Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
This is dangerous territory.
Zephyr is fun. He’s like a little energizer bunny who can just go and go and go. There’s no stopping him. He gets the job done, and on top of that, he’s incredibly sweet. He’s funny and charming, and damn, he’s hot—just like his father. But Caesar. There’s just something more about him.
He’s sophisticated and raw. It’s as though he’s seen some heavy shit in his life and doesn’t have time for the bullshit. He knows what he wants and he goes for it, no matter the consequences, and when he fucks, he’s a goddamn stallion. He makes me feel things that Zephyr could only dream of giving, but I suppose that comes with age and experience. One day, Zeph is going to be just like his father, he just needs the time to mature like a fine wine. He’ll make someone very happy one day, but it won’t be me. Though, I have no problem keeping him company until that time comes, especially if it means having access to his father.
Fuck. Am I a whore? Yeah, I think I am. I have to be, right? I wouldn’t exactly call myself a slut. That seems a bit harsh, but I’ve definitely entered whorish territory, and honestly, I’m not mad about it. I just hope Zeph won’t be either when he inevitably finds out. He doesn’t strike me as the getting mad type. His ego might be bruised though, but I think he can take it.
Hearing a key in the lock, I lean across my bed, giving me a direct view of the front door of my apartment, and seeing Chloe stride in, I immediately abandon my wordless essay.
“Well, if it isn’t my little booty belching best friend,” I say, all but bouncing off my bed and flying into our small living room. “Where the hell have you been?”
Her brows furrow as she dumps her bag and laptop on the couch before peeling off her jacket. “First off, we don’t speak of the booty belching. That’s on the strictly forbidden list. And second, what the hell are you talking about? I’ve been in class. You know my schedule better than I do.”
“No, I mean last night,” I clarify. “You didn’t sleep here.”
“Uhhh, yes, I did,” she murmurs, stepping into me and lifting her hand to my forehead. “What the hell is wrong with you? Are you feeling alright? I was here last night. I came in at nine after dinner with my parents and waved at you, but you were too engrossed in whatever you were watching on your phone, you barely glanced up, and by the time I had showered, you were passed out on the couch with a meatball sub sliding across your tits.”
I stare at my best friend, my gaze narrowed. “You’re lying.”
“Oh, believe me, I really wish I was,” she laughs, making her way into the kitchen and searching through the fridge that we both know is empty. “But no. And might I remind you that you’re the one who tends to have sleepovers with random men. I don’t do that.”
“Good point.”
“Speaking of, don’t think for one second that I’ve forgotten that you disappeared on Tuesday night. Where the hell did you end up?”
My cheeks flush, and Chloe doesn’t miss a thing. “Whoa. Spill. Is this the guy you met during your psychology class? The one who fucked you in the bathroom stall.”
I nod and press my lips into a hard line, feeling as though I’m about to burst from the seams. “Uh-huh.”
“No way. What happened?”
“Oh God. You’re going to think I’m a thunder slut.”
Chloe laughs. “And how’s that any different than how I already feel about you?”
I roll my eyes and grab the cushion off the couch, launching it at her pretty face before dropping down onto said couch and crossing my legs, getting myself ready for the story of a lifetime. “Okay, so the guy from my psych class is Zephyr.”
“Ooh, like ‘Fly on my Zephyr?’” she asks, singing the tone of the song as she flurries across our small apartment and drops her ass down on the couch opposite me, the cushion I just threw at her crushed against her chest.
I laugh. “No, but I asked the same question. Apparently it’s some Greek god thing. I googled it, and I think it’s got something to do with the God of the West Wind, or something like that, but it’s appropriate because the man fucks like a god. I mean, shit! He’s the closest I’ve come to scratching the itch that Mr. Silver Fox left at Vixen.”
“Oh, shit. I think that’s the highest praise a man could ever receive.”
“Well . . . I’ll get to that later.”
“Huh?”
I can’t help but laugh. “Oh, girl. I haven’t even begun to scratch the surface of how my Tuesday night ended up.”