Breaking Hollywood(8)

By: Samantha Towle


“So weird.” I grin.

“Okay, as soon as we’re out of this elevator, we resume our normal bickering.”

“Definitely,” I agree.

The doors slide open, and we step out of the elevator.





Gabe


“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

“God, that felt good,” I faux groan. “Did it feel good for you, Speedy?”

“So good,” she moans.

And the sound reverberates through my chest.

I wonder if that’s the sound she would make if my head was between her legs.

“But we made a deal, remember?” Her tiny finger pokes my chest. “No more calling me Speedy.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot.” Like hell I did. I just like calling her it.

It’s perfect for her. Not just for the fact that she drives like she’s trying to beat the land-speed record. She is the definition of a motormouth. She can talk at speeds I didn’t know were possible. I’ve seriously never heard anything like it. She doesn’t even stop to breathe. Run-on sentences actually exist in speech. She must have the lung capacity of a whale, which could come in handy for some serious deep-throating.

Yes, I want to fuck her.

Sure, she’s annoying as hell. But, when her mouth is shut—or, if I had my way, full of my cock—she’s incredibly fuckable.

A total babe.

I wanted to fuck her the moment I saw her. And I don’t mean today.

I remember her from the club. Of course I do.

You don’t forget a woman who looks like her.

She’s stunning. A mane of long brown hair, which is sadly tied back into a ponytail today. But, man, does it look soft as fuck. I want to pull that hair tie out and slip my hands into all that gorgeous hair, getting my fingers tangled up in it, while I fuck that tight body of hers and stare into those smoky-blue feline eyes, watching her lose control as she comes.

I would have made a move on her that night in the club, but before I even had the chance, she mentioned a boyfriend, so that was the end of that. And, even if she hadn’t had a boyfriend, she got totally trashed that night, and I never screw a drunk woman. I would have just waited until the morning when she was sober, and then I’d have banged her.

Of course I would have taken her home with me. Look at her; she’s fucking gorgeous.

But it didn’t happen.

And, since that night, I never thought of her.

Until, out of nowhere, there she was, leaving the studio building, tears running down her pretty face.

I had the urge to follow her and find out what or who had made her cry.

But I didn’t follow.

And then I saw her walk off down the street from where my car was parked.

So, I made the decision to go over to her car and knock on the window to check if she was okay, which is not like me at all. I don’t like it when women cry. It makes me uncomfortable, so I avoid crying women at all costs.

I’m kind of an asshole if you haven’t guessed.

But something drew me over to her, and I was just approaching her car when it suddenly moved, and she ran over my foot.

And that was when everything went to shit. And, after that, no way was I going to admit that I remembered her.

Admitting I remembered her would have meant that she had had an impact on me even if it was only a small one. She didn’t need to know. Knowing that would give her the upper hand, and when it comes to women, I need to be on top every time. Literally and figuratively.

“Well, that was your last chance, Gabe.” Her voice pulls me back. “Call me Speedy again, and you’ll see what happens.”

She’s so argumentative.

Seriously, I’m not used to women giving me shit like she does. They’re usually all, Yes, Gabe. Whatever you say, Gabe. Put it in whatever hole you want to, Gabe, no matter how I speak to them.

But not Speedy. She doesn’t take my shit. She’s quick-witted and feisty. Different. And, oddly, I like that about her.

It makes her even hotter.

“And what are you gonna do if I call you it again?” Of course, my tone is mocking. Gotta bait if I want to get a bite.

It’s like a game of verbal chess.

Waiting to see what barb she’ll say next, it’s entertaining as fuck. Has my heart beating faster and my dick getting harder. Who knew insults turned me on so much?

Her small body tenses under my arm. “Guess you’ll find out if you call me it again.” Her tone is edgy.

Oh, yes.

And, obviously, because I can’t help myself and I seem to have developed the mentality of a teenage boy when I’m around her, I say, “Bring it on, Speedy.”

She huffs this cute little growly sound that has me grinning from ear to ear.

“You’re an asshole.”

“Is that my punishment?” I mock. “Because I thought you had more in you than that, Speedy.”

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