Page 52 of Personal Foul
“You’re gonna let me taste you every fucking day from here on out. Because the way you moan like this, the way you fucking whimper for me. I need it, Princess. I need you like this.”
Then he picks up his pace, kissing, licking, sucking, and using his fingers to work every inch of me over. And if I had sensible thoughts at this moment, I would probably be embarrassed by how feral I’m acting under his touch. But anything sensible left my mind the second he put his mouth on me.
“East, please. Please. A little more,” I beg him, as my fingers run through his hair.
He does as I ask, and it sends me careening over the edge. Sparks of liquid pleasure blooming and spreading out from my body, until every inch of me feels like I can just melt into oblivion. I almost think my heart stops and melts along with it for a second until I feel it beat again in my chest as I take a deep breath, trying to come back down to earth from whatever astral plane he’s put me on.
I wonder for a brief minute—almost out loud before I stop myself—if this is why so many women like rich fuckboys like him. They have nothing to do but sit around and hone their craft, and maybe that’s why he’s so damn good at it. Why girls don’t mind fucking him two at a time, because honestly, he could probably manage it.
I’m still in my thoughts when I realize he’s come up beside me, his eyes studying me as his fingertips run circles over my stomach.
“So, at least better than before?” he muses, a little smirk forming on his lips.
“Yes, even better than the cake. You win.” I smile back at him.
“Thank god. The shame of losing out to cake might have been more than I could take.”
I laugh as I study his face, he’s so damn pretty it hurts and it’s hard to believe that a guy like him exists let alone any of the other factors tonight.
I roll to my side my fingers going to the elastic on his sweatpants. I give him a flirty smile, but he doesn’t answer it, and his hand stills mine.
“No. I meant it when I said I just wanted to hang with you for a bit. I shouldn’t have pushed you for more. You just… fuck… you are so sexy, Wren.”
When his eyes meet mine, I want to kiss him. I want to confess how much he makes mewant. How much I think I might really like him despite all the reasons I shouldn’t. But I can’t make this messy. We have a make-or-break project together. Our friend group doesn’t need any drama. And neither of us do relationships, which doesn’t leave us anywhere to go. I can’t let myself fantasize about what could be in a different reality.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“I’m sure,” he leans over and kisses my forehead in such a tender way I’m a little taken aback by it.
“Okay,” I agree, not wanting to argue with him when we’re having such a fantastic night.
“Be right back.” He hops off the bed.
I watch him walk to the bathroom and I can hardly believe he’s real. Hardly believe that any of this is actually happening. But he is, it is—too real. And I desperately need to remember who he is, who I am, because the games we play, they make me forget and I can’t afford to forget.
TWENTY-THREE
Easton
That morningwhen I see her sprawled out on our bed, her hair messed, and a little smile on her face in her sleep, I know I need her. I have no idea how I can convince her to take me seriously, but where there’s a will, there’s a way, right?
I climb out of bed slowly, doing my best not to wake her, and grab my phone on the way to the bathroom. There are several texts in the group chat discussing breakfast and plans for the day. I’m a jealous asshole who wants more of her time, so I fire off one that says that she’s hungover and needs some more time in bed this morning. I promise to get her hydrated and conscious by lunch. Then I send a text to the butler to bring breakfast and hop in the shower.
The food arrives a few minutes after I get out of the shower, and I carry a mug of coffee over to her side of the bed. She stirs, and I press a kiss to her forehead.
“Wake up, Princess,” I whisper.
Her eyelashes flutter and she slowly opens her eyes and sits up, pressing the sheet to her chest. I hold out the mug of coffee, and she takes it from me, a lock of her hair tumbling down the side of her face.
“Coffee in bed? You are my hero.” She gives me a lopsided grin.
“Anytime you want.”
“What time is it?” She frowns because this girl has no chill. The second her brain kicks in she starts worrying about what time it is and what she needs to do.
“Late. But don’t worry. I already texted the group and told them you were a little hungover and needed some extra time. I promised to have you patched up by lunch.”
“You told them you were going to take care of me? That’s gonna ring an alarm somewhere.” She laughs.
