You Might Be Bad For Me Read Online W. Winters, Willow Winters

Categories Genre: Angst, Contemporary, Erotic, Romance Tags Authors: ,
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Total pages in book: 213
Estimated words: 201920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1010(@200wpm)___ 808(@250wpm)___ 673(@300wpm)
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“You look good in my clothes,” he tells me when I turn to face him. His eyes roam freely down my body and the heat intensifies in my cheeks.

“Thanks for the jacket.” It’s only a quiet whisper but I mean it. I’m grateful for him.

Both of us are silent as we watch a few more guys leave the locker room. I cross my arms over my chest and peek up at him.

“I like you, Allison,” Dean says, taking a step forward. “I’m not going to let you get away so easily.”

My lungs still for a moment as his fingers brush along my face and he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Maybe I’d like that,” I say, admitting the sentiment out loud. The moment I do, I’m certain I shouldn’t have said them.

“We’re going to fuck, but I need to eat first,” he tells me. “And you’re coming with me because you need to eat too.”

“You’re taking me out to dinner?” I ask incredulously, although I’m not blind to the fact that it makes me happy. Truly. That should bother me more than it does. All of this should bother me much more than it does.

“Just feeding you, Allie Cat. Don’t read too much into it.”

“I thought we were just fucking?” I say.

“A man’s got to eat.”

I huff a response, although the smile lingers on my lips. But only for a moment.

DEAN

The corner diner on campus isn’t classy or fancy. The booths are covered in red vinyl that matches the stools at the narrow bar in front of the kitchen. The black and white checkered floors, vinyl records on the wall and jukebox in the far corner give it a retro feel. It’s not really what I’d consider a good date place but they make a damn good burger.

Allie takes the lead the second we walk in, heading for a booth at the back and I follow her. She’s been quiet since we left the field, and I don’t like it.

I don’t like the way she was looking at Kev even more.

A waitress carrying two baskets of fries calls out, “Be right with you,” as I take my seat in the booth Allie picked.

“You been here yet?” I ask Allie, still trying to figure out what’s going on in her pretty little head.

She lifts a brow at me as she slips the jacket off her shoulders. My jacket. “You learn quick,” she tells me, and I feel my forehead crease.

“How’s that?”

“Small talk, you do well when you lead with it.”

There’s a hum of pleasure running through me when she smiles. “I try,” I say and then glance over my shoulder as the waitress heads back to the kitchen rather than toward us.

When I look back at Allie, she’s quiet again, a contemplative look on her face.

I can’t help but wonder if it’s because of Kevin. Maybe he’s the one she really wanted.

My muscles coil at the thought and I can feel anger rising at the thought of her with him. She’s mine. That little prick isn’t good enough for her.

I pick at the napkin on the table out of habit, my mind going back to the sight of her batting her lashes at him and giving him that sweet look that belongs to me. Doesn’t she know better than that? I’ll treat her good. I have what it takes to keep her.

“So, you don’t like jocks?” I ask, preparing to bring it up. To make sure she knows her ass is mine right now. Even in kindergarten, everyone knew it—I don’t share well with others.

“Not really,” she answers me, but that playfulness in her voice is gone. She squirms in her seat like she’s uncomfortable.

“They’re just not your type?” I ask with my eyes narrowing, each second bringing me closer to the place I was when I came out of the locker room and saw her with him.

She meets my gaze head-on. “I’ve fucked a lot of them, but I guess I just prefer other types of guys.”

“You like being thought of like that, don’t you?”

“Like what?” she says, egging me on.

“Like a slut,” I say, not missing a beat.

“I like it when people call me that to my face. I like them to know it doesn’t bother me. I fucking own it.” Her breathing picks up, her body tensing. Like she’s ready for a fight and to defend her position. I don’t want a fight, though. I fucking love how she knows what she wants.

“Then what type do you like? Since you’re so good at owning it.”

“I have lots of types, I guess.”

“But no one type in particular?” I ask her. “Not like, I don’t know, my height, my eye color?” She barely looks at me and then I add, “Tall, dark, and handsome?” I expect her to laugh or give me something back. But I get nothing.


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