by Lauren Rowe
Chapter Eighteen
It’s Wednesday night. Well, actually, the wee hours of Thursday morning. And for the third night in a row, Tyler’s dropping me off in front of my dorm after yet another amazing night together. Tonight’s activities? Well, sex, of course. In a variety of positions and locations in his bedroom. On his desk. On his bed. On the floor. We also watched a little porn. That was kind of odd. And in between all that, we also worked on our Shakespeare project. Fleshed out our Social Psych experiments. Oh, and then I sat on Tyler’s face.
And now, here we are, once again. He’s straddling his motorcycle with the engine off, wearing a T-shirt that reads Maintain Swagger at All Times. I’m wrapped in Tyler’s soft sweatshirt, kissing him goodbye and feeling like I’m floating on a cloud.
Tyler pulls out of our kiss and lets out a long, mournful sigh.
“What?” I ask.
Tyler slides his palm on my cheek and rests his forehead against mine. “What am I gonna do with you?”
“Anything you want. Literally. Please. As soon as possible.”
He laughs. “You’re enjoying your miseducation, are you, eager beaver?”
I want to tell him the word “enjoyment” doesn’t come close to encapsulating what I’m feeling right now. That I feel addicted to having sex with him. To just being with him. To simply gazing at him. I want to tell him he makes me laugh—that I’m not normally this giggly, I swear. I want to tell him he makes me swoon. And flutter. And feel like I can do anything I set my mind to. But I don’t dare say any of it. The last thing I want to do is make Tyler think I’ve morphed into a Stage Five Clinger, especially this fast. “Yes, I’m enjoying my miseducation a lot, professor,” I reply.
Tyler sighs again. “It’s not that I don’t want to see you again before Monday. It’s that I can’t figure out how to make it happen.”
Well, that came out of left field. He said that like we were in the middle of a conversation about seeing each other before Monday—like I’d asked to see him again before then. But, um, unless I’m having a psychotic breakdown, I’m pretty sure I didn’t say a word about that. “You told me right from the start we’d be seeing each other on Monday through Wednesday,” I say. “I have zero expectation of seeing you otherwise.”
“If we were playing a home game this week, I could maybe squeeze in some time to see you on Friday. But this week’s game is in Texas, and we’re traveling on Friday. And Sundays are my only day to rest up, catch up on my reading. My roommates and I go out to breakfast together on Sundays and then hang out and watch football. It’s our thing. Relaxing on Sundays is sacred to me.”
I’m flabbergasted. What on earth have I said or done to make him think he needs to explain all this to me? “Tyler, I’m super busy, too,” I say. “Freshman theater majors are basically slave labor for the mainstage production. I’ve got to build and paint sets and sew costumes for, like, fifteen hours a week. I’ve got a research paper due for History of Theater. A bunch of reading for Anthropology. Plus, I’m going to a couple parties this weekend and—”
“Parties?”
I cock my head to the side. What on earth am I seeing in his face? He looks tense. “Yeah, a dorm party on Friday night. It’s a pizza-and-movie-night thing to help us get to know each other. And then a theater party on Saturday night. I’m going with a couple girls I met in slave labor. Oh, and Clarissa and I are going to Dimitri’s on Saturday afternoon to watch your game with him and his roommates.”
“Who’s throwing the theater party?”
I bite my lip. Is he…jealous? Is that what I’m seeing in his face? “This guy who’s starring in the mainstage production. Hamlet. I guess the guy is the Tyler Caldwell of the theater department. Everyone says he’ll be a huge star one day. One to watch.” I somehow keep myself from smiling. I’m telling him the truth about all of that, actually. No exaggeration whatsoever. But that doesn’t make it any less fun to say in this moment, when Tyler’s so clearly not pleased to hear it.
“Cool,” Tyler says, but his jaw is clenched. He takes a deep breath. Bites his lip. Furrows his brow. He looks like he’s hosting a wrestling match inside his brain. “Hey, will you do me a favor? Text me Saturday morning before my game and wish me luck? My dad and sister always do that for me on game days. It always helps me get my ‘Tyler Caldwell’ going if I know certain people are watching.”
“Your ‘Tyler Caldwell’? You’re referring to yourself in third person now? Not good, babe.”
He smiles. “Just on game days. I think of myself as this kind of Tyler Caldwell machine on game days. So will you text me?”
I try to keep myself from smiling too big at this latest surprise. I’ve been assuming texting would be off-limits on our days off from each other. I figured me texting Tyler would make him feel smothered.
“Sure,” I say casually. “I’ll text ‘Tyler Caldwell’ on game day. No problem.”
“Well, I mean, not just on game day,” he says. “Feel free to text me any day. Check in. Say hi. I mean, don’t light up my phone like crazy or turn into a stalker on me, but don’t be a stranger.”
I cock my head to the side again, trying to understand the bizarreness that is Tyler Caldwell. He looks tortured right now. “I’ll try,” I say. “But don’t be offended if I’m pretty much MIA until Monday. Like I said, I’m going to be pretty busy the next few days.”
Tyler squints at me like he’s trying to decide if I’m pulling his leg or not.
I remain stone-faced. “But feel free to text me if you’re thinking about me or want to say hi. I mean, don’t light up my phone like crazy or anything—like I said, I’m going to be really busy. But, yeah, feel free to text me occasionally to say hello. But don’t stalk me.”
We stare at each other for a long moment.
Tyler grins. “I’ll be sure to text you,” he says. “I mean, not too much. I wouldn’t want you thinking I’m a Stage Five Clinger or anything.”
“God, no. Text me just enough to let me know you’re thinking of me. Not too much to scare me off.” I wink.
“Got it,” he says. He bites his lip again. “Okay, my little beaver. Have fun the next few days discovering the joys of college life. Just promise me you won’t do shots, okay? It’s too damned easy to get shitfaced from shots and make terrible decisions.”
“Thanks, Dad. But I don’t drink. No need to worry about me.”
Tyler breathes a sigh of relief. “Good. Neither do I. At least, not during the season.”
“You said you were drunk the night I met you.”
“Oh, yeah. That was the exception, not the rule for me. Once in a blue moon.” He pulls me to him and nuzzles my nose. “Hey, make sure you get plenty of sleep this weekend, okay? I’ve got all sorts of exciting plans for your hot little body for Monday night, and you’ll need to be ready to go all night.”
I salute him. “I’ll be ready, sir. See you on Monday in Social Psych.”
“See you then. I can’t wait.”
“I’ll be counting the days,” I whisper.
“Hours. Minutes.”
My heart skips a beat. But, somehow, I manage to keep my composure and play it cool. “Okay, well, I’ll see you Monday, Tyler,” I say calmly. “Have a great game on Saturday. I’ll be sure to text ‘Tyler Caldwell’ and wish him luck.” I give him a soft kiss on his cheek. “Thanks for a great three nights this week. I’ll never forget them.”
Chapter Nineteen
I don’t want to be here. I should want to be here, but I don’t. And that pisses me off. This is what I’ve wanted since I got my acceptance letter to UCLA—to be at a loud, crazy theater party on a Saturday night, surrounded by people who spontaneously burst into show tunes while standing around concocting imaginary rap battles between Shakespeare and Arthur Miller. And yet, now that I’m here, all I can think about is how much I’d rather be lying naked with Tyler Caldwell. Well, actually underneath Tyler Caldwell, to be more exact.
Gah! I’m pathetic. Clingy and g
ross and pathetic! How have I become this smitten this fast? I absolutely hate clingy, pathetic, obsessed girls, and now I’m one of them! I need to stop this right now. I need to be present and in the moment and stop yearning to be with someone right now I’ll be seeing a mere two days from now. Get a grip, Zooey!
Thankfully, I haven’t been sexed up and smitten like this nonstop for the past few days. To the contrary, I’ve been so busy with my classes and meeting new people and exploring campus, I’ve hardly thought about Tyler at all. Okay, that’s a lie. I’ve thought about Tyler a ton, but it’s been manageable. Within the zone of reasonableness.
But all that reasonableness flew out the window this afternoon the minute I saw Tyler playing football. I saw him on that field on TV, decked out in his pads and helmet and tight little pants, terrorizing Texas A&M’s running backs and receivers like a freaking warlord, and all hell broke loose inside me. An obsession was born.
Frankly, it’s not my fault I’m feeling this way. I was raised on football. It’s in my blood. And Tyler was magnificent today. He was graceful. Fast. Savage. Powerful. A panther stalking his prey. A freight train on the tackle. Not to mention a bit of a thug at times, too. Which was hot as all get-out. When anyone disrespected or offensively interfered with Tyler—or, God forbid, blocked him in his back—he wasn’t restrained about communicating his displeasure. He bumped the offender’s chest with his. Chewed his opponent out like the dude had just murdered a puppy. At one point, when an opposing player got in Tyler’s face right after administering a questionable block on him, Tyler lurched at the guy so fiercely, Tyler’s teammates had to physically hold him back. Of course, Tyler quickly pulled himself together after that incident and got his head back in the game. But it was too late for me. I’d seen the raw, primal side of Tyler—the forest fire raging inside him—and I liked what I saw. Indeed, I liked it a lot.
Seeing Tyler play football for the first time made me feel exactly the way I did when my grandparents took me to see Wicked for the first time in New York. My very soul burst into flames of desire. And so, I shot off a text to Tyler, right then and there while sitting on Dimitri’s couch, even though I knew Tyler wouldn’t see my message until hours later:
Watching you play football is making this eager beaver’s beaver extremely wet. Can’t wait to see you on Monday. Get ready because I’m going to attack you.
A friend of mine from the theater department says something to me, drawing my attention away from my thoughts of Tyler and back to the party.
“I’m sorry?” I say.
“I’m going to the kitchen for a beer. You want anything?”
“A water would be great,” I reply. “Thanks.”
As my friend departs, I pull out my phone and check to see if Tyler’s replied to my naughty message yet. But, nope. The only texts between Tyler and me are the unanswered trio from me to him from throughout the day. My text from this morning, wishing Tyler luck in the game, my sext about my extremely wet beaver sent to Tyler during the game, and a third text sent from me to Tyler right after the game, congratulating him on the team’s win and his forced fumble.
Crap. I shouldn’t have sent Tyler three unanswered texts in a row. If that doesn’t scream “clingy,” then I don’t know what does. Shoot. I should have continued to play it cool with Tyler, the way I did when he dropped me off the other night. I should have wished him luck in the game, the thing he specifically asked me to do, and left it at that. Rookie mistake, Zooey!
“Hey, aren’t you in my History of Theater class?” a male voice asks, pulling me out of my thoughts. The figure standing before me is a cute guy from my class. David, I think his name is.
“Yeah. Hi. I’m Zooey.”
“Dylan.”
David. Dylan. Close enough.
“Are you a theater major?” I ask. “Or just getting your arts requirement out of the way?”
“Theater major,” he says.
I quickly assess him. He’s cute. Fit. Not a guy I’d peg for a theater major at all. He looks like a classic California surfer dude.
“So have you picked your topic for the research paper yet?” Dylan asks.
“I think so.” I tell him my idea for the paper. In return, he tells me about his research topic, and I feign listening. Honestly, I don’t care. I can’t stop thinking about how I came on too strong with Tyler today. What if Tyler feels smothered and decides he doesn’t want to continue with my miseducation for the full five weeks? Oh, man, just the thought makes me feel panicky.
My phone buzzes, and I pull it out of my pocket like a hot potato as Dylan continues talking. It’s a text from Tyler.
Your beaver still wet for me, eager beaver?
My heartrate spikes.
Yes.
I’m too excited to manage anything wittier than that.
I just landed in LA. Where are you?
“Excuse me,” I blurt to Dylan, cutting him off midsentence. I hold up my phone by way of explanation. “I’ve got to…” But I don’t bother finishing my sentence. I sprint around a corner into a hallway, my chest heaving with excitement, and tap out a quick reply.
At a theater party.
Address?
Why? You want to hang out with a bunch of theater majors?
No. I want to pick you up wherever you are and bring you back to my house and fuck your brains out.
I gasp and look up from my phone, adrenaline flooding me. What the hell happened to the guy who couldn’t possibly see me on any days besides Monday through Wednesday? I’m dying to ask Tyler that very question, but I force myself not to look a gift horse in the mouth. I text the address of the party to Tyler and add lamely…
Thank you.
Tyler replies instantly.
Don’t thank me. I’m not coming to get you for your benefit. I’m coming to get you for mine.
Chapter Twenty
In a frenzy of heat, Tyler pulls off my clothes and guides me onto his kitchen table on my back and begins covering my body with greedy kisses. His lips are on my neck and then my breast. My nipple is in his hungry mouth. His fingers are brushing lightly against my thigh and then across my hipbone. I arch my back with pleasure at the urgency of his touch, his mouth, his lips.
“Your roommates might come in,” I whisper.
“They’re all out getting postgame pussy,” he says. “We’ve got at least a couple hours.”
“Oh, no,” I gasp out. “I hope nobody catches us fucking!” It’s a reference to one of the line items under Phase Two of Tyler’s syllabus, of course. But I’m also being sincere: If any of his roommates were to catch us in the act, I’d die of embarrassment on the spot.
“No one will catch us,” Tyler growls. “But if they did, it’d be hot as fuck.”
He takes off his shirt, revealing not only his usual hotness but also several horrific-looking welts and bruises on his glorious torso—mementos from the bone-crushing hits he administered in today’s game, no doubt.
“Tyler,” I breathe. “You poor thing.”
“A taste of your pussy and the pain will magically disappear.”
He opens my legs forcefully, nothing like the gentle way he’s opened my legs this past week—and my entire body spasms at this new kind of touch. His tongue finds my clit. Again, his urgency is something new. I arch my back, shoving myself into him fervently. He groans loudly, obviously enjoying my enthusiasm, and the sound of his pleasure sends me over the edge. I let out a low moan as my body begins clenching and rippling into his mouth, and he responds with an animalistic sound that sends shivers across my skin.
By the time my climax has subsided, Tyler’s got a condom stretched onto his massive erection. He pulls a chair out from the kitchen table, sits, and guides me to straddle him. For a brief moment, I stand over him, gawking at his hard-on straining toward my entrance. Every fiber of my body wants to lower myself onto it, but my brain is hesitating. That thing looks like it could impale me.
“You’re gonna love it on top,”
he says, reading my mind. “Trust me.”
Well, that’s good enough for me. Because I do trust Tyler. Completely. I position myself over his tip, and he grabs my hips and pushes me down onto him.
I gasp at the sensation of him filling me at this new angle. Oh, man, he’s deeper inside me than he’s ever been. He’s taking my breath away.
“Breathe,” Tyler whispers. “Relax into it.”
I do as I’m told, and my body molds to him comfortably.
“Now ride me,” he commands. He grabs the back of my neck. “Hump me, back and forth. Snap your hips and rub your clit against my dick as you ride me.”
I follow his instructions and, instantly, my body explodes with pleasure. “Oh.”
“Good?”
“Really good.”
I hump him until we’re both in a frenzy.
“I’m gonna slide my thumb up your ass now,” Tyler grits out. His voice is husky with desire. “Keep riding me, cowgirl.”
I never thought the idea of Tyler or anyone sticking a thumb or anything else up my ass would turn me on, but I’ll be damned, I’m enthralled by the idea. I nod.
“Yes?”
“Yes,” I gasp.
His thumb enters me and pushes gently past the thick ring of muscles at my entrance. I gasp at the unexpectedly pleasurable sensation and begin riding him even harder, my body flooded with a new kind of pleasure.
After a moment, Tyler does…something…back there. What the hell is he doing in my ass? And all of a sudden, I’m so freaking turned on, I can’t control my body. I feel like he’s just slammed his foot down onto my body’s gas pedal.
“Holy shit,” Tyler chokes out. “Someone likes ass play.”
I’m wailing with pleasure. Screaming Tyler’s name. Suddenly, I feel like my eyes are about to roll back into my head.
And then…
A supernatural stillness overtakes me. Time stops. My skin erupts with goose bumps. My toes curl.
Heaven.
