Monster Prick (Screwed, #1.5)(2)
Evidently she thinks so, too. Instead of going inside, she lingers on the stoop, fiddling with her keys almost shyly. “You want to come up for a little bit?”
Caught off guard, I ask, “Y-you're not tired?” What a dumb f*cking question, Hudson. It's not even nine yet.
She shrugs with a slight smile. “The night kind of got...cut short. We didn't get to finish our drinks.”
She's acting almost sheepish. Does she feel like it's her fault that the party ended early? Even though it was her party in the first place and Hayden was the one acting like a tool. I know I shouldn't accept her invitation—she's still totally off limits, and there's no point in tempting myself with what I can't have. But I don't want to leave her hanging. And to be honest, I can't pass up the chance to spend time with her.
I give in and shrug. “Sure. One drink can't hurt.”
Her smile goes big and bright. She scampers up the stairs, with me trailing after and trying not to stare up at her ass.
Her place is a small, cheerfully cluttered one-bedroom. I've seen enough properties to tell that this one was on the boring side when she first leased it; the furniture is sleek, modern, and lifeless. But Gracie has given everything her own unique touch. Gauzy curtains, jewel-toned throw pillows, a quirky zigzag floor lamp, a spider plant by the window, a seashell on the end table. The effect isn't little-girlish, but feminine and playful. A few Japanese ink paintings of flowers and mountains are squeezed onto the walls between the overflowing bookcases. And their highest shelves are all occupied with children's books that I recognize as my own gifts.
Did she put them up there because she wants to admire them, or because she doesn't read them often? Either way, she kept them all. And she went to the effort of moving them from her family home to her first adult apartment. I didn't know she'd done all that.
Gracie kicks off her shoes into the entry closet, drawing my attention back. I can see her much better in this light. Supermodel cheekbones and sapphire eyes, framed by tousled, wavy dark brown hair. A heart-shaped ass tapering down to legs that look miles long even without heels. Soft, full breasts nuzzling together under her white linen blouse. It hits me all over again that she's a woman. She's been a woman for a while, but now, she has her own career, her own place...and her own love life to prove it. I feel twin sparks of arousal and jealousy.
We get our drinks from the fridge—another beer for me, a wine cooler for her—and sit down on the couch. Even at the opposite end, I can catch whiffs of her peachy perfume. The walk home must have made her sweat. She sips her wine, red lips kissing the edge of her glass.
I swallow back the urge to touch her. Smell her, taste her...stop it, Hudson. I'm noticing everything about Gracie and I can't turn it off.
“Come closer,” she coaxes. “I want to show you something.” She pats the cushion right next to her.
I scoot over as casually as I can. My cock is already starting to twitch to attention, but I should at least try to keep acting normal.
Fortunately, my mind jumps right back out of the gutter when she opens her laptop on the coffee table. On the screen is the website for the online dating service she'd been talking about. And at the top right, there's a “23” hovering over her envelope icon. She has twenty-three new messages. Twenty-f*cking-three.
I clench my jaw. Of course men would jump all over a piece of fresh meat, especially a beauty like Gracie. She'd be a textbook girl-next-door type if she weren't so striking. Gentle, sweet...and innocent. How many of these pricks are just aiming to take advantage of someone like that? How dare anyone touch her?
Oblivious to my growing rage, Gracie clicks around, opening two new tabs. Each shows the profile of a different man. They look ridiculously wholesome and bland, like stock photo models or athletes on cereal boxes. “These are some of the guys I've been talking to. See, this one likes writing poetry and training his dog. And this one volunteers at a soup kitchen...would a serial killer do that?”
She probably picked the most harmless-seeming guys on her list to show me. Not that that stops me from wanting to growl at them.
I shake my head—at myself more than her. I need to pull my shit together. She's just trying to ease my mind, make me stop worrying about her safety. There's no way for her to know that this is pissing me off all over again. “It's not that easy to tell,” I say. “Somehow I don't think a psycho would list 'duct tape' and 'blood' under his hobbies.”
“Somehow I don't think an evil person would love animals and homeless people,” Gracie fires back. She raises her eyebrows at me: See, I can play this game, too.
“Hitler was a vegetarian who cried when his dog died.”
She gives me a weird look. “How do you know that? And why is everyone trying to keep me from living my life? For Christ's sake, I'm twenty-two. Are you going to stop me from getting on city buses next?”
I shift to sit facing her, willing to risk losing myself in her wide blue eyes. “No, Gracie. I just don't understand. Look...why do you want to do this? Really?”
Praise for Screwed
"Irresistibly sexy, witty and delightful." (Vilma's Book Blog)
"For fans of dirty mouths and dirtier deeds, Hayden Oliver is the man for you! Screwed is definitely a guilty pleasure read." (USA Today bestselling author R.S. Grey)