Page 5 of Personal Foul
“Okay. So worst case scenario, no more football. There’s just your entire trust fund and all your rich-boy connections to fall back on. It’s a rough life, but I think you’ll live.”
“I want to earn my own living.”
I give him a skeptical look because Easton does not strike me as the worker-bee type. More like the invest-daddy’s-money or find-yourself-an-heiress type. Maybe if he bothered to put effort into commodifying all the looks and luxury he has, he could even have some sort of influencer career even without the football career to boost his name.
“Okay. Good news there too, you’re also hot as fuck, and women across campus obsess over you. Find a sugar mama or you can start one of those sites where you sell naked pictures of yourself.”
He gives me a sour look but then smiles.
“Is that what you’re doing for extra cash these days?” He smirks, and I don’t like it, at all.
“No. As you know I run a bar. That takes all my free time.”
“So what are these then?” He holds up a handful of photos that he has next to him on the bed. They’re from the boudoir photo shoot the girls and I had done a few weeks back.
Kenz had done it for Waylon, and Liv had done it to help twist Liam’s arm. I had no guy to speak of, but I’d decided to go along for the fun of it. Thought it would be a fun confidence boost and something to look back on someday when I was older. In no version of reality did I imagine Easton Westfield seeing them.
“Were you fucking going through my things?”
“They were sitting out on your desk,” he answers defensively. “You have half-naked pictures of women sitting out, guys are going to look.”
“Guys aren’t supposed to be in my room.”
He smirks and runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek.
“I’m starting to think that’s the reason you’re twisted so fucking tight.”
“You’re an asshole. Give them to me.” I reach across to grab them, but he holds them out of my reach.
“Nah. There’s a couple in here I want.”
“Very funny. Give them to me.”
“I’m serious. I’ll give them back if you give me the ones I want. I’m having a rough fucking week right now. Can’t you have some mercy?”
“What the fuck are you going to do with pictures of me in my lingerie, Easton?”
He smirks, his eyes raking over me. “You really can’t figure that out for yourself?”
“There are half a dozen women downstairs who are willing to be an in-the-flesh version of that for you. Give them to me.”
This was our thing. Him teasing me about wanting to fuck me. Me telling him to go to hell knowing he has zero interest in carrying through. Barmaids with bitchy attitudes are not his thing. He likes them giggly, pliable, and already obsessed with him.
“But not you?” His free arm shoots out and wraps around my waist, and I feel a sudden surge of warmth and panic go through me.
Easton does not touch me. I don’t touch Easton. He’s like a work of art in a museum. Cold. Hard. Off-limits. Something to be admired and studied from a distance.
“What do you think…?” I glare at him, even though I can feel my heartbeat kick up a notch. Because Easton is in my room, on my bed, sprawled out, looking like a god.
“I think you want to fuck me. You just think it’s beneath you.”
Yep. That pretty much nailed it. Not that I was going to admit it.
“I think you think every woman wants to fuck you.”
“Most of them do.”
“It’s nice that you’re so humble.”
