Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 97382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
As if I’m the one who said she sucks at giving head.
I smile. “Told you it wasn’t a rite of passage.”
She growls at me. Like a fucking dog. “Fuck you, Ambrosia. You’re just jealous!” she spits, and yeah, I snort.
“Jealous? Of what?”
“Of the fact that no one would want your ugly, fat-ass self to suck their dick! You try to act like you don’t want anyone, but we all know it’s because you can’t land anyone.”
Wow. Before I can tell her to practice giving head on a cucumber, Dawson’s rough voice cuts through the air. “Hey, what the fuck is your problem? Don’t talk to her like that.”
I gawk at Dawson, and she does the same.
What the hell?
Grace P. recovers way faster than I do. “What? She is!”
“No, she’s not. You are,” he spits back as he sways a bit. He’s obviously drunk, yet he’s defending me. “Ugly, that is.”
Weird.
“You don’t know her!” Grace P. tries, but he waves her off.
“It doesn’t matter. You don’t talk to people like that. You’re a fucking leech. Go away.”
He waves her off once more, and she lets out another shrill noise before stomping off. I’m in awe as I watch her walk away. If she hadn’t been such a bitch, I would offer to help her, but I hope she trips on those heels that she can’t walk in. Before I can look back from Grace P., Dawson falls onto the beanbag with me, his big body jolting mine when he leans back as if he belongs in the beanbag with me.
Shocking me even more.
His big thighs press to mine, the warmth of his skin sending chills down my spine. I came to the party in a pair of biker shorts and a flowy Bullies tee for comfort rather than trying to look cute. Like me, he has on a pair of athletic shorts and his team tee with his number 60 on the front under the Bullies. I know he went with 60 because his dad was 59. I know more about him than he’ll ever know about me.
He glances over at me, his hooded, glassy gaze moving down my body before he looks back up at me.
“Don’t listen to her. You’re fucking hot.”
Did Dawson Sinclair just call me hot?
How drunk is he?
“Thanks,” I say with a small giggle. “You don’t need to make me feel better. I don’t care what she thinks.”
He exhales, closing his eyes. “I wasn’t trying to make you feel better. I was telling you the truth.”
Oh.
He sighs deeply as he leans back, his shorts riding up and the tattoo along his thigh catching my eye. It’s a very lifelike butterfly, looking as if it’s about to take flight off his thigh. Under it in a typewriter font is a word. It takes a moment for me to make it out: Metamorphosis.
I run my finger along the letters without thinking. I think the punch is getting to me since I ask, “Why metamorphosis?”
He shakes his head. “It was for my life changing, but it’s a lie.”
I bring my brows together, looking over at the guy beside me. His jaw is taut, his shoulders up and tense. He looks like he really could have used a good blow job.
I almost feel bad for him.
Almost.
“How so?”
“I don’t know what I want,” he admits, his words a bit slurred. A smirk moves across his lips as his hazel gaze locks with mine. “I don’t know why I said that to you. I don’t even know you.”
“I mean, we’re sharing a beanbag, and I was witness to you getting a bad blow job.”
“So bad,” he says, shaking his head. “But yeah, just feeling a little un-metamorphosis.”
I don’t know what to say, so I only watch as he runs his large hand down his face. He is huge, and it’s so sexy. Not that I want Dawson Sinclair. Even if he did defend me.
“I drank too much,” he admits softly. “And I hate drinking. But I had a bad day, and my parents are on me about giving up football.”
I bring in my brows. “I take it you don’t want to?”
He shakes his head. “I want to do both, which pissed them off—especially since I decided not to go into the draft this year.” He looks over to me, eyeing me. “Do you know what the draft is?”
I give him a small smile. “I do.”
“Like, the hockey draft, right?”
I snort. “Yeah, I know sports.”
He sighs. “That’s hot. And good, I didn’t want to explain myself.”
He looks so beaten that I can’t bring myself to be a bitch to him. Plus, I don’t want him to know I know a lot about him. That I know his parents, and that they know me. Instead, we sit in silence as he breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth.