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Excerpt
Ethan Everest
Every female here has eyed me up and down, even the ones
with boyfriends. They don’t even try to hide it. They want me
to see. They want me to know I can have them if I want them.
Except her. Blue dress. Red lips. Hair the color
of a golden sunset in winter.
Several girls made themselves more than available. I was
offered a fast fuck in the bathroom within fifteen minutes of arriving.
Fantasies may be taking over, but there’s only one woman who catches my
eyes—the demure beauty sitting on the couch.
I want to stare at her.
She’ll see me though.
I want to sit next to her.
There are no more spots on the small futon.
I want to talk to her.
What do I say when she makes all the blood rush from my
brain and shoot straight to my dick? Damn, I want her.
She’s given me no reason to think of her naked beneath me.
No indication that I should have dirty thoughts about those delectable lips.
Absolutely no sign that I could have the pleasure of stroking her bare back
while I take her from behind.
Fuck. Me.
While images of her cloud my thoughts, I’m not sure I have a
shot in hell of even taking up a minute of her time, much less a night. Nope,
not one clue if I have a chance with this beauty.
I’ll take the risk, something I’m adept at doing. More often
than not I win in the end. She won’t be an easy target, but nothing worth
having ever is. I’m determined to find out if her tongue is as seductive as her
eyes.
Although she brings out my instinctive side, this is not
about sex and passing time. It’s about spending time with someone who
challenges my mind while turning on my body.
Nudging the guy who lives here, I signal across the room and
ask, “What’s her name?”
“Who?” He follows my gaze. “The hottie on the couch?”
Heart-shaped face, flawless skin, ample tits, hourglass
shape at her waist. She’s not built like a girl who doesn’t eat. She’s shaped
like a woman I want to meet. “Yeah.”
“Dariya Rostavik. She’s fucking hot.” He pats my shoulder.
“And single. If my girlfriend wasn’t here, I’d be all over that.”
“Cuz you’re an asshole.” Her name, Dariya, rolls around my
mouth, spikey instead of rolling off the tongue naturally. The name doesn’t fit
her.
“Pretty much.” He laughs. “You gonna hit it, Everest?”
“I don’t know.” I feign interest to him, lying to get his eyes
off her. “Fuck, they scored again.” My diversion works, and his attention is
back on the big screen.
The truth is, I don’t know if I’m going to hookup with her.
I’ve caught her looking at me when she thinks I don’t notice. But is
she looking at me the way I’m looking at her?
Was I busted moving closer when she was talking to her
friend? Did she see me eavesdropping to hear her voice? Did she notice when I
joined a conversation behind her to be closer? Or that I stepped out of the way
of the fridge when she wanted a bottle of water?
I never get shot down by women. I’ve lived on easy street
when it comes to my looks and, from what I’m told, my personality, attracting
the most attractive. Something tells me I might be rejected by her.
She’s not like the other girls here. Nothing about her fits
in this environment—a party with a bunch of guys getting drunk while watching
sports and yelling at the TV and girls dragged here by their boyfriends or
convinced by their friends to stop by.
She’s an innocent among sycophants. Everyone wants something
from me, except her. Sexy and smart—speaks right to my heart.
I catch her eyes on me again. This time I stare back until
she looks away with a pretty pink coloring her cheeks.
This game with her is much more interesting than the one on
TV. I follow her with my eyes as she gets up and joins a group by the window.
She seems to know the other girl, but not so much the two guys.
Good, I inwardly growl.
Keith hits me in the chest. “Who do you have your eyes on?”
“The woman by the window.”
My best friend shakes his head. “No. Check out eleven
o’clock. She’s a model from Romania. Hot as fuck.”
“Not interested. I want more than a fuck.”
“I’m sorry. Have we met?” His sarcasm is as annoying as he’s
been lately at the office.
“I’m for real.”
“So am I.”
I exhale and shoot him a glare. “I really am. I can fuck
anyone. I want to spend time with someone who interests me.”
“You’re working too much. You’re so caught up in your head
lately you’re missing what life is really about.”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I indulge him. “And what is
life really about?”
“Doing everything in your power to get it while the gettin’s
good.”
“Are we talking about business or women?”
“Both.”
The model is hot, but I feel like I’ve been there done that.
I don’t care what he wants. He can have shallow, meaningless relationships.
They’re more hassle than they’re worth.
Glancing toward the woman outside, an ease comes over me,
releasing some of the pent-up pressure that’s been expanding lately. “You go
for the model. I’ll go for Dariya.”
“Dariya?” I’m knocked on the arm, and he points toward the
couch. “That’s Dariya, man.”
“The model?”
“Yeah,” he says, laughing.
Thank fuck I didn’t go outside and call the beauty by the
wrong name. “I’ll be back.” I grab two cans and head toward the window. I stop
briefly by the group she was talking to prior, but they’re buried deep into a
conversation about American consumerism. I’m not interested in their philosophical
views on finances. The only thing I’m interested in is the pretty woman sitting
alone outside. The woman excuses herself and I ask, “Hey, you guys know her
name?”
They look outside. “Singer.”
“She’s a singer?”
“No,” he says, chuckling. “Her name is Singer. Singer Davis.
She came here with her friend, Melanie, who just left.”
I don’t hear most of what he says because I’m stuck on the
woman with the red lips. Singer. Singer Davis. “Thanks.”
Singer’s been sitting on that fire escape by herself long
enough to not feel like I’m invading her space, like she’s taken over my
thoughts. I seize the moment and climb out.
This is where our story begins . . .
Author Bio
