Page 28 of The Stud

But like, why’s that a me problem thattheyscare easily?

Fucking grow a pair.

Passing by those gathered in the upstairs loft, drinking or dropping giant pieces into an oversizedConnect Fouris wordlessly done as is peeking into the cracked doors I come across, continuously disappointed to find people casually fucking or on their way.

Defeat grows more and more rampant with each passing step only to abruptly stop when I pop my head into the rec room at the end of the hall. Folded over the blue felt covered pool table is the left wing who I hate for having the balls to not only come after me but to notstopcoming after me.

Off the scoresheet?

Where no one will ever see these notes?

He’s a total Gordie Howe fucking hat-trick.

A deliciously rare feat in spite of his man whore choices.

He’s undeniably attractive.

Dirty blond hair, bright blue eyes, script tattoos, cut muscles, and an accent that I’ll never openly admit actuallyisirresistible.

He speaks my lingo.

Jock talk is its own foreign language that he speaks, appreciates,andadores me for doing the same.

And lastly – along with most painfully – he cangiveas good as he can take.

Most dudes I’ve crossed paths with don’t want a woman with a mouth on her that isn’tjustfor sucking their cock, yet Frosky does.

He goads me.

He challenges me.

He invites me to talk shit and speak my mind and be the most intelligent person in the room without issue.

I hate him for that.

Forallof that.

Almost as much as I hate him for committing the biggest sin I can never forgive.

Fucking my sister.

“There’s the pylon I’ve been looking for,” I juvenilely coo upon entering the room.

There’s no hesitation for him to stop mid shot and quirk an eyebrow in question. “Am I dreaming?” He doesn’t wait for a response. “Wait. No.” The stick is effortlessly sent forward into the nearby billiard ball. “You have on clothes.”

Gagging occurs at the same time I shut the door behind me.

“You looking for me means you must need something quite badly.” Frosky props the item straight up and slides one hand into his light – almost white – suit pants. “Work or personal?”

“What would Ieverneed you for personally?”

“An alibi?” His crystal stare sparkles with mirth. “Perhaps hiding a body?”

My sauntering doesn’t stop until I arrive at the opposite end of the table from him. “And you know where to do that?”

“I knowpeoplewho know where to do that.” The waggling of his eyebrows – a weird signature trait – successfully gets me giggling. “Quite the difference, Arden.”

Ugh.

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