A Jerkwad doesn't do anything but get on your nerves. They don't stop glaring. They don't smile if it's not mocking. They don't do anything but look hot and act like their name.
That's why it's a sin To Kiss a JERKWAD.
×××
I yawned and leaned in, o...
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—At the time Cain had been cursed, Lilith retired to the Underworld, leaving Theon to fend for himself.
[ALEX]
TRISTAN PAYNEIS a slut.
There, I said it.
This boy knew he looked good and he wanted you to know that he knows that you know how good he looks.
Unfair; genetics were so unfair.
Why is it that a jerk like him gets to exist freely with a face and body like that, and everyone else has to just be okay with looking like some kind of Cronenberg monster?
It's not like I was paying close attention to him or anything, but I see him every morning when he leaves at 6 AM to go for a jog in the woods. The path he takes into the trees went right through the garden which my bedroom was fortunate enough to overlook and the best part was, Tristan Payne always jogged shirtless.
Actually, he did everything shirtless.
Because he's a total slut.
Whenever Emette's dad and the men I started calling hounds, (because of their somewhat canine appearance) arrived, they would all take turns sparring on the front lawn and then I could really see Tristan's defined muscles in action.
Around breakfast was the time he usually got done showering and he'd only have a towel draped over his dark hair and his shorts would hang off his hips in that way, drawing my gaze to his V line and it would take all my willpower to not drool right into my Cocoa puffs.
I don't know when I started hearing the call of the loins, I don't know when I even started listening, but good God, I'd been enlightened. I was blind before, though now that my eyes had been forced open, there wasn't a single doubt— I liked what I was seeing.
Oh, if only I could curl up against those gorgeous abdominal muscles and press my fingers into his sexy back dimples.
I'd try to ignore him but he made it impossible.
Maybe if I'd grown up with him and watched him go through that awkward stage of puberty where boys started looking like orangutans because their hands and arms were growing faster than their bodies, or maybe even the stage where their voices would go up and down in pitch like an FM radio on search (or Mariah Carey's 2014 Rockerfeller performance).
It would've been much easier to look past his attractiveness if we'd met under those circumstances, but suddenly gaining a stepbrother who looked like a mix of Andy Black and Jake Sully's Avatar was not good for my whoremones at all.
Tristan was at least a foot taller than me too, even taller than Jackson himself, so whenever he would pass me in the hallways at school or at home, he was damn near impossible to ignore and my entire body would instantly tense up in a strangely foreign way, like I was preparing for an attack.
