Page 32 of Positively Pricked
Enema…?I paused.Bag?
No. That was just stupid.
Praying that inspiration would strike later, I skipped over "e" and moved on to "f."
Happily, this was an easy one.Fuck-face.In the spirit of things, I awarded myself bonus points for using the right letter twice.
By now, I had a pretty good rhythm going.Slap, wait. Slap again.My palm was stinging, and my breath was coming in short, angry bursts. By now, I was so angry that I barely heard the dogs even as they yipped away in the background.
On some level, I realized that I was about to make a spectacle of myself, but I couldn't bring myself to care.
I was still working my way through the alphabet.
Prick.
Quack-head.
Rat-face.
Admittedly, my standards were falling with every letter, but still, I kept on going.
Shit-bag.
I was so lost in my own anger that it took me a moment to realize that a large shadow had crept up behind me, darkening the front door beyond my own silhouette.
I stopped slapping and whirled around. And there he was – Mister Fancy Pants himself. Except he didn'tlookfancy. And he wasn't wearing pants, not technically, anyway.
Instead, he was wearing black running shorts and some sort of dark hoodie that wasn't even zipped. Without thinking, I zoomed in on his torso. Where a shirtshould'vebeen, I saw a wet muscular chest and, below that, glistening washboard abs.
Heat flooded my face, and I yanked my gaze upward. His hair was dripping wet, and a small white towel was draped over the back of his neck.
I stared in utter confusion. Darkness aside, it was only April and unseasonably cold. It wouldn't be swimming weather for at least two months. But that wasn't the only thing that made me pause.
It was his appearance. Last night, he'd looked every inch the billionaire. Now, he was a damp, disheveled mess. Unfortunately, he was also ahotmess, as much as I hated to admit it.
Well, this was just great.
I was so flustered that the next word on my list shot out of my mouth. "Turd!"
