Total pages in book: 10
Estimated words: 9060 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 45(@200wpm)___ 36(@250wpm)___ 30(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 9060 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 45(@200wpm)___ 36(@250wpm)___ 30(@300wpm)
“Is it part of your muscle recovery to wear a baby-doll nightie?” I march into the kitchen, brandishing the evidence, waving the phone at his face.
“No, obviously,” he says, quickly recovering, and I guess that powder does work since the next words from his mouth are: “It’s from my…publicist.”
Wow. That was scarily smooth. But also, I’m not fooled. “You don’t have a publicist,” I point out, my tone icy.
“Camden, babe. I just hired one.”
“Did you now?” I seethe as I spin around and stalk the other way. “Let’s see what sort of image advice she’s giving you.”
“Cam,” he sputters, and maybe, just maybe, he’s not so smooth.
I scroll down the thread as I race into the living room.
He follows, darting out a thick, muscled arm, reaching for the phone. He’s bigger and stronger than me. But I’m madder, so I win the first round of keep-away as I weave around the coffee table with the same take-charge attitude I possess when I strut across the stage during a concert. I scroll through the text chain. “Counting down till I see you tonight. Can’t stop thinking about the way you taste. Your mouth is fucking heaven.” I pause, then bite out: “You use the same lines on her as you do me!”
“That’s just…no. That’s just me telling her how much I love you.”
“Of course. Your publicist ought to know how much you love me.” I read more of his greatest hits as red billows from my eyes. “Your body is insane. The way you feel under me drives me fucking wild. You said all this to me. You’re not even original!”
Erik works his jaw back and forth, his eyes flickering like he’s trying to figure out how to play this unexpected bust. He drags a hand through his frosted blond tips, then blows out a breath. “Look, I can’t fucking help it—being this in demand. And I definitely can’t help if you were so into my dick you let me keep two containers of protein powder here just because you like climbing me. Consider yourself lucky, Cam. Most women would be seriously grateful to get even one night with me in their lifetime.”
Forget seeing red. I am the fire of the sun as I hurl his phone against the door. It lands with a loud smack, then clatters to the floor. “Get out, and take your stupid protein powder too.”
Erik tuts. “That’s not very nice,” he says, scrambling for his phone. “That was a new screen protector.”
I rush into the kitchen and grab his dumb protein containers myself, then chuck each one at the door.”
Grabbing them with an aggrieved sigh, he says, “You’re giving crazy-ex-girlfriend vibes right now. But it doesn’t have to be this way. We can still fuck.”
I breathe fire. “Go fuck the baby-doll-nightie woman!”
“Her name is Tiffany. And you know what? She wasn’t mad at me for blessing you with my dick too. She knew it was her only chance to get with a hockey star. I figured you knew the same.”
That’s enough. “I was faking it! Every single time. Now go.”
That’s not true. I have way too much self-respect to fake an orgasm. Besides, I like to help myself along with my fingers. Life is too short to have O-less sex even if you need a little assistance. But his ego wouldn’t believe they were all real thanks to me.
The way his eyes turn to ice tells me I’ve hit below the belt though. “Not cool, Cam. Super not cool.”
“I bet Coleman doesn’t cheat on his girlfriend,” I throw out, since why not hit even lower.
Erik groans like he’s been wounded, but then comes back with, “Coleman wishes he could pull like I do.”
“Doubtful. I bet his girlfriends don’t have to fake it,” I say, though of course I know nothing about this other player. He might be married. He might be gay. No clue.
With his free hand, Erik grabs the door handle and sears me with a stare. “I will always do better than him. And I’ll do better than you. I was faking it too.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, you fake came on my tits. Go fuck a protein shake, Karlsson.”
“You’ll regret saying that.”
“I won’t,” I say, crossing my arms.
He leaves in a huff.
So much for his protein powder obsession being his most annoying trait.
He is his most annoying trait.
Later that night, I’m equal parts enraged and hurt when out with my friend Jules at Gin Joint, drowning my break-up sorrows while also toasting good riddance to my ex.
“Let’s drink to the next guy being hotter, richer, smarter, nicer, and better in bed,” Jules says, lifting her champagne.
I clink my flute to hers. “To upgrades.”
“To upgrades.”
I swallow some of the bubbly, and when Jules sets her glass down, her phone buzzes. She grabs it, then clicks on what looks like a text. She takes a few seconds to read it, her face turning white. “Camden,” she says in a heavy tone that tells me I’m not going to like what she’s looking at.