Flame (Fire on the Mountain #2) Read Online Free
Author: Erin Noelle
was that gorgeous. Jaw-dropping, breath-stealing, panty-wetting kind of gorgeous.
But, despite my sometimes debatable moral integrity, I’m not that kind of girl.
Even I, Dakota Marie Shavell, hold myself to some sort of standards, and showing up to a place with one guy and leaving with another is pretty close to the top of the “Unacceptable” list. My ranking on the sexual experience scale may fall closer to slutty than prude , but I’m at the top of the fucking class in regards to self-respect. Promiscuity doesn’t have to mean sleazy.
All that being said, I can’t help but feel a tiny bit of regret as I wait inside my Jeep for Rory, who I’m watching through my rearview mirror, engage in the most awkward goodbye hug I’ve ever witnessed with my older sister, Nali. It’s almost as if they’re afraid to touch at first, but then when they do, it seems a little too tight, a little too comfortable. When they let go, they jump away from each other as if they’ve been electrocuted and stare down at the ground self-consciously. Like I said, awkward with a capital A.
Yeah, I should probably be concerned about that . . . but I’m not. Instead, the vision of Mr. Button Fly bending me over the a table, hiking my yellow sundress up around my waist, and plunging his hard cock deep inside me flickers in my brain, causing me to clench my thighs together and squirm uncomfortably in my seat.
In fact, I’m pretty sure I heard him think those exact thoughts when we were being introduced, almost as if our brainwaves were tuned in to the same radio frequency. Like some unrealistic connection from one of those ridiculous romance novels Grams is always trying to get me to read. I must really need to get laid. All this abstinence is fucking with my head.
Finally, Rory climbs into his two-door black coupe and pulls out of the parking lot, prompting me to do the same. If he’d have taken one more damn minute, there’s a good chance I would’ve started masturbating right here in the driver’s seat, desperately needing to take off some of the heat that the arrogant, dark-haired hottie inside the restaurant sparked inside me. An act that would be questionable at best on the list of acceptable, dignified behaviors.
Damn James Levi. Within a half-hour of meeting him, he’s already got me itching to break the rules, which sets off all kinds of warning bells in my head. It’ll probably be in my best interest to steer clear of him at the wedding on Saturday.
But who am I kidding?
From the plush crimson and cream draperies and linens to the intricate, hand-carved wood furnishings, to the majestic, eye-catching three-story fireplace, the opulent lobby of Victoria Pointe Lodge reeks of greed and gluttony. Women dressed in the season’s latest Boho chic show off their surgically enhanced cleavage and collagen-filled lips, while lounging around with cosmos. Their practiced resting-bitch-faces track my movement across the floor and disdain oozes from their pores.
The men, on the other hand, stand around making small talk with one another about sports and politics, as they lazily sip bourbon that most likely costs more than a month’s rent on my apartment. Each and every one of them takes their turn undressing me with their eyes, all fantasizing about what I’d look like without this dress and spread eagle for them. Most of them don’t bother to hide their lustful perusal.
I’d be lying if I said I don’t get a kick out of this.
Knowing I could get every one of these snobby bitches’ men to cheat on them in a heartbeat is my way of telling them all to fuck off while they silently rip me apart from head to toe, starting with my untamed, windblown hair and ending down at my Target sandals. Of course, I would never act on it; married dudes aren’t my thing. But knowing I have that power over them shields my ego from their judgmental, icy glares.
At this perfect portrayal of elitism at its best, a sense of pride in my
But, despite my sometimes debatable moral integrity, I’m not that kind of girl.
Even I, Dakota Marie Shavell, hold myself to some sort of standards, and showing up to a place with one guy and leaving with another is pretty close to the top of the “Unacceptable” list. My ranking on the sexual experience scale may fall closer to slutty than prude , but I’m at the top of the fucking class in regards to self-respect. Promiscuity doesn’t have to mean sleazy.
All that being said, I can’t help but feel a tiny bit of regret as I wait inside my Jeep for Rory, who I’m watching through my rearview mirror, engage in the most awkward goodbye hug I’ve ever witnessed with my older sister, Nali. It’s almost as if they’re afraid to touch at first, but then when they do, it seems a little too tight, a little too comfortable. When they let go, they jump away from each other as if they’ve been electrocuted and stare down at the ground self-consciously. Like I said, awkward with a capital A.
Yeah, I should probably be concerned about that . . . but I’m not. Instead, the vision of Mr. Button Fly bending me over the a table, hiking my yellow sundress up around my waist, and plunging his hard cock deep inside me flickers in my brain, causing me to clench my thighs together and squirm uncomfortably in my seat.
In fact, I’m pretty sure I heard him think those exact thoughts when we were being introduced, almost as if our brainwaves were tuned in to the same radio frequency. Like some unrealistic connection from one of those ridiculous romance novels Grams is always trying to get me to read. I must really need to get laid. All this abstinence is fucking with my head.
Finally, Rory climbs into his two-door black coupe and pulls out of the parking lot, prompting me to do the same. If he’d have taken one more damn minute, there’s a good chance I would’ve started masturbating right here in the driver’s seat, desperately needing to take off some of the heat that the arrogant, dark-haired hottie inside the restaurant sparked inside me. An act that would be questionable at best on the list of acceptable, dignified behaviors.
Damn James Levi. Within a half-hour of meeting him, he’s already got me itching to break the rules, which sets off all kinds of warning bells in my head. It’ll probably be in my best interest to steer clear of him at the wedding on Saturday.
But who am I kidding?
From the plush crimson and cream draperies and linens to the intricate, hand-carved wood furnishings, to the majestic, eye-catching three-story fireplace, the opulent lobby of Victoria Pointe Lodge reeks of greed and gluttony. Women dressed in the season’s latest Boho chic show off their surgically enhanced cleavage and collagen-filled lips, while lounging around with cosmos. Their practiced resting-bitch-faces track my movement across the floor and disdain oozes from their pores.
The men, on the other hand, stand around making small talk with one another about sports and politics, as they lazily sip bourbon that most likely costs more than a month’s rent on my apartment. Each and every one of them takes their turn undressing me with their eyes, all fantasizing about what I’d look like without this dress and spread eagle for them. Most of them don’t bother to hide their lustful perusal.
I’d be lying if I said I don’t get a kick out of this.
Knowing I could get every one of these snobby bitches’ men to cheat on them in a heartbeat is my way of telling them all to fuck off while they silently rip me apart from head to toe, starting with my untamed, windblown hair and ending down at my Target sandals. Of course, I would never act on it; married dudes aren’t my thing. But knowing I have that power over them shields my ego from their judgmental, icy glares.
At this perfect portrayal of elitism at its best, a sense of pride in my
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