SOPHIE BROOKS:
Party, hook-up, hangover, repeat.
I don't do rules, responsibility, or monogamy.
So when the chance to sleep with the hottest Olympian swimmer in the country presents itself, you can be damn sure I take it.
And sneak out before he wa...
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I'm an idiot.
Yup. A straight-up imbecile.
There is really no other reason why I'd ask Sophie Brooks to be my date to the banquet while I'm attempting to hold off on sex if not because I have lost my god-damned marbles.
Because when she opens her door dressed like freaking sin, a tiny part of me dies and goes to heaven, and a not-so-tiny part of me resigns itself to a night of flirting with my zipper.
It might be hard to understand why I even put down the ban on sex in the first place. I'm not even sure I get it since Sophie's right. Nothing about what we're doing has ever been conventional. Why on earth start now?
Yet, from the get-go, this thing has revolved around sex. It was never supposed to be anything more, and now that we're dating, I feel a need to prove to both of us that it can be more than sex. That we can be more than sex. So that when it ends, she can't dismiss it as just another fling.
I'm determined to crack through that shell of hers, just a little. And apparently, my method for doing that is abstinence.
And I think it might be the death of me.
Because Sophie clearly dressed to kill.
Last week I got modest Sophie. The green dress she wore - that made her look unbelievably gorgeous - was just conservative enough to get the point across that the purpose of it wasn't to seduce me. Not that she didn't attempt regardless and very nearly succeeded.
Tonight, though? Oh, tonight, she has seduction written all over her.
The black dress clings to her every god-damned curve. It's held up by two precariously thin straps, and it cuts so low in the front that I suspect my eyes will be glued there all night. It's floor-length, with a big slit going all the way up her one very inviting thigh.
If it's sex she wants, maybe we should just drop the whole thing, and I can fuck her on that ridiculously large couch of hers.
She's in heels. Of course, she is. High, black stilettos that shouldn't even be possible to walk in, let alone prance so sexily, but I don't think the laws of nature apply to Sophie. My gaze reaches her face again as she stops before me, and her purple hair falls around her shoulders in soft waves, her lips drawn up with a deep red. But it's her eyes that do it. They're dark and dangerous and sparkling with mischief.
Holy hell.
She's freaking walking trouble.
"If you two are done eye-fucking, can we get this show on the road?"
I'm not gonna lie; for a second there, I'd forgotten we aren't alone. Everything around us had subsided, and the only thing that existed was the contrast of colors in Sophie's eyes. Ink and coffee and snow. Secrets and desires swirling together.
