Page 44 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
But like, holy fuckballs. Who even is this guy?! He looks like a goddamn model.
My body flushes hot from head to toe, and my thigh muscles clench together involuntarily. Damn it. I’m not supposed to be attracted to the dudes I’m robbing. This has never happened to me before. Also, I’ve never seen someone quite so pretty as this. Aristocratic, elegant, poised. All of those things.
His eyes are a pale green, like sea glass, smoothed out by the ocean waves and left to shimmer on a sandy shore. His hair is a dirty blond, cut short but left slightly longer on the top, and his mouth … it’s a thin, flat line, as if he’s annoyed at the situation beyond anything else.
“Take whatever you want,” he says, his voice as cold and empty as his eyes. “Just don’t touch me, and we won’t have a problem.”
Don’t touch me, huh? Not the first time I’ve heard that recently.
But damn if I don’t want to touch all over him, to see if his dick is the same flawless alabaster as his face, if what’s in his pants matches his arrogance. I sense BDE (big dick energy) surrounding this insouciant lord in the Lambo.
The guy keeps his hands on the steering wheel, and I can’t help but notice that he’s wearing white gloves. The color is as pristine and perfect as Bohnes’ hair, untouched by dirt or grime. I can smell the new car scent from here, too. Also, he’s wearing an Oak Valley Prep uniform which is telling. Charcoal gray jacket with the academy’s logo embroidered on the pocket, a blue tie, matching gray slacks.
“What have you got for me?” I query, holding out a palm for his wallet. In a world where everyone else seems to pay with cards or mobile devices, rich guys like this always carry cash. I assume it’s because they’re always up to no good. Either way, we can make this work. We have methods for dealing with credit cards, too.
“There’s money in my dash,” the guy says carefully, nodding his chin in that direction. “Take it. There’s a gun in there, too. If you’ll carefully open the passenger side door to remove the items, I won’t move.”
He stays right where he is, staring out the front windshield as I narrow my eyes at him. The hell is this piece of shit up to? He doesn’t look at me again, waiting patiently for this moment to be over.
“Nisha,” I say, but she’s already on it, opening the door and digging through the dash. The driver of the car swallows strangely, beads of sweat appearing on his forehead as his eyes flick over, watching my friend hunt through his things. It’s not an entirely unsurprising reaction, but it seems a bit misdirected, as if the act of her touching his stuff is worse than the idea of being robbed at gunpoint or the fact that all four of his tires are now completely blown out.
The headlights of a passing car sweep over us, but as they do, I lower the weapon and lean in, like I’m just here to help. Nobody stops. Why would they? Anyway, if the cops get sent our way, we’ll hear it on the scanner. I’m not concerned.
The closer I come to the guy, the more nervous he gets, his attention shifting between me and Nisha.
“Found it,” she grunts, tossing items onto the passenger seat and making the blond hottie cringe. As promised, there’s a revolver there that Nisha tucks into her waistband, opening an envelope full of cash and, after licking her thumb, riffling through it.
That act, the act of her licking her thumb, is what really sets him off. I can visibly see the driver shudder, and he releases a slow, controlled exhale.
“Is there something wrong with you?” I ask, almost conversationally, but with the slightest hint of violence in my voice. I’m not afraid to take things to the next level. This guy wouldn’t be the first target I’ve ever pistol-whipped.
“Just take the money and go,” he hisses, pale green eyes still focused out the front windshield. “And for God’s sake, stop breathing on me.”
That gives me pause right there. I continue to lean in toward him, until my lips are nearly pressed to the side of his smooth-shaven cheek. I’m tempted to push the envelope—pun intended—even further and kiss his mouth.
It’s full and plump and pouty, too.
I can imagine how it would taste: sweet, like the faint scent of vanilla and ivory soap that permeates the car. Maybe a little sterile, too. I’d like to taint this guy’s perfect mouth, just to see him shudder in revulsion. Does that make me sick?
“Where’s your wallet?” Nisha asks, and the guy goes stiff. Before he can react, I’m reaching into the car, my right hand going for his ass—and the pocket where these idiots always keep their wallet—while my left keeps hold of the pistol.
