Page 39 of Wrong Pucking Player

Kind of surprising because I always assumed he was a rich kid, thanks to him always hanging out with Jayce Winchester, Kane Sylvester Jr, and Diesel Valerian. All three of those guys came from better-off families, leaving me to assume Oscar did as well.

It wasn’t until I was forced to accept this place that I bumped into Armani.

“I was out of town for five-plus years,” I voice which is partially true.

School took three years of my life with the fast-track program, and I took the time to work and prepare for my entrance into York University.

The government may have covered my tuition, but I’d made it my mission to work and save as much as possible doing side hustles and under-the-table gigs to save up for food, equipment, and books.

“I’m well aware,” he points out as though he’s been counting the days, hours, and minutes since my departure. “Still doesn’t explain why you’re ruining my morning routine.”

I roll my eyes.

“Were you always this high maintenance?” I question as I tilt my head. “You were hotter when you talked less.”

I can’t believe I just said that.

“If my memory serves me correctly, my silence ground your gears to insanity, which is why you enjoy blasting your music the moment you enter your apartment to drive me fucking mad,” he counters.

“Wow, I totally forgot about that!” I grin maliciously as I lean in. “I’ll remember to do that right when I get inside.”

“Tell me, Andrews, how are you going to do that when you forgot your key?”

We’re having a stare-off as his words echo in my mind. I don’t want to admit I’m fucked, but this asshole caught me red-handed.

Damn smartass of a sexy beast.

“I’ll call someone to bring me my key,” I conclude as if I’ve won against his attempt to mock me for my forgetfulness.

“Gonna call your golden retriever ex-boyfriend to come save the day?” he inquires and proceeds to lean against the door, which makes him look even sexier than I’d dare admit out loud.

Who needs to speak the words when my body just reacts to this sculpted piece of work like he’s probably not taken?

“He doesn’t carry a golden retriever persona,” I defend, knowing damn well he’s talking about Wyatt. “What makes him look like a happy-go-lucky kind of guy?”

“I wasn’t referring to his personality,” he voices with a deadpan tone. “He’s the type of man who will go on his hands and knees for you and bark if you tell him to.”

The way I blush at his words follows with me pointing my finger in his face.

“Y-You don’t know anything about Wyatt Cyrus. Plus, what is it to you? Your girlfriend wouldn’t like you standing here naked before another female.”

“I’m not naked,” he emphasizes while he uses his head movement to gesture to his low riding sweats.

I can’t help but fall into his trap, lowering my gaze enough to catch onto the ever-so-slight outline of his length.

Grey sweats are the bane of a woman’s existence.

Fuck…

He’s actually big down there.

God… what if he’s tatted? No… pierced.

FUCK… both?

Jesus!

I have to shake my head for my own sanity, the action only giving Armani exactly what he wants as I lift my gaze to see his devilish smile.

---