Pretty Boy (The Boys of Apartment 13, #1)

by Brianna Flores

I want him to like me. I want him to stop looking at me like I punched a puppy or something. I want to touch him, want him to touch me. There should be more touching in this whole deal.

His tatted hands––black and grey roses on each one, with a bunch of smaller random tattoos on each finger––would look so good on me. Anywhere. My neck. My arms or legs. My dick. Ugh. They’d look so fucking good on my dick. I just know it.

I’m a one-and-done kind of guy, and Liam here screams clingy. Fucking screams it.

Such a pretty little thing, I think, my lips pressed against his throat. “So soft and sweet,”

“Shh,” I soothe, rubbing my hand in a circular motion on his lower back. “You said easy, Liam. I’m going to take care of this little hole, I promise, but I’m doing this how you need it. So gentle, isn’t that right, beautiful?”

Why am I so fucking boring?

I feel like a slut. But just for him.

My blood feels like it’s been replaced with a McDonald’s Sprite, carbonated and syrupy, as it runs through my veins and lightly tickles my skin.

“Liam, you wanting me does not mean that I want you.” “Oh.” My shoulders slump, and I have to look down so that he can’t see it when my face reflects how much that fucking hurt me. I’m not even surprised. I mean, I didn’t see it coming, but yeah. Makes sense that he doesn’t want me. Nobody really does and that’s something I’m aware of, so why does this bother me? There are so many reasons for him to not want me.

“Yeah, well, that’s what you get for fucking girls.” That makes me smile despite the odd position he has me in, despite how nervous I am. Nervous and naked. “I don’t know. They’re not all bad. They self-lubricate. That’s kind of nice. I wish I could do that.”

“You forgot what? How open and wet you left your hole for me? Just like a good little cunt should be, huh?”

“You’re telling me that you went on a three-day trip and didn’t bring an emotional support dildo? Not even one? Come on, princess. You know better than to lie to me.”

I scoff. “I am not loud. And you said it once.” A smile splits his face, condescending and sticky-sweet. “Liam. You’re a bit of a screamer.” I scoff again, choking a bit on this one. “I am not!” But fuck, am I? My mind jumps to Anna, to how she sounded when she and Sam… Oh. “Whatever you say, princess.” “I’m hanging up on you.”

“Liam, you slut. The food is here. You can ride his dick on days I wasn’t born,” Baby gripes, and I’m about to tell him to fuck off when his hand is pulling at my hair. “Come on!”

“Jesus,” I mutter quietly. “You’re fucking filthy.” “I’m what you made me,” he accuses, still breathing heavily, broad chest moving as his body starts to sink into the couch. Mine, my entire body sings. I’ve made him mine.

“Wha––” My eyes spot a few cans of Diet Coke on the top shelf, and I know Bash doesn’t drink it. I turn around, spot the rest of the room and their drinks––bottles of water or coffee––and decide that he must have bought them for me. He stocked his fridge with my favorite drink. That’s… he’s just so annoying.