The Mistake

by Elle Kennedy

  My best friend can’t sit still anymore. She hops off the bed and bounces around on the balls of her feet. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe I wasn’t here to witness it.”

  “You’re into voyeurism now?” I ask dryly.

  “If I’m voyeur’ing John Logan? Um, yeah. I’d watch the two of you make out for hours.” She gasps suddenly. “Oh my God, text him right now and ask him to send you a dick pic!”

  “What? No!”

  “Aw, come on, he’ll probably be really flattered and—” Another gasp. “No, text him to invite him over tonight! And tell him to bring Dean.”

  I hate to rain on her parade, but considering the way Logan rushed off last night, I have no choice but to dump a bucket of cold water on Ramona’s joy. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” I confess. “I didn’t get his number.”

  “What?” She looks devastated. “What is wrong with you? Did you at least give him yours?”

  I shake my head. “He didn’t have his phone on him, and there wasn’t an opportunity for me to give him my number.”

  Ramona goes quiet for a moment. Sharp brown eyes focus on my face, narrowing, probing, as if she’s trying to telepathically tunnel into my brain.

  I fidget self-consciously. “What?”

  “Be honest,” she says. “Was he actually here?”

  Shock slams into me. “Are you kidding?” When she offers a tiny shrug, my shock turns to horror. “Why would I make that up?”

  “I don’t know…” She tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear, her discomfort obvious. “It’s just…you know, he’s older, and hot, and you didn’t exchange numbers…”

  “So that means I’m lying?” I shoot to my feet, beyond insulted.

  “No, of course not.” She starts to backpedal, but it’s too late. I’m already pissed off and heading for the door. “Where are you going?” she wails from behind me. “Aw, come on, Gracie. I believe you. You don’t have to storm out.”

  “I’m not storming out.” I toss her a cool look over my shoulder, then grab my purse. “I’m meeting my dad in fifteen minutes. I really do have to go.”

  “Really?” she says skeptically.

  “Yes.” I have to force myself not to scowl at her. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not super mad at you right now.”

  She darts over and throws her arms around me before I can stop her, squeezing tight enough to impede the airflow to my lungs. It’s one of her trademark Forgive Me hugs, which I’ve been on the receiving end of more times than I can count.

  “Please don’t be mad at me,” she begs. “I’m sorry I asked that. I know you wouldn’t make it up, and when you get back, I want to hear all the details, okay?”

  “Yeah…okay,” I mutter, not because I mean it, but because I want to get out of here before I smack her in the face.

  She pulls back, relief etched into her features. “Awesome. Then I’ll see you lat—”

  I’m out the door before she can finish that sentence.

  6

  Grace

  My dad hasn’t arrived yet when I walk into the Coffee Hut, so I order a green tea at the counter and find us two comfy chairs in the corner of the room. It’s Saturday morning, and the coffeehouse is deserted. I have a feeling most people are probably nursing hangovers from Friday night.

  As I settle on the plush armchair, the bell over the door chimes and my father enters the room. He’s wearing his trademark brown blazer and starched khaki pants, an outfit my mom refers to as his “serious professor” look.

  “Hi, honey,” he greets me. “Let me grab a coffee.”

  A minute later, he joins me in the corner, looking more harried than usual. “I’m sorry I’m late. I stopped by the office to pick up some papers and got cornered by a student. She wanted to discuss her term paper.”

  “It’s okay. I just got here.” I pop open the lid of my cup and steam rises up to my face. I blow on the hot liquid for a moment, then take a quick sip. “How was your week?”

  “Chaotic. I was concerned with the quality of the papers that were being turned in, so I extended office hours for the students who had questions about the exam. I’ve been on campus until ten o’clock every night.”

  I frown. “You know you have a TA, right? Can’t he help out?”

  “He does, but you know I enjoy interacting with my students.”

  Yep, I do know that, and I’m sure that’s why all his students love him so much. Dad teaches graduate-level molecular biology at Briar, a course you wouldn’t think would be all that popular, and yet there’s actually a waiting list to get into his class. I’ve sat in on a few of his lectures over the years, and I have to admit, he does have a way of making the ridiculously boring material seem interesting.

  Dad sips his coffee, eyeing me over the rim. “So, I made reservations at Ferro’s for Friday at six-thirty. Does that work for the birthday girl?”

  I roll my eyes. I am so not a birthday person. I prefer low-key celebrations, or—in a perfect world—no celebrations at all, but my mom is a birthday fiend. Surprise parties, gag gifts, forcing waiters to sing in restaurants…she’s all about inflicting the greatest amount of torture possible. I think she gets a kick out of embarrassing her only daughter. But since she moved to Paris three years ago, I haven’t been able to spend my birthday with her, so she’s recruited my dad into taking over humiliation duties.

  “The birthday girl will only agree to go if you can promise nobody will sing to her.”

  He blanches. “Lord, do you think I want to sit through that? No way, honey. We’ll have a nice, quiet dinner, and when you talk to your mom about it afterward, you can tell her a mariachi band came over to the table and sang for you.”

  “Deal.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay that we’re not having dinner on your actual birthday? If you want to celebrate on Wednesday night, I can cancel office hours.”

  “Friday is fine,” I assure him.

  “All right, then it’s a date. Oh, and I spoke to your mom again last night,” he adds. “She asked if you’ve reconsidered changing your flight to May. She’d love to see you for three months instead of two.”

  I hesitate. I’m excited to visit Mom this summer, but for three months? Even two is pushing it—that’s why I insisted on coming back the first week of August, even though the semester doesn’t start until the end of the month. Don’t get me wrong, I adore my mother. She’s fun and spontaneous, and so bubbly and encouraging it’s like having your own personal cheerleader following you around waving her pom-poms. But she’s also…exhausting. She’s a little girl in a grown woman’s body, acting on her every whim without stopping to consider the consequences.

  “Let me think about it,” I answer. “I need to decide if I have the energy to keep up with her.”

  Dad chuckles. “Well, we both know the answer to that is no. Nobody has the energy to keep up with your mom, honey.”

  He certainly hadn’t, but luckily, their divorce had been one hundred percent amicable. I think when Mom told him she wanted out, Dad was more relieved than upset. And when she decided to move to Paris in order to “find herself” and “reconnect with her art”, he’d been nothing but supportive.

  “I’ll let you know this weekend, okay?” I reach for my tea, but my hand freezes when the bell rings again.

  A dark-haired guy in a Briar hockey jacket strolls in, and for one heart-stopping moment, I think it’s Logan.

  But nope. It’s someone else. Shorter, bulkier, and not as devastatingly gorgeous.

  Disappointment flutters through me, but I force it away. Even if Logan had walked through that door, what would I really expect to happen? He’d come over and kiss me? Ask me out?

  Riiiight. I made the guy come last night and he didn’t even stick around long enough to kiss me goodbye. So yeah, I have to face the facts: I’m just another girl on a long list of John Logan’s conquests.

  And honestly? I’m totally cool with that. As underwhelming as it may have
been, getting, um…conquered by Logan is hands-down the highlight of my freshman year.

  *

  Logan

  “Has a girl ever faked an orgasm with you?” I blurt out. It’s eight o’clock on Monday morning, and I nervously tap my fingers on the kitchen counter as I look at my roommate.

  Dean, who was on his way to the fridge, stops in his tracks so abruptly that if he’d been on skates, I would be wiping ice shavings off my face right now.

  “I’m sorry, didn’t hear you. What was that?”

  His expression is the epitome of innocence, so it’s not until after I repeat myself that I realize I’m being played. Dean doubles over, honest-to-God tears streaming down his cheeks as he shudders with laughter.

  “I totally heard you the first time,” he croaks. “I just wanted to hear you ask it again…oh shit…I think I might piss myself…” Another howl rips out of his throat. “You tapped a girl and she faked it?”

  I clench my teeth so hard my molars hurt. What on earth had made me think confiding in Dean was a good idea?

  “No,” I mutter.

  He’s still laughing like a maniac. “How do you know she faked it? Did she tell you afterward? Oh God, please say yes!”

  I stare into my coffee cup. “She didn’t tell me anything. I just got a feeling, okay?”

  Dean opens the fridge and grabs a carton of OJ, still chuckling to himself. “This is priceless. Big stud on campus couldn’t make a girl come. You’ve officially given me enough ammo to rag on you for years.”

  Yup, I sure did. Nobody ever said I was smart.

  And why the hell am I even still obsessing about this? All weekend I’ve fought the temptation to see Grace. I forced myself to study for exams. I played a six-hour Ice Pro marathon with Tuck. I even cleaned my room and did laundry.

  And then I opened my eyes this morning and couldn’t take it anymore.

  I’ve got moves, damn it. Women know that when they hook up with John Logan, they’re going to leave with a satisfied smile on their faces, and it drives me crazy thinking that Grace might’ve been unsatisfied. It’s been gnawing at me for days. Days, damn it.

  You know what? Screw it. I might not have her number, but I know where she lives, and there’s no way I’ll be able to concentrate on a damn thing today until I’ve rectified this unholy situation.

  Leaving a girl wanting isn’t just embarrassing. It’s unacceptable.

  Thirty minutes later, I’m standing in front of Grace’s door.

  Showing up at a girl’s dorm at eight-thirty in the morning might not be the best way to score points, but since my stupid ego refuses to let me walk away, I take a breath and tap my fist on the door.

  Grace opens it a second later.

  Wearing nothing but a bathrobe.

  Her eyes widen when she sees me, her voice coming out in a squeak. “Hi.”

  Swallowing, I do my best not to dwell on the fact that she’s probably naked under that robe. The white terrycloth hangs to her knees, the belt secured tightly around her waist, but the top parts slightly, giving me a candid view of her cleavage.

  “Hi.” My voice sounds gravelly, so I clear my throat. “Can I come in?”

  “Um. Sure.”

  She closes the door behind me, then turns around, an uneasy smile playing on her lips. “I don’t have much time. My last psych seminar is in an hour, so I need to get dressed and hike all the way across campus.”

  “That’s okay. I don’t have a lot of time either. Study group in thirty minutes.” I shove my hands in my pockets to stop from fidgeting. I’m nervous and I have no idea why. I’ve never had a problem talking to chicks before.

  “What’s up?” She nonchalantly grasps the front of her robe, as if she’s realized it’s dangerously close to gaping open.

  “You didn’t finish, did you?” The question flies out before I can stop it.

  “Finish what—” She halts, a flush rising in her cheeks as understanding dawns. “Oh. You mean…?”

  I grit my teeth and nod.

  “Well…no,” she confesses. “I didn’t.”

  I struggle to keep my mouth in a neutral, non-frown position. “Why’d you tell me you did?”

  “I don’t know.” She sighs. “You were already done. And I guess I didn’t want to damage your ego or anything. I was reading this article the other day about how men are sensitive about that kind of stuff. How it triggers feelings of inadequacy if a woman doesn’t reach orgasm. But did you know that something like ten percent of women don’t have an orgasm during sexual activity? So going by that statistic, men really shouldn’t feel like—”

  “You’re doing that babbling thing again.”

  Her expression is sheepish. “Sorry.”

  “I don’t mind it. I’m glad you’re worried about my ego.” I grin at her. “You should be.”

  She looks startled. “Why?”

  “Because I’ve been thinking non-stop about how I didn’t make you come last time.” I shrug. “And how badly I want to change that.”

  7

  Logan

  Grace’s cheeks go from lily-white to pale-pink in a matter of seconds. She’s got the most expressive face I’ve ever seen, so quick to display everything she’s feeling. I appreciate how easy it is to read her, otherwise her prolonged silence to my last remark might’ve worried me. But the glimmer of intrigue in her eyes confirms I haven’t scared her off.

  “Really?” She wrinkles her forehead.

  “Yeah.” My lips curve in a small smile as I take a step toward her. “So are you gonna let me or what?”

  Alarm flits across her face. “Let you do what?”

  “Make you come.”

  I’m gratified to see the unease in her expression melt into molten hot excitement. Oh yeah, I’m not scaring her at all. She’s turned on.

  “Um…” She lets out a strangled laugh. “This is the first time a guy has ever shown up at my door asking me that. You realize how frickin’ crazy that sounds, right?”

  “You want to talk crazy? I’ve spent the whole fucking weekend fantasizing about doing this.” Frustration rises in my chest. “I’m not usually such an asshole, okay? I might fuck around, but I always make sure the women I’m with have a good time.”

  She sighs. “I did have a good time.”

  “You would’ve had a better time if I didn’t blow my load and take off.”

  Now she laughs again, which makes me sigh. “You’re killing me here, gorgeous. I’m talking about how much I want to give you a screaming orgasm, and you’re laughing at me?” I grin. “Did we not just establish that my ego is fragile?”

  Her lips continue to twitch. “I thought you had to go,” she reminds me.

  “It takes ten minutes to get to the library from here. Which means I have twenty minutes.” My smile becomes downright devilish. “If I can’t make you come in twenty minutes, then I’m definitely doing something wrong.”

  Grace toys with a strand of wet, dark hair, visibly nervous. My gaze lowers to her lips, which glisten as her tongue darts out to moisten them. The urge to kiss her hums in my blood, and the anticipation hanging in the air is thick enough to tighten my throat.

  I take another step. “So?”

  “Um…” Her breath shudders out in a rush. “Sure. If you want to.”

  A laugh pops out. “Fuck yeah I want to. But do you want it?”

  “Y-yes.” She clears her throat. “Yes.”

  I move closer and her eyes flare again. She wants me. I want her too, but I order my rapidly hardening cock to behave. This ain’t about us, bro. Only her.

  My dick twitches in response, but there’s no way it’s getting any action right now. If this was any other girl, I might suggest a quickie, but unless my V-dar is on the fritz, then Grace is most definitely a virgin. Not only do I not have that kind of time on my hands right now, but I’m also not particularly eager to take on the responsibility of being her first.

  But this…I reach for the sash of her robe and
give it a slow tug…this I’m more than capable of doing.

  And I plan on doing it right this time.

  I don’t part the robe fully. I just slip one hand through the gap in the terrycloth and gently stroke the bare flesh of her hip. She shivers the moment I touch her. Her light brown eyes fix intently on my face, and when my palm conducts another featherlight sweep, she moans softly and moves in closer.

  “Get on the bed,” I rasp, gently nudging her backward.

  She sits on the edge of the mattress, but doesn’t lie back. Her gaze stays focused on me, as if she’s waiting for me to issue another order.

  Exhaling a breath, I kneel in front of her and give the robe one final tug, pushing it off her shoulders. The oxygen I’d just released sucks right back into my lungs. Holy fuck. Her naked body makes my cock ache. She’s slender, with tiny hips, long, smooth legs, and small-ish tits with the prettiest pink nipples. Saliva floods my mouth as I lean in to flick my tongue over one nipple. I can’t help myself. I need to taste her.

  “Oh fuck,” I groan against the distended bud, before sucking it between my lips.

  Grace whimpers, arching her back and pushing her breast deeper into my mouth. Jesus, I want to suck and play with her tits all day long. I’ve always been a boob man, and the thought of staying right here in this position for all of eternity sends a sizzle of heat to the tip of my cock. But the reckless rocking of Grace’s hips reminds me that time is of the essence. And goddamn, I’m not leaving until I make her come.

  I release her nipple with a wet sound and place my hands on her thighs. They tremble beneath my fingers, making me chuckle. “You okay?”

  She nods wordlessly.

  Satisfied that she’s still on board, I spread her legs wider, slide lower to the floor, and bring my mouth to her pussy.

  Instant hard-on.

  Fuck, I love going down on a girl. The first time I did it I was fifteen, and it turned me on so frickin’ much I came in my pants. I’m not so quick on the trigger anymore, but I can’t deny that the feel of Grace’s slick, warm pussy beneath my tongue gets my dick harder than nobody’s business.