm, when I’d planted a palm on the cool shower tile and grunted out a release that somehow left me wound even tighter than before.
The truth was buzzing under the surface of my skin, though — a constant reminder that I was completely fucked.
When the cold water did nothing but turn to steam after hitting my hot skin, I gave up, slamming my hand on the faucet to shut it off. I toweled myself down quickly before pulling on basketball shorts and a t-shirt, and then I made my way back downstairs.
It was quieter in the house now, nothing but the soft dripping of rain outside and the distant roll of thunder filling the open space of the giant house. When I rounded into the living area, I spotted Mia at the kitchen island, her phone in her hands, back rounded, one bare leg crossed under her and the other hooked onto the barstool next to hers.
I slowed even more at the sight of her, at the flash of a distant past that hit me seeing her in this way. She must have taken a shower, too, because her hair was wet and clinging to her tan shoulders. She wore a pair of sweat shorts, the thick band rolled once at her hips, and a strappy crop top tank showed the smooth skin at her lower back.
If I closed my eyes, I could almost remember her just like that when we were kids, sitting in her sweats at the kitchen island and eating Honeycomb cereal while she tried to figure out lyrics to a song playing nonstop in her head.