Screw You~A Screwed Duet by Serena Akeroyd

Author:Serena Akeroyd [Akeroyd, Serena]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-02-10T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

Finn

I’d never liked anyone watching me sleep, and had never appreciated the notion of watching anyone sleep, either.

It was fucking creepy in my mind, but Aoife was so goddamn peaceful that sometimes, I couldn’t stop myself from waking up, and rather than heading to my personal gym, just watching her. The way her lashes fluttered in REM sleep, the way she slept on her side, her tits smushed together and quivering with each breath she took—it was like watching an angel. An angel with really big tits.

Yeah. I knew I sounded crazy. Knew that this thing, whatever the fuck it was, had taken on a life of its own, but even crazier, I was okay with that.

Was okay with this need that was unfurling inside of me for her.

It was pitch black outside—that happened when you woke up at three AM—and in the distance, the city lights sent tiny glittering specks along her creamy form. I wanted to touch her. I always wanted to touch her. Wanted to connect with her, and not always sexually, either.

My heartbeat seemed to slow when I was around her, and so far, we’d done nothing but fuck and eat together. I barely knew her, and I wanted that to change. I wanted to know everything, and not from some fucking file, but from her lips. I wanted everything, the full story, in her words.

This craving to know all of her came as a slight shock. I never usually gave a fuck about any of my other lays, but everything about Aoife was unusual.

She shuffled in her sleep, dragging me from my thoughts, and carefully, I crept out of bed, not wanting to disturb her. Only whack jobs like me got up at this time of the night, but I had a schedule to fulfill and these nutty hours were a part of it.

When I padded over to the bathroom, I had to shake my head at the clothes I’d put in there before bed last night. Yeah. I didn’t want to disturb her so much that I’d begun anticipating the need to grab workout gear before I slept.

My throat tightened at whatever the fuck that meant as I pulled on a pair of basketball shorts and a shirt. I always dumped my sneakers in the gym, so I padded out, letting one long lingering glance drift over her resting form before I told myself to man the fuck up and get on with my day.

An hour on the treadmill loosened shit up, and with BBC World News on the box, I caught up with daily events around the world and monitored some of my personal investments. Switching gears helped. I had a lot of responsibilities, a lot of men to manage—some to even micromanage—and I didn’t have time to be constantly thinking about Aoife like some pock-marked teenager who’d just figured out what his pecker was for.

By the time I finished running, I’d stripped out of my shirt and tossed it on the ground after wiping my torso down with it.

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