Sweet as Syn

15: GREYSON-Lots of Boners and Such

Hey, I'll gladly take whatever title Syn wants to give me. Except, best friends aren't supposed to know the way you taste. And Syn tastes sweet like chocolate and sinful like temptation. And now I know she's the type of girl who wears cocoa butter chapstick. One light graze of her pillow-soft lips and I was done for. Wrecked. Because the stray I picked up off the streets turned out to be more intelligent than I had bargained for.

Synamie Blake is too smart to climb into bed with a black heart and a tainted soul. My father, Parker, Graham... It runs in Decker blood. And Syn's had enough darkness for a lifetime. Good thing I have an urge more primal than eating or breathing or fucking, and that is protecting what is precious to me. Even if that means protecting Syn from myself, no matter how tantalizing she might be.

But that doesn't mean I can't torture myself with the unobtainable. After giving her shit about not having social media—because what eighteen-year-old girl doesn't?—I took matters into my own hands and made her an Instagram account so that I could see her when I'm not with her, but she claims she doesn't have any pictures of herself on her ancient phone. I had threatened to post a picture of my penis to her account, and she compromised and sent me a picture of her with her cheer team at a high school competition and one of her in a white coat and goggles at what looks like a science fair. The dorkiest of nerds and the sexiest of cheerleaders. Paradox, much?

But the vintage shot of her as a kid could make a grown man cry. A tall, lanky guy with dark hair and blue eyes—Elias, I presume—has his arm linked around an eight-year-old Syn's shoulders. If I thought she was tiny now... God, if I could go back and squeeze the shit out of her, I would. But her hair is matted and her clothes look tattered and she is emaciated, all skin and bone, and suddenly, I need to know every detail about her. Immediately.

Me: I know ur studying but this is an emergency.

A surge of satisfaction hit me when instead of texting back, she called.

"Are you okay? The boys?"

I feel just a little bad because she sounds frantic, but it makes me smile.

"We're fine. What's your middle name?"

Silence. "Amara..."

"Oh." Wow. That's beautiful. "When's your birthday?"

"Are you going to ask my social security number next? Identity theft is no joke, Greyson."

"Birthday. Now."

"I'm studying. And you're a brat."

Smirking, I ignore her and go on. "Favorite meal."

I'm considering switching her shitty burner phone with a new iPhone just so I can see her reactions over FaceTime. "Everything. I like everything."

"That can't be true. If I were to bring you a salad instead of a steak, you can't tell me you'd be happy with that."

"Fine. I don't like salads. Too healthy and not filling."

I make a mental note to never let a piece of lettuce touch her perfect red lips again. "What panty brand do you wear?"

I expect a giggle or coyness or some sexy Victoria's Secret shit, but she deadpans, "Gap kids days of the week panties."

Clearing my throat and adjusting myself, I demand, "Go study, smart-ass." I know she's fucking with me, but now I'm picturing her dancing around in little days of the week panties. And my dick is hard. Not where I thought this conversation would take me.

"Okay... Bye?"

I grunt in farewell and tuck myself in my compression shorts to go for a run because jerking my cock to Syn is all types of wrong, and I gotta shed some steam before my testicles implode.