The Hunter (Boston Belles #1)(45)

She gasped into our kiss, and I let go of her wrists, knowing damn well she wasn’t going anywhere.

Sailor let her arms dangle beside her body. I grabbed the side of her face, prying her lips open with my tongue, groaning in pent-up frustration that had been building for weeks, wrestling my tongue deeper into her mouth. I was met with no objection. Sailor’s body went limp, compliant. She was surprisingly submissive. The prey accepted its fate for now. She opened up for me like a flower—mouth, chest, legs spreading apart, blooming, begging for sunrays, meeting my tongue with hers stroke for stroke, thrust for thrust. She pulled at my lower lip with her teeth, hungry, and I ran my hands up and down her neck and face. She tasted sweet, restless.

She was so drunk on our kiss, I knew she was a second away from falling flat on her ass. I grabbed the backs of her thighs roughly, hoisting her legs up and wrapping them around my waist, pressing her against the door.

She moaned a soft protest at the same time her warm pussy met my raging cock through our clothes, grinding against me.

We kissed for ten minutes straight before Sailor realized she was grinding against my hard-on like an ambitious night-shift stripper paying her way through grad school. I could practically feel her pussy lips clutching my shaft through our clothes. She pulled away and buried her face in my neck, shaking like a leaf. Our hearts slammed against each other, and maybe it was because I hadn’t had any action in over a month, but the kiss made me black out a little. It was a euphoric kind of dizziness, like I’d just taken a benzo and was unsure whether it had kicked in or not. I wanted to kiss her again, but I didn’t want to overwhelm her. I usually got a good feel of what chicks wanted from me, but Sailor was impossible to read.

Knowing she could spend the next couple months with her face in my hoodie—Death by Mortification: Girl, 18, Dies in Hot Roommate’s Arms—I kissed her neck, the only part of her reachable from that angle.

“Junsu is going to kill me.” Her words melted into my hoodie, muffled by it. Was it just me, or were our heartbeats freakishly loud?

“Why? You banging the old sport?”

No comment.

Now that I was putting my three working brain cells to use, Sailor and her trainer were kind of tight. I would expect it from people who had Olympic ambitions together, and it wasn’t the first time she’d made it sound like he didn’t want her hanging out with dudes.

Sailor pushed me away, keeping her head down. She picked up her shit and flung herself back to her room, probably to check on the internet if she could get pregnant from dry-humping. I wondered what was wrong with me that I was obsessing over her goddamn shoulder when Da wanted to make confetti out of my skin, Cillian wanted to spread said confetti in the harbor, and Syllie possibly wanted to mince all of us into meatballs.

Not to mention, I still wasn’t taking any calls from Mom. Some subconscious, petty-as-fuck part of me wasn’t cool with her dumping my ass in random corners of the world, making me other people’s responsibility—especially knowing what I did about where I came from.

“I still need to talk to him in person,” she yelled from her room.

“I’ll come with you to make sure you don’t do anything stupid.” I arranged my package in my sweatpants, fishing for my phone and checking it.

Four unanswered calls from Da.

Two from Cillian.

Six text messages.



Athair: I knew you couldn’t be trusted.

Athair: Where the hell are you?

Athair: If the answer is in a ditch after an orgy, just know I won’t be bailing you out this time around.

Athair: I’m done with you, Hunter. DONE.

Cillian: You take dumb and pretty to an Olympic level.

Cillian: Legally Boned.





Why didn’t Beau kiss me like that?

My mind rummaged through every corner, cell, and drawer to find the answer to that nagging question during the journey to the archery club, while Hunter drove and voice-texted his friends from California.

My body was still sewing itself back together after bursting with pleasure at my roommate’s touch. No one had ever touched me the way Hunter Fitzpatrick did—like the world was ending and we had to cram all our passion into one defined moment. It terrified me how seductive the man I shared a roof with was. Because that kiss had seemed genuine, ardent, and earnest, but I knew Hunter wasn’t any of those things. In fact, that’s what had landed him under my supervision in the first place.

I had to step away from my Hunter-induced fog.

I wondered why I wasn’t more worried about the upcoming showdown with Junsu, who was going to rip me a new one for having the boy text and call him about my shoulder.

I wondered why I couldn’t even bring myself to freak out about Lana Alder, who seemed to be putting some PR mileage between us and was likely the frontrunner for the Olympics.

I wondered what Hunter had thought about my naked body yesterday, when he’d found me shivering and crying, trying to step into the hot tub to warm my shoulder muscles so I could massage the swelling away.

Promptly after wondering all those things, I began to develop a headache.

I wasn’t naive. I knew I didn’t chart in Hunter’s life outside the lonely Boston bubble his father had locked him in. Out of the walls of the downtown high-rises, college assignments, and spreadsheets, he had friends aplenty. Hookups. Instagram models he flirted with. A buzzing social life, hobbies, and interests that didn’t include me. He gave me the time of day because he didn’t have anything else to do. But he was going to forget about me approximately two hours after our deal was done.