I Bet You
Madden-Mills, Ilsa
“Iris” by Goo Goo Dolls “Better Now” by Post Malone
“Wonderwall” by Oasis
“Truly Madly Deeply” by Savage Garden “Perfect” by Ed Sheeran
“Not Afraid” by Eminem
“I Want It That Way” by Backstreet Boys “Just Give Me A Reason” by Pink “Jessie’s Girl” by Rick Springfield “Watch Me (Whip/Nae Nae)” by Silentó “Something I Can Never Have” by Nine Inch Nails “Treat You Better” by Shawn Mendez “Leave Your Lover” by Sam Smith “Hard to Handle” by The Black Crowes “You Belong With Me” by Taylor Swift “If I Was Your Girlfriend” Prince “U Got It Bad” by Usher
This book is for all the cool, smart girls in the world, especially dedicated to those who love hot football guys, bodice-ripping historical romances, men in sexy button-up shirts, Twilight, True Blood, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and of course, it goes without saying, cherry red lipstick and lollipops.
Penelope
The door to my bedroom flies open and I grab my chest, my fingers clutching the bodice of my sapphire-blue dress. Standing in front of me with his cravat slightly askew is none other than the devil himself, Lord Ryker Voss, the Duke of Waylon. He thinks he’s the best thing since crumpets and scones. Maybe he is. But I hate him.
“I’m here to ravish you, Lady Penelope.”
“No,” I gasp, but I suspect he knows I don’t mean it.
“I know you don’t mean it.” He gives me a cocky smile, whips off his dark coat, and tosses it on the floor. His white linen shirt is next, the buttons flying around the room. My wide eyes linger on the rippling muscles of his abdomen, wandering to the deep V on his hips that leads to— Dear me.
His male length juts out of his trousers, and it’s hard and long…and magnificent.
Will it even fit?
“I’m a virgin,” I say, darting around the canopied bed even as I imagine him spreading me out naked on those velvet covers, his tongue sucking my peaks one by one— He captures my arm. “Are you imagining me fucking you, Lady Penelope?”
I tremble and melt into him. “Yes.”
“Good.” Caressing my bodice with his palm, he tugs on the fabric until it rips and my voluptuous breasts pop out. Desire glows in his aqua-colored eyes. He pushes me down on the bed and gathers my skirt up, his fingers finding the opening in my undergarments. His huge length teases my entrance, and I moan, my hands clutching his shoulders—
“Yo! Gar?on, we need some help back here,” comes a deep male voice from somewhere inside the restaurant. I jump at being pulled from my concentration and nearly fall off my stool before righting myself, my face a deep cardinal red. I slam my journal shut with an emphatic bang and tuck it under my laptop on the bar to make it less conspicuous.
I’m on my break, but I stand to see who needs help, groaning when I see the football table waving at me.
Of course it has to be him.
I exhale as my eyes drift over the players and jersey chasers before coming back and landing on Ryker freaking Voss himself, the center of attention and Mr. Golden Boy Quarterback of Waylon University.
I swear I can smell the testosterone from here.
And to think I imagined him ravishing me…
Please. I grimace. Ryker is such a douche. Everyone knows his bedroom is a revolving door, and he wouldn’t know what a real woman was if she walked up and hit him on the head.
He cocks an infuriating eyebrow at me and calls out, “Today would be nice.”
Ass.
I glance at my journal. I probably inserted him in my bodice-ripping scenario because school is back in session—senior year, baby—and Ryker just happens to be here in Sugar’s. I waited on his table earlier, and once I get going with an idea, it gets a life of its own and the words just flow across the page.
I make a mental note to go back and scratch his name out of my notebook.
Clearing my throat, I stick my hands in the pockets of the half apron tied around my waist and head to his table. Of course, I could get one of the other servers to wait on them, but most of them are dealing with their own customers or cleaning up in the back.
And his table is in my section.
I exhale. Since the moment he waltzed in with his buddies an hour ago and requested me as his waitress, I knew it was going to be a long night. School started two weeks ago, and he’s been in a few times, always asking for me.
He enjoys me being at his beck and call.
His gaze is arrogant and riveted on me the entire forty feet or so it takes to get there. It’s a little intimidating to be the focus of his scrutiny, as if I’m his serving girl and he’s the lord of the manor, but I straighten my shoulders and give him my brightest, sweetest smile—the one I reserve for people I don’t like.
Which I suspect he knows.
The truth is I wrote a scathing editorial about him a few months ago in the Wildcat Weekly, an article that carefully detailed his part in a football fighting ring spring semester. Once the smoke cleared and the NCAA exonerated him, I did write a brief follow-up…but too little, too late, I suppose. I already painted him in an unethical light, and I’m guessing those words are probably hard to forget.