Read Bradley's Whistle (P.ornstars of Romance #2) for Free Online

roamed over my body, too. It didn’t really bother me; men had always found my body desirable. I was used to the stares, and who was I to criticize when I had been openly gawking at him moments before.
    “I do. I’ll be back in an hour,” Bradley mumbled as he moved toward the front door.
    “Oh, oh, oh, give me two minutes. I’ll join you. I love to run, but I didn’t want to go off on my own. I’d get lost. I’m not real good with directions,” I called out as I ran down the hall and into his bedroom.
    His sheets were rumpled, the quilt shoved to the bottom of the bed. It looked comfy and lonely at the same time. No one should have such a deliciously big, soft bed with no one to share it with. Or maybe he did have someone to share it with. Just because Bradley didn’t live with someone didn’t mean he didn’t have a girlfriend. He had been dating my co-worker, Leah, back in the States, but that was six months ago. A handsome man like Bradley Emerson would surely have moved on.
    I pulled on a pair of ankle socks; they didn’t match, but, meh. I slipped on my shoes and ran back into the living room where Bradley stood in the exact same place I had left him. “Ready!” I sang. He didn’t move, his gaze lingering on my body. Okay, his staring was starting to border on creepy now. I glanced down in an attempt to figure out what had him gaping. “What’s wrong?”
    “That’s what you’re going to wear?” he asked a little gruffly.
    I was wearing my favorite hot pink, lyrca running shorts paired with a navy lycra sports bra that crisscrossed in the back. Admittedly, I purchased it from Victoria’s Secret, but it was most definitely exercise wear; I had the one hundred and twenty-five dollar receipt at home to prove it. It was a cute outfit that I jogged in often.
    “Ummm, yeah?” I replied.
    Bradley ran a hand over his face and groaned. “You can’t wear that; people here don’t dress like that to run.”
    “What the hell do they wear then?” I asked, dumbfounded.
    “Normal clothes, normal shorts that cover your ass.” His eyes landed on my breasts. “A shirt.” I rolled my eyes and started walking towards the doorway. “I’m serious, Wiska, every man within a five mile radius will be staring at your ass, and every woman will be looking at you like you are some sort of street walker.”
    My entire body tensed at his words, not because he suggested people might stare, but the suggestion that I was a whore. The media had painted me as some sort of jezebel, and now Bradley was suggesting my clothing made me one, too.
    “You know what, Bradley,” I snapped, “I don’t care what people think. I’m used to men staring, and as long as they keep their grubby, pervy hands to themselves, I could care less, and those people who assume I sell my body just because I wear an outfit that doesn’t conform to their idea of normal,” I huffed out a breath, “well, they can bite me.” I stormed out of the apartment, and surprisingly, Bradley followed. “Hello, Floyd,” I said as I approached the old man working the elevator. It kind of angered me that he was working like this. At his age, he should be happily retired and puttering around a cute little garden, not slaving over spoiled, uptight assholes.
    “Miss,” Floyd said with a big smile. His eyes stayed on my face the entire time, and there was no judgement in his expression.
    I gave Bradley a smug smile, and he shook his head with a smirk.
    “Sir,” Floyd’s attention turned to Bradley.
    “Sir?” I balked loudly.
    “Hey.” Bradley held his hands up defensively. “Don’t judge. Every day, for nearly two years now, I’ve tried to get him to call me just plain old Emerson, but he refuses.”
    “Probably because people don’t go around calling each other by their last names. It’s just weird,” I muttered. I didn’t miss the fact that Floyd’s smile grew wider. When the elevator arrived, we all stepped in. “Do you have a problem with