The Chase

by Elle Kennedy

  Her jaw falls open at the wicked demand. “Oh my God. You’re in a mood tonight.”

  “Yeah, I am. So for chrissake, stop trying to break up with me. Stop worrying about this job. Just stop and kiss me.”

  When my mouth covers hers, she finally quits arguing and kisses me back with a level of passion that steals my breath. I grind against her, but it’s not enough. My aching cock is straining behind my zipper, and I’m too primed for foreplay.

  “I just need to be inside you,” I whisper in her ear. “I’ll make you feel good later. Promise.”

  “You make me feel good always,” she whispers back, and damned if my heart doesn’t beat a little bit faster.

  Thanks to Summer, I always keep a condom in my pocket these days, no matter the occasion. I don’t bother dropping my trousers. I unzip, pull out my cock, cover it up. Then I yank Summer’s dress up, lift one of her long legs to my hip, and with one deep stroke I bury myself inside her.

  “Oh my God,” she moans.

  The heat of her surrounds me, her inner muscles clamping around my dick as if to trap it in place. My skin is on fire. My heart beats in a sharp staccato against my ribcage. I’m hot and hard and in desperate need of release.

  There’s nothing graceful about the pounding I give her. The wall behind her shakes and the credenza rattles as I fuck her standing up. Her legs snake around my waist and she’s so wet and tight I can’t think straight. I can’t stop the freight train of pleasure that slams into me without warning. I bury my face in the crook of her neck and tremble against her body, coming hard enough to see stars.

  “Fuck yes,” I grunt against her neck.

  My hips keep rocking for several moments before going still. I know she didn’t come, but I already promised I’d make it up to her. My knees start to wobble, but still I don’t move.

  “You feel so good,” I mumble. “I never want to leave you—”

  Ding.

  We both jolt in surprise when the elevator doors slide open. The next thing I hear is, “What the fuck!”

  It’s Dean.

  As in Summer’s brother Dean.

  As in my good friend Dean.

  How is this happening again?

  “How is this happening again!” Summer cries in embarrassment.

  I honestly don’t know. This is the second time someone’s walked in on us while I’ve been lodged deep inside her. But this is a million times worse because it’s her brother. I’m about to turn around when I realize that if I do, Dean will see my dick flapping in the wind and know where it was a second before.

  “I’m gonna kick your ass, Fitzgerald!”

  “Dean,” Summer begs, burying her face against my chest. “Turn around. Please.”

  “Oh my fucking God. Are you having sex?” he thunders. “Right here?!”

  “Dean! Turn around!”

  He has the decency to obey her, but sounds utterly furious as he snarls, “Get your shit together and meet me in the living room. I’m walking past you guys right now, and I’m not looking, okay? Jesus fuck, I’m not looking.”

  My peripheral vision catches him stalking by, holding one hand to his face as a blinder. The moment he disappears, we snap into action. I pull out. Summer takes the condom and ducks into the nearby powder room. A toilet flushes, and then she returns and we reluctantly walk into the living room like two teenagers who just—

  Got caught having sex?

  Yup. Exactly like that.

  When we’re seated on the couch, Dean looms over us, arms crossed. “How long has this been going on?” he asks sternly.

  I choke down a laugh. Hearing Dean (whose nickname in college was ‘Dean the Sex Machine,’ for chrissake) put on a Puritan tone and glare in disapproval is the ultimate irony. But I know this whole big-brother posturing is coming from a place of genuine concern. He adores his sister.

  “A while,” Summer admits.

  “Uh-huh.” He scowls at her. “Oh, and a heads-up? Next time you’re trying to hide something from me, maybe don’t post a pic on social media?”

  She rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t trying to hide it from you.”

  He’s outraged. “So you wanted me to find out on social media?”

  “No, you didn’t even cross my mind. Fitzy and I went to a party. I took a picture of us together. I posted it on Insta. Nowhere in that chain of events did I think about you. Wanna know why? Because it had nothing to do with you.”

  “It has everything to do with me!” he fires back.

  Ah. Now I know where she gets the drama-llama from.

  Dean’s murderous glare whips toward me. “This is my little sister, man!”

  “I know,” I answer calmly. “And I care about her a lot.”

  “Yeah, Dicky,” Summer chimes in. “This isn’t just sex between us, okay? I mean, we are having sex, lots of it, but—”

  Dean drops his head in his hands. “Why, Boogers? Why do you have to say stuff like that?”

  She huffs. “So you’re allowed to talk about your sex life with me, but I can’t talk about mine with you?”

  “I never talk about my sex life with you! It’s a taboo topic! Taboo!” He lets out a groan thick with aggravation. Then he inhales slowly. His gaze shifts between us. “That’s it? You guys are together now?”

  I look at Summer, who fifteen minutes ago was threatening to break up with me. No, not even threatening—she did break up with me. I just wouldn’t allow it.

  Her mouth hitches up in a rueful smile. “We’re together,” she confirms. “Colin is my boyfriend.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. The resignation in her tone is kinda adorable.

  Dean gives a slow nod as he carefully studies my face. “So you’re with my sister? You’re my sister’s boyfriend?” He sounds as resigned as Summer.

  I swallow a sigh, because I know exactly where this is going. “Yes.”

  “Okay, then.” He rakes one hand through his blond hair. “You ready?”

  My sigh slips out. “Let’s get it over with.”

  Summer’s head swivels from me to Dean, confusion swimming in her expression. “What are you guys talking about?”

  Dean gets to his feet. So do I.

  “Sorry, Boogers. It needs to be done.”

  “Needs to be done,” I echo guiltily.

  When Dean cracks the knuckles of his right hand, understanding dawns in his sister’s eyes. “You’re going to hit him?” she exclaims, jumping to her feet. “What the hell! No way!”

  “Fitz knows the code. He didn’t follow it. Therefore…”

  Dean’s right. There is a code. Other teams might have rules about not dating a teammate’s sister or ex or whoever else is off-limits, but our team never strictly adhered to anything like that. Our rule was much simpler—ask before you go there.

  Even if the other guy says hell no, you could probably do what you want anyway, since there’s no way for him to enforce anything. But that’s not what the code is about. It’s about respecting your teammate.

  Dean cracks the knuckles of his left hand.

  “You’re insane. Don’t you touch him, Dicky!”

  She tries to throw herself between us, but I gently move her to the side. “Just let it happen,” I tell her. “It’s really not a big de—”

  The fucker doesn’t throw a punch.

  He knees me in the balls.

  I drop like a stone, stars flashing in my field of vision as the pain twists my gut. I curl over and grip my junk, trying to catch my breath. “Jackass,” I croak, staring accusingly up at Dean.

  “Dicky! Why would you go for his balls! We need them to make your future nieces and nephews!”

  “Nieces and nephews plural? How many kids you planning on having?”

  “A lot!”

  “You’re not allowed to get pregnant until you’re at least thirty. I’m not ready to be an uncle.”

  “Oh my God. Life isn’t always about you!”

  They stand there bickeri
ng as if I’m not bent in half on the marble floor, gasping for air. “I’m not having kids with you,” I wheeze at Summer. “I don’t want to be part of your insane family.”

  “Oh hush, sweetie. It’s too late. I’ve become attached.”

  You’d think it would be impossible to laugh while I’m writhing on the floor in agony.

  But Summer Heyward-Di Laurentis makes everything possible.

  30

  Summer

  My last check-in with Erik Laurie takes place the Monday before the fashion show. I would’ve liked to talk to him after our History of Fashion lecture this morning, but he had a line of students waiting to speak to him. So I killed two hours on campus and then walked over to his office during his official hours.

  I hate meeting in his office. I find he’s always extra smarmy behind closed doors. He’s already winked about four times, made one flirty comment about how I should walk in my own show, and now his hand grazes mine (intentionally, I suspect) as he passes me the schedule for Friday night. It’s the equivalent of a band’s set list, with the names of each student designer and the order in which they’ll be debuting their lines.

  A glance at the schedule reveals that Summer Lovin’ is opening the show. Crap. I would’ve preferred to be somewhere in the middle of the pack. Opening a fashion show is a lot of pressure.

  “I want us to start the night with a bang,” he tells me, winking again. “Your swimsuits will do that, I suspect.”

  Ew. Why does he say things like that? Paired with the sleazy wink, his words make my skin crawl.

  “Whatever you think is best.” I paste on a cheerful smile. “So we’re all set?” I want nothing more than to leave this man’s office.

  He smiles back. “All set.”

  Relief floods my belly. I hop to my feet and pick up my Prada tote. My head is down as I tuck the schedule into my bag, so I don’t see Laurie round his desk. When I lift my head, he’s standing about a foot away from me. Which is a foot too close.

  I hastily take a step back. “Anyway, I’ll see you Wednesday.” We’re having another lecture this week so he can return our midterms and discuss the final paper. “I’m excited to get my midterm—”

  “How long are we going to keep fighting this?”

  I blink, and he’s no longer one foot away. It’s a mere inch now. And his long fingers are caressing my cheek, unleashing a flurry of shivers—and not the good kind. I’m too stunned to push his hand away, and my brain is still stuck on the throaty question he’d voiced.

  Keep fighting this? Is he for real? Does he think his pervy feelings are reciprocated? That we’ve been engaged in some forbidden love affair this entire semester?

  “Summer,” he says thickly, and I don’t miss the flare of passion in his eyes.

  I gulp. Hard. And then I lick my lips, because they’re suddenly so dry that they’re sticking together, and I need them to unstick if I’m going to get any words out.

  Only, Laurie mistakes the lip-licking for a green light. To my horror, his head dips toward me, his mouth nearly landing on mine before I plant both hands on his chest and forcibly push him away.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “I don’t know what you think is going on here, but…” My hands shake wildly as I shove my purse strap over my shoulder. “I have a boyfriend.”

  And even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t kiss you if my life depended on it, you sleazy slime bag.

  Hear, hear! Selena agrees.

  Laurie smooths out the lapel of his pinstriped blazer. “I see,” he says tightly.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry—” Why am I apologizing? I take a breath and remind myself that I have nothing to be sorry for. And that I shouldn’t have to use a boyfriend as an excuse. “But even if my boyfriend wasn’t in the picture, I still wouldn’t be interested. It would be inappropriate—” Stop it, Summer! Again with the excuses? Anger builds in my gut. Why do we do this as women? Why do we feel the need to justify why we don’t like someone? “I’m also not interested in you that way,” I finish firmly. There. No more excuses.

  His jaw clamps tight. His eyes burn with something I can’t decipher. It’s not quite anger. Definitely not hurt or shame.

  I think it might be betrayal.

  “I’m sorry if I led you to believe otherwise,” I add, even though I’m confident I didn’t send him any signals to indicate I wanted him sexually.

  One eyebrow arches slightly. “Are you done?” he asks in a tone cold enough to refreeze the snow that’s recently begun to melt beyond his windows.

  “I guess so,” I mutter.

  “Then I’ll see you in class, Summer.”

  I leave the office, and the door shuts behind me. Not a slam, but he definitely closes it harder than necessary. I stand in the hallway for a moment, stunned by what just happened. I snap out of my trance when my phone vibrates with an incoming text.

  FITZ: At the computer lab working on code. Break time. Wanna meet for lunch?

  ME: Sorry, bb. About to walk into meeting with my advisor. See you at home xoxo

  I’m not sure why I lie to him. I just don’t think I can see him while my stomach continues to burn with humiliation. I’m suddenly questioning every discussion in class, when Laurie would nod in agreement at something I’d said, or praise me for a particular observation. Was it all bullshit? Just him pretending that he found me intelligent and insightful so he could get into my pants?

  Of course he was pretending, you idiot. On what planet does any professor think you’re intelligent?

  I bite my lip to keep from crying. I want to tell my inner critic to fuck off, but I’m too distraught. And there’s no way I’m telling Fitz what happened. He’ll lose his shit if he finds out Laurie tried to kiss me. He’ll probably hunt the professor down and try to throw down, and that won’t help the situation in the slightest.

  It’s over now. Laurie made a move, I turned him down. I’ll tell Fitz about it eventually.

  Right now, I want to forget it ever happened.

  But that’s easier said than done, especially when it becomes apparent that Laurie doesn’t want me to forget.

  When he strides into the lecture hall on Wednesday, his gaze seeks out mine almost immediately, and the ice in his eyes sends a chill up my spine. Then he breaks the eye contact and greets the rest of the class with a broad smile.

  “Guess what day it is, boys and girls!”

  Titters ripple through the room, mostly from the females. In the row ahead of me, Nora whispers something to one of her friends, and they both giggle. She’s actually backed off these past few weeks, her dirty looks and combative remarks slowly abating. I think she’s accepted that I’m Laurie’s “pet” and that no amount of Chanel-bashing is going to make him hate me.

  I should give her a heads-up that all it takes to invite Erik Laurie’s hatred is not allowing him to shove his tongue in your mouth.

  “As you know, I’ll be returning your midterms today.”

  There are excited whispers, intermingled with some groans and worried voices.

  “Don’t worry, for the most part you all turned in some excellent work. Many interesting papers in the bunch. Miss Ridgeway, yours in particular was a fascinating read.”

  Nora’s head snaps up in shock. This is the first time he’s singled her out to praise her. I can’t see her face, but I imagine she’s probably blushing happily.

  “With that said,” he continues, “I did notice that some of you had issues with the basic tenets of essay writing, such as how to correctly cite a source or organize a paragraph. I thought perhaps a tutorial is in order.”

  He snaps open his briefcase and removes a laptop that he sets up on the table near his lecture podium. “Now, I’ve found that sometimes in order to teach a student how to do something correctly, it’s useful to show them what an incorrect version looks like. So we’re going to dissect two papers, each of which earned a D-minus, and we’re going to examine why that was.” He winks. “Don’t worry, these are midterms fro
m a fashion history course I taught at UCLA a couple of years ago. I tend to reuse the same essay topics. I blame laziness.”

  That gets him more laughs.

  He bends over his computer. “Let’s start with this paper on the evolution of New York fashion.”

  I freeze.

  That’s got to be a coincidence, right? He just said he tends to assign the same topics. Anxiety roils in my stomach as I wait for the essay to appear on the projection screen.

  And then it does, and the sick feeling shoots up to my throat, and I almost choke on bile.

  A cover page fills the screen for about half a second before Laurie quickly scrolls to the first page.

  But half a second is all it takes for me to make out my name on the cover sheet. The date underneath clearly indicates it was written and submitted this semester. UCLA, my ass.

  And I’m not the only one who caught it. Ben, my bushy-eyebrowed row-mate, shoots me a weird look. Nora twists around to frown at me before facing the front again.

  “As you can see, the student had many issues with basic essay structure. Take a look at her thesis—she’s very clearly told us what she plans to discuss in the essay and in what order. And yet the paragraph that follows doesn’t follow this blueprint…”

  And on and on he drones, picking apart the paper I’d spent the last two months slaving over. Crying over. My cheeks get hotter and hotter with each passing second. My stomach gets queasier and queasier. My classmates saw my name on that cover page. Or at least most of them did. They know I wrote it. Laurie did this on purpose, and he’s winking and smirking and having a frigging ball down there as he dissects my work.

  “As you can see, the student had all the bones, but none of the meat, if you will.”

  Nora snickers. Ben gives me a sympathetic look.

  I desperately try not to cry. I glue my gaze to my hands, which are clasped in my lap. I don’t want Laurie to know how close I am to tears. I refuse to let him see that his humiliation ploy worked.