Page 96 of Seven Lost Summers
I swallow hard, forcing down the lump in my throat, trying to ignore the pulse hammering between my legs. Every inch of me is buzzing, desperate, out of control. I need to get the fuck out of here.
“Yeah,” I say, and it comes out weak, pathetic. I hear it. I know they do too. But I stand my ground, pretending I haven’t noticed a thing, praying they’ll play along.
Theo offers me a small smile. “It’s good having you here, Quinn. You’ll be fine today. No need to stress.”
Perfect. They think I’m nervous about the job. Thank fuck for that. They don’t have a clue I’m spiraling in real time just by looking at them.
“Okay,” I manage, forcing a smile before turning on shaky legs and walking fast.
I make it back to my room and shut the door behind me, my pulse a wild, erratic thing under my skin.
Two weeks in this house—that’s all I have to survive this temptation.
Two weeks of pretending I don’t want to drop to my knees.
It’s not hell. It’s fire.
I’m living in the blaze, skin scorching, thoughts unraveling. And my pussy? Already begging. Aching.
And when it’s over, they won’t need a headstone. Just carve it into the floorboards and leave me here.
Here lies Quinn Thomas. Died of excessive eye-fucking. Pussy never stood a chance. Cause of death: two sinfully hot bastards with too many abs and not enough fucking shirts.
Chapter 17
Nate
Whatthefuckiswrong with Quinn?
I know she’s nervous, but that was some fucking Oscar-worthy, full-throttle meltdown.
One second she’s standing in front of me, stiff and twitchy like she’s buffering in real time, and the next she’s tearing out of the room so fast you’d swear I’d dropped my pants and asked her to rate my cock on a scale from one to ten.
Honestly, I’ve seen drunk fans hold themselves together better, and they’re usually wearing my face on a T-shirt and crying into their vodka Red Bull.
I glance at Theo.
He’s still planted in the kitchen, staring after Quinn like she hadn’t launched herself into the hallway with the grace of a drunk gazelle. A smirk tugs at his mouth, the kind of smug, shit-eating curve that makes my hands itch to lob something at his stupid head.
He finally turns and locks eyes with me.
“What?” I ask, lifting my cup. I go to take a sip but freeze halfway when I catch the way his grin deepens, savoring some private joke where I’m the punchline. My eyes narrow. “What the fuck are you smiling at?”
“Nothing,” he says, still smirking like the asshole he is. “Just an interesting morning, that’s all.”
“Yeah. No fucking shit. You know what that was all about?” I nod toward the door, eyes locked on Theo, hoping he’ll quit dragging things out and finally tell me what the hell went down with Quinn.
He takes a slow sip of his coffee, acting as if he’s got all the time in the world to be a smug little shit.
I grit my teeth. “Theo.”
“What?”
I scoff. “What the fuck does that mean?”
His grin stretches, and I swear to God, if I didn’t have this cup in my hand I’d be ready to punch him.
“You really don’t know?” he says, clearly enjoying himself. “This from the guy who spent high school fucking his way through every girl with a pulse.”
