The Envy of Idols (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #3)(89)

What are you doing, Marnye? I ask myself, but I don’t really know. I’m not sure.

Tristan’s hips grind against me, the hard, hot length of him teasing me through my shorts. His breathing picks up pace, and then he’s using his left hand to push his pants down. He shoves my shorts aside, and in an instant, I can feel the tip of him pressing against me.

He looks down at with a blade gray gaze, his right hand still holding my wrists pinned above my head. My bare breasts rise and fall with each breath, but I don’t say a thing. I can’t. I’m tongue-tied.

“I want you so bad, Marnye,” he says, and I groan, rubbing against him. He closes his eyes like he’s in pain. One hard thrust of his hips, and we’d be joined together. Instead, he opens his eyes and just looks at me again. “I want to fuck you until you can’t remember you’re dating anyone else, take you so completely that you become mine.”

“But?” I whisper, and Tristan curses, pulling away from me and yanking his pants into place as I sit up. “Tristan, wait.”

“I can’t do this. I can’t fucking do this, Marnye.” He heads into the bathroom, slams the door, and then turns on the shower. I only stay so long as it takes me to fix my clothes.



On the day of the Infinity Club meeting, everyone’s in a nervous titter. I know we all have to leave by two at the latest, but before I go, before I head off into the sunset to spend an entire summer away from Tristan Vanderbilt, I have to see him again.

He’s in his room yet again, sitting on his bed in a black t-shirt and jeans, staring at his phone. He scowls at me when I walk in.

“Stop that,” I say, but he turns away, and rakes his fingers through his hair.

“Believe me: you don’t want to be here when William arrives. He punches his own son. Imagine all the things he might do to a charity case from the wrong side of the tracks.”

“You can’t push me away,” I tell him, grabbing the game of Twister and moving over to the large empty space of floor on the right side of his bed. “No matter what you do, it won’t work. I’ve seen the real you, and that’s not something that can be undone.”

“You don’t like me. You can’t possibly,” he scoffs, sounding a lot like Creed did the first night we …

“Why? Because you’re fiercely loyal, sharp as a tack, and the only person I know who can keep up with me on an academic level? Or maybe it’s because you have hair like a raven’s feathers, eyes the color of the moon on a cold night, or abs so hard they could probably crack nuts?”

“Crack nuts?” he echoes, and I grin as I lay out the plastic sheet with all the colored circles on it.

“Yeah, like, stick a walnut between your abs, flex, and voila. Nutcracker abs.” Tristan exhales, like maybe he’s just too stressed to laugh. No problem. I am, too. All I can think about is him on top of me, the tip of him pressed into my core, and the amount of self-control that must have taken him to pull away.

“What the hell is this you’re putting on my floor,” he asks as I hand him in the spinner and kick off my shoes. I’m wearing a cream-colored satin dress that Miranda insisted I try on, so not ideal for the game, but man, Tristan Vanderbilt needs to loosen up a little.

“It’s called a game. Ever play one of those before?” I tap my finger on the spinner. “We can even make a bet out of it. If I win, you have to keep dating me until either you or I decide we don’t like each other. If you win, you can decide whether or not to keep dating me, regardless of reason.”

Tristan narrows his eyes and tosses the spinner on the bed.

“I don’t have time for this. My dad’s going to be here in less than an hour. You need to go.”

“I’m not leaving until you play with me. It’s a quick game. Easy, too. Or are you afraid I’m going to kick your ass?” I cross my arms over my chest and stare him down.

“I can always pick you up, carry you out of my room, and lock the door.”

“Yeah, but that wouldn’t be any fun, now would it?” I ask, and Tristan scowls.

“Fine.” He flicks the spinner with his finger and ends up with an arrow pointed towards the red part of the circle, and in the fourth of the board that indicates the foot. “Now what?”

“Right foot on red,” I tell him, grabbing his hand and pulling him to his feet. I show him what to do, and then grab the spinner. In a normal game, there’d be a referee to spin for us and call out the moves, but I’m always willing to improvise. “Right hand yellow.”

I squat and put my hand on one of the colored dots, and Tristan rolls his eyes.

“This is a stupid game. How do you even win?”

“First person to fall over or fail to complete their move is the loser,” I say with a sniff. “When neither of us is able to spin, we’ll take turns calling out a color or a body part for each other’s move.” I hand him the spinner and he gets left hand blue, very purposely leaning over me to place his palm on a spot.

We keep going until we’re both tangled up, and neither of us can touch the damn spinner.

“Red,” he says, and I lick my lips, looking around strategically.

“Right hand,” I add, and Tristan struggles to make it work. We look like we’re doing advanced yoga this point. “Yellow,” I say, choosing my own color.