Page 8 of Grave Obsession
“Is my dirty little toy ready to play?” a deep, familiar voice whispers immediately behind me.
Goosebumps prickle over my skin, and my heart races uncontrollably. Spinning around, I find myself eye-to-eye with a very startled frat pledge. My eyes dart at the other freshmen standing beside him, stopping abruptly when I see a guy pushing through the crowd.
Those eyes…
My brows furrow in disbelief, and I exhale, “Grave?”
His blue-gray orbs glimmer in the moonlight as he stares back at me, the devilish glint only growing with every second of our locked gaze. Shoving my way through the sea of people, I try to follow him.
“Grave!” I shout after him, but the roaring music drowns out my cries.
Standing in the middle of the makeshift dance floor, I spin in circles, trying to find him. But he’s not there. I haven’t had a sip of alcohol yet, so there’s no way I’m drunk or had something slipped into my drink.
It was him…
It has to be.
“You look good, baby,” a flirtatious voice softly whispers in my ear as his hands slide down the bare skin of my arms. His words and touch cause the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end. I don’t need to turn around to know who it is.
Jackson.
His hands continue traveling down my body, firmly gripping my hips and pulling me backward into him. Grinding against my ass, he marvels, “You fucking feel good too.”
“Pretty sure your girlfriend won’t appreciate you rubbing all up on me,” I snarl and try to push away from him.
He holds fast, and I’m suddenly acutely aware that he is growing hard as he continues to slide his hips against my ass. Using his face to push my hair out of the way, he nuzzles his lips against my neck. “She isn’t here. You’re here. And I’ve missed you,” He shares, his breath reeking of booze.
“Missed me?” I scoff, finally managing to pull myself away from his tight hold. Spinning around, I stare up at him and hiss, “You haven’t talked to me in three years. Not a word since you dumped me because I was too fat for a frat boy to be dating.”
“You still aren’t good enough to date, baby.” His tone matches the disgust in his gaze, raking over my curves. “I’m just looking for some pussy. And if memory serves me correctly, you always were a good fuck.”
There’s the Jackson I know…
How the fuck did I manage to date this asshole most of my freshman year?
I dealt with his comments about my body for months. His words might have well been tattooed on my skin because I carried them long after we broke up. It wasn’t until I started camming and men—like Grave—talked about worshipping my body that I started to grow more confident in my skin.
“Jackson.” My tone is sultry as I gaze up at him, teasingly sliding my fingertips down the front of his shirt until I grip the waistband of his pants. Dipping my fingertips beneath them, I press onto my toes and lean close. “I wish I could say the same about you.”
He shoves me away with a snarl, “You always were afuckingbitch. I was going to give you a pity fuck, but you can go fuck yourself.”
“At least I’ll get off,” I smirk as I walk away.
Fuck! That felt good!
CHAPTER NINE
GRAVE
Watching that preppy, frat asshole put his hands all overmygirl has my blood boiling and me seeing red. Pushing through the people dancing around them—not caring if Kayce sees me—I am seconds from wrapping my arms around his throat and breaking his fucking neck. The only thing that stops me from ending him in the middle of the party is watching Kayce storm off with a smug smile spread across her face before I get to him.
Making her way through the crowd, she walks with an air of confidence that I have never seen in her. She holds her head high and travels with purpose, causing her lightly curled auburn locks to bounce across her back with every sass-filled step. The snug, short black dress resting high on her thighs accentuates the mouthwatering sway of her hips. While she is always gorgeous, at this moment, she is fucking breathtaking.
How this piece of shit ever managed to make her doubt herself will continue to befuddle me. Throwing my armover Jackson’s shoulder, pretending to commiserate with him, I exclaim, “What abitch!”
“She always was a mouthy fucking whore,” he snarks—unknowingly further digging his own grave—as he takes the beer I offer him. He chugs the full plastic cup. Letting out an obnoxious burp, he crumples it in his hand and throws it to the ground, slurring, “There’s plenty of drunk girls at this party to fuck.”
“There sure fucking is.” I playfully tug at his shoulder, pretending to eye the surrounding girls. Some of them are pretty, but nothing like Kayce.