Breaking Hollywood [CAMREN]

Chapter 3

Camila

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

"God, that felt good," I faux groan. "Did it feel good for you, Speedy?"

"So good," she moans.

And the sound reverberates through my chest.

I wonder if that's the sound she would make if my head was between her legs.

"But we made a deal, remember?" Her tiny finger pokes my chest. "No more calling me Speedy."

"Oh, yeah, I forgot." Like hell I did. I just like calling her it.

It's perfect for her. Not just for the fact that she drives like she's trying to beat the land-speed record. She is the definition of a motormouth. She can talk at speeds I didn't know were possible. I've seriously never heard anything like it. She doesn't even stop to breathe. Run-on sentences actually exist in speech. She must have the lung capacity of a whale, which could come in handy for some serious deep-throating.

Yes, I want to fuck her.

Sure, she's annoying as hell. But, when her mouth is shut—or, if I had my way, full of my cock—she's incredibly fuckable.

A total babe.

I wanted to fuck her the moment I saw her. And I don't mean today.

I remember her from the club. Of course I do.

You don't forget a woman who looks like her.

She's stunning. A mane of long brown hair, which is sadly tied back into a ponytail today. But, man, does it look soft as fuck. I want to pull that hair tie out and slip my hands into all that gorgeous hair, getting my fingers tangled up in it, while I fuck that tight body of hers and stare into those emerauld green feline eyes, watching her lose control as she comes.

I would have made a move on her that night in the club, but before I even had the chance, she mentioned a boyfriend, so that was the end of that. And, even if she hadn't had a boyfriend, she got totally trashed that night, and I never screw a drunk woman. I would have just waited until the morning when she was sober, and then I'd have banged her.

Of course I would have taken her home with me. Look at her; she's fucking gorgeous.

But it didn't happen.

And, since that night, I never thought of her.

Until, out of nowhere, there she was, leaving the studio building, tears running down her pretty face.

I had the urge to follow her and find out what or who had made her cry.

But I didn't follow.

And then I saw her walk off down the street from where my car was parked.

So, I made the decision to go over to her car and knock on the window to check if she was okay, which is not like me at all. I don't like it when women cry. It makes me uncomfortable, so I avoid crying women at all costs.

I'm kind of an asshole if you haven't guessed.

But something drew me over to her, and I was just approaching her car when it suddenly moved, and she ran over my foot.

And that was when everything went to shit. And, after that, no way was I going to admit that I remembered her.

Admitting I remembered her would have meant that she had had an impact on me even if it was only a small one. She didn't need to know. Knowing that would give her the upper hand, and when it comes to women, I need to be on top every time. Literally and figuratively.