Thing is, a certain blonde has put me in a mood.
The team’s been talking about it ever since the media blew up—the video, the PR, the event. The fact that I’ve gone full corporate PR whore and agreed to play boyfriend with a girl I barely know. Jace keeps calling it my Hallmark redemption arc. I keep not stabbing him in the throat.
They think it’s entertaining, but they don’t know what it does to me. Something I’ve worked on for years, something that will outlive me, being in the hands of someone who hasn’t done jack shit for it—that alone should make me furious at the girl. And it does. But that anger is morphing into something bordering on animalistic want.
I’ve been replaying the balcony ever since it happened: how her lips parted when I touched her, the silence between her breaths right before she asked what I’d be using her for.
I haven’t seen her since that night. A few days. That’s it. But the space between then and now feels like a fucking desert.
I can still see the print of her lipstick on the rim of that glass when I brought it to my mouth.
Let me rephrase that so the universe can fully appreciate the humiliation: I lifted her glass to my mouth and drank vodka just to feel the imprint of her lips against mine.
I. Drank. Vodka. Willingly. Just to taste where her mouth had been.
Pathetic? Absolutely.
But in that moment, the need to kiss her was so fucking strong, so bone-deep, I had to do something.
My cock, my mouth, my nervous system—they all voted without me.
It was desperation. Pure, pathetic, feral need.
It’s not just her face, not just her body—though Jesus Christ, that face…
No, what’s worse is she’s not stupid. It would’ve been easier if she were dumb. Or shallow. Or dull. If I could categorize her the way I do everyone else. Fuckable but forgettable.
If she were just a pretty face, I could rub one out and forget her. Or, better, fuck her once, get it out of my system, and move on.
But I know that one taste wouldn’t be enough. Not with her. She’s not a problem I can fuck away.
Every conversation with her makes my blood rush south. Every defiant glare she gives me sends blood straight to my dick.
I’m in a state of permanent half-hardness just thinking about how her mouth twitches when she’s about to say something she knows she shouldn’t.
And it makes my blood roar in my veins. Some of it goes to my fists. Most of it goes to my cock.
Jace’s eggs are decent.
Which pisses me off, because it means he’s done something right, and I’m running out of ammo to insult him with.
I push the plate away halfway through and go back to my coffee.
“Not hungry?” Melody asks, eyeing me.
“Don’t wanna throw up during practice, unlike Jace.”
Truth is, I’m starving, just not for eggs.
Her brows lift and Jace snorts into his orange juice.
I check my phone for an email from Tinnie with Jessica’s conditions.
I hate that I even let her say that. I should’ve shut it down right then, on that balcony. But I let her look me in the eye and say she had terms.
Now I’m checking my phone every twenty minutes.
I want to know what they are. What’s in her head. What she thinks she can negotiate.
