Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 34333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 172(@200wpm)___ 137(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 172(@200wpm)___ 137(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
She laughs but I don’t, my thoughts turning elsewhere. Dawson has substance. The fact that he's able to hold an intelligent conversation without slipping in the obvious innuendo with the hope I'll think it's clever enough to make me drop my panties then and there proves that to me. Then there's the collection of books on his nightstand. That he reads for pleasure at all, unlike most of the cretins on campus, is a big point in his column.
His condo has very few personal touches, but the ones I saw point to a man with plenty of life experience and substance to spare. He’s not some meathead jock. He’s not some horny college frat boy who thinks he can impress me with how fast he can shotgun a beer then expect me to fuck him in the back seat of his car. No, Dawson is a man with something between the ears. And that’s even more attractive to me than his smokin’ hot body.
Sammy stops walking then turns and scrutinizes me. I try to shy away but she grips my upper arms, her eyes boring into me. Sammy has always had this preternatural ability to see through me and just knows when I’m hiding something from her. It’s like she can read my mind. It’s invasive and creepy. She’s worse than my mom. Sammy finally lets go of my arms and steps back, a wide and wolfish grin on her face.
“You went home with somebody.” She shakes her head and eyes me up and down. “My little Devon finally went home with somebody. So, come on, if not the water polo guy, who was it?”
“It’s not like that. I didn’t sleep with him.”
Sammy grins fiendishly. “So you say. But who was it?”
I sigh. Sammy can be a pit bull. When she gets her teeth into something, it’s almost impossible to unlock her jaws. She’s not going to stop pressing until I give it up.
“Fine,” I say. “His name is Dawson Davis—”
“The hockey player? You’re kidding me?”
“Wait, you know who he is?”
She scoffs. “He’s played for LA for the last eighteen years, has won three Cups, has a pile of Conn Smythe, Selke, and Hart awards, and is a lock to be a first-ballot Hall of Famer, babe. Of course, I know who he is."
“I don’t even know what any of that means,” I admit. “But honestly, I didn’t even know LA had a hockey team until last night.”
She shakes her head again. “You’re clueless. Adorable but clueless. But what I want to know is how this all happened. How did you end up going home with Dawson Davis?”
A small smile touches my lips as I tell her the story, starting with Zack being a creep and ending with me walking out of his condo this morning. As I tell her, my lips warm at the memory of the kiss we shared, as does my body, and I feel myself growing wet again at the mere thought of his hands on me. By the time I’m done with my story, Sammy is bouncing up and down, an excited smile on her face, and she actually squeals with delight.
“I cannot believe you’re going to sleep with Dawson freaking Davis, babe!” she exclaims.
“Woah, woah, woah. Let’s back that pony up.” I hold my hands up. “I never said I’m going to sleep with him. All I said is he wants to take me to dinner.”
“Which, of course, will lead to a lot of naked time with Dawson freaking Davis. You are going to have to tell me everything. I mean, you do realize that, right? Like every single minute detail. I want it all, girl.”
From the corner of my eye, I can see people starting to look at us and feel my face growing warm not with lust this time, but with embarrassment.
“Could you keep your voice down?” I hiss. “It’s not like I want this to be broadcast all over campus. And I’m sure Dawson wouldn’t like it either.”
Her smile widens but she does as I ask and lowers her voice. “Dev, what’s he like? I mean, I’ve seen him give postgame interviews, but what is he really like?”
“He’s… nice.”
She looks at me with a deadpan expression. “Nice? That’s it? That’s all you’re going to give me? Come on now, what is he really like?”
“He’s nice,” I say with a laugh. “Intelligent. Thoughtful. He made me breakfast this morning and showed me his house in Montana. Said he’ll take me horseback riding because I’ve never been.”
What I don’t tell her is that he’s also forceful. That he’s commanding. That he looks at me like I'm already his and that I somehow belong to him. I don't tell her that because some girls might see that as creepy.
But the way he looks at me, the way his eyes just drink me in—it's a turn-on. It’s something I like. Something I crave. And trust me, it’s not something I would have ever expected of myself. I belong to nobody. But as the memory of his gaze lingers in my mind, I find that I’ll carve out an exception for Dawson freaking Davis.