Page 5 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)
Usually, I wouldn’t chase after a woman.
No one is worth the time or energy needed to pursue them, not when anger is involved and said anger is directed at me.
And especially when there will always be another, more amiable conquest waiting to replace them.
But this one…there’s something about her negative reaction to fucking me that has me intrigued.
And I suppose I’m a little concerned about her ability to get home unharmed if she can’t even safely make it out of this bedroom.
When it comes to human decency, I’m roughly ten percent gentleman, but on the sex side, I’m one hundred percent generous lover, and call it market research or masochism, but I need to know what I did wrong, and I can’t find that out if she trips and plummets down the stairs to her untimely death on her way out of the building.
Plus, I can’t risk her ruining my reputation with the entire school year still before me.
Think of all the one-night stands I’d miss out on.
“Whoa, whoa, hey, wait a minute.”
As I leap up from the bed, the sheet and blanket both slip away, exposing me in all my naked glory.
I don’t stop to grab my underwear or anything to cover myself, instead racing bare- assed toward the door, jumping in front of my sexy stranger, and blocking the exit like a petulant child.
She stops mid-step, and another exasperated huff slips past her lips, but her attention betrays her interest as it focuses on my still erect cock, as if she can’t resist a final glance.
Maybe she’s even thinking about the way I was buried inside her last night.
I grin when her cheeks burn apple red.
Meeting my gaze, she sneers at me before averting her eyes again. “Get out of my way, Damian.”
“So, you do know me.” Then again, who at this school doesn’t?
As the eldest son of a billionaire CEO and heir to the country’s largest pharmaceutical company, it would almost be harder to not know who I am.
My face has graced tabloid covers and internet gossip pages since I was fifteen years old—or maybe that’s just when I first began to notice it—with articles ranging from what I’ll do with my birthright to who I’m supposedly dating, like I’m a Kardashian or one of David Beckham’s kids or something.
I’m what you’d call a “catch,” especially now that I’m old enough to be classed as an eligible bachelor, which has pretty much turned everyone around me into a hungry piranha.
Women. The paparazzi. They devour any scrap of news they can get about me.
I’m this generation’s Paris Hilton or, in terms of media interest and scrutiny in regard to my love life, Leonardo DiCaprio—minus the acting career and respectable boner for global warming.
We’re hot and rich, and the fact is that hot, rich people tend to get lots of attention.
And yet, something tells me my family’s wealth and status isn’t how Blondie here knows me. I don’t even think she’s interested in my bachelorhood since, at the moment, she looks to be anything other than hungry. She actually appears a bit queasy.
When she doesn’t respond, I continue to prod her. “The better question is: how do I know you? Other than from last night.” I flash her a salacious smile.
“You are unbelievable ,” Blondie mutters. “You know, maybe if you weren’t always getting drunk with your frat buddies, you might retain the brain cells needed to form long-term memories.”
Chuckling, I lean back against the closed door. My, my, she’s feisty. “I’m going to take that as a yes. You know, now that you mention it, you look kind of familiar… Did I fuck your best friend or something? You girls do tend to travel in packs.”
She crosses her arms over perky breasts I’d pay good money to press my face into. God, I hope Drunk Me took the time to enjoy them properly last night.
“Nope.” She lifts one slender shoulder, then lowers it in a lazy shrug. “I’m afraid the idiot you fucked was me.”
When I don’t respond, opting instead to gape at her like some kind of brainless dumbass, she sighs, and grips the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger.
“We met last school year. I was the naive freshman”—she gestures to herself before jabbing an accusatory finger in my direction—“and you were the fuckboy junior. Ring any bells?”
My stomach churns again at her words, which are all it takes to kill my morning boner. So, Blondie is a Repeat. Shit.
Way to go, Drunk Me, you dick.
I try and fail to swallow down the surge of bile rushing up my throat. Fuck. I think I’m going to be sick.
“I meet a lot of girls,” I counter. “At this point, you sort of blur together. I’m a busy guy. I can’t possibly remember you all.”
Blondie nods, and an empathetic look crosses her face as she takes a step toward me, closing the distance between us with a seductive glint to her eye that has my cock twitching and attempting to rally despite the nausea gripping my stomach that’s giving me flashbacks to the spinning teacups at Disney.
She places warm hands on my shoulders and brings her lips to my ear, our cheeks brushing.
“Well, then maybe this will jog your memory.”
A choked cry tears from my lungs at the shock of the sudden impact of her knee with my crotch.
Darkness washes over my vision, and as I fall to the hardwood floor, instinctively curling into the fetal position, I can just make out Blondie stepping over me like I’m a piece of shit she’s wiped off her shoe.
She fumbles with the doorknob for a moment, then yanks the door open and storms out into the hallway.
She pauses only long enough to look back at where I lie on the ground, cupping my throbbing dick and balls, unable to move from the debilitating cramps spreading into my abdomen.
A menacing smile hitches up one side of her mouth. “Tick the box for this on your bucket list, jackass.”
Groaning, I tilt my head back until it touches the floor as a vague memory flickers to life in my brain. It slowly takes shape in my thoughts, growing clearer, forcing its way past the incoherence of my pain.
My eyes bolt wide as I manage a single word. “Fuck.”
And just like that, I remember where I know Blondie from.