Mafia Princess {On Hold}

Three

Chapter Three

Here we go. It has now been three long—oh, and so, so torturous—days that I have known the one and only, Easton Ivanov. He is hot, of course. (She's a mammoth, of course. Stop.) So, undeniably hot. From his emerald eyes with lashes that flutter against his pale, sunken in cheeks, to his curly, fluffy blond hair which seems to do more harm than good, seeing as it always gets in his oh so entrancing eyes, but to be honest, I think that is more of a personal problem.

I personally don't mind.

My hands itch to brush those blond locks out of his eyes but then—oh, then . . .

He opens his fucking mouth. Oh, and how I would love to silence it but then the words, the crude, crude words he says.

And it is not even just that that is stopping me from doing said silencing; I'm also a fucking virgin, have never been kissed, and do not know shit about anything remotely intimate, whether it is sexual or non-sexual.

Back on the subject of his crude words; I agree with him and, most of the time, I already said exactly what he said right in my big ass brain, but, for some reason, I don't like that he said it first or, in that moment, had more confidence or enough to say that—even if it was the smallest fucking morsel.

Call me cocky or try to bruise my ego but Easton has clearly done enough of that shit over the course of three days. Sue me for being competitive.

But, on the topic of Easty-boy, let's talk about his best friend.

I absolutely adore him. The downside to my adoration? That means I am around his best friend, who I find very arousing, a lot. And by arousing, I mean a Niagara Falls amount of liquid filling my panties.

Hunter tends to put me in the middle of him and Easton as we walk to our classes—side note: Easton walks me to all my classes, no matter what and I can't seem to figure out why—and that is a prime pantie soaking session right there, my dear friends.

The way his arm brushes against mine, his intoxicating scent consuming me—which, by the way, I find weird because it is not a specific cologne or shampoo, it is simply just him—, and especially, fuck, especially when he places his large, veiny hand on my lower back, leading me into the classroom as he practically Wingardium Leviosa's the shit out of my goosebumps.

Oh, but that's not all. That is not all.

Whenever we have the same class together, even if it is with Hunter as well, he makes sure to sit directly behind me, even if it means pushing someone out of their seat. Then, fucking then, he plays with my hair and always—here is the real kicker. The beginning, the start, of the one and only Niagara Falls—hooks his feet with the legs of my desk, or, fucking or, leans forward, his arms draped over my shoulders and latching together with his hands in front of my chest. Yup, you heard that right. Right against my boobs. My tits. My breasts. My chesticles!