Right of First Refusal (Radleigh University #2)

by Dahlia Adler

  No. I’m not sure about a single fucking thing. “It’s fine. I don’t have another game until Wednesday.”

  He shrugs and steers me off to the kitchen, and I hate myself more with every step. Then we get inside and of course, there’s the icing on the cake—Mase standing there, red plastic cup in hand, flirting with a gorgeous girl I don’t recognize. Awesome. I freeze in place, trying to decide whether to go ahead and grab a drink like he isn’t there or turn around and drag Scott back out to the floor, but don’t have time to decide before he spots me.

  I wait for him to say my name in that stupid deep, velvety voice of his, but it doesn’t come. He just nods and then his gaze drifts over my outfit of skintight jeans and a tank top that reveals an inch of the abs I work my ass off for. Then he turns back to the other girl without a word, and I have never wished I could disappear so badly in my life.

  “Forget the drink,” I say to Scott, knowing that now a beer would definitely be a crutch, and exactly the kind I need to avoid. “Let’s go dance.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” I hate dancing, but I’m at a party and I don’t want to drink, talk, or smoke, so I’m pretty low on options. At least the Omega house has a foosball table and a dartboard; Sig Psi’s idea of recreation starts and ends with a beer luge. “Come on.”

  We go out to where a bunch of couples are grinding up on each other and push our way in. If I were more of a dancer, this would be where I’d let my brain drift off while the music carries me, but that isn’t how my body operates; it runs on two settings—calculated, and reactive instinct—and dancing with Scott Madden doesn’t trigger either of those things.

  “Mind if I cut in?”

  Dark. Velvety.

  Speaking of triggers.

  I’m pretty sure Scott wants to say no, but something (everything?) about Mase has a way of getting guys to give him whatever he wants. Scott steps back without a word, and Mase wraps a hand around my waist from behind like we’d been partners all night and he’d just returned from getting a drink.

  I don’t say anything, and neither does he.

  Whereas Scott’s body feels like a stranger’s, Mase has no problem triggering my reactive instinct. I know exactly how our bodies line up, know how to move with his. His long fingers splay on my waist, including the bare inch of skin, and my arm rises up to curl around his neck without a second thought. He may not be on the team anymore but every inch of his body from the biceps grazing mine to the chest pressing against my back is rock-solid muscle.

  Fuck, he feels so good, and even though this is so wrong, I couldn’t pry myself out of his grip if I wanted to. Instead, I melt back against him, rolling my hips to the music, shamelessly grinding against the fly of his jeans. He’s every bit as shameless about tightening his grip, his fingers digging into my skin as he grinds back, and fuck he is getting so hard I can feel the entire outline of his sizable cock against my ass.

  My clothing feels too tight on my body, tight and confining when all I want to do is burst out of it. I’m so horny I feel it everywhere—the nipples tightening in my tank top, the heat building just inches below where Mase’s fingers currently lie—and if I don’t get some relief soon, I’m gonna explode.

  As if he can feel my desperation through my clothes, he inches his hand down until he’s pressing my fly squarely over my clit with each roll. It feels so fucking good, I have to gnaw my lip to stop myself from crying out into the crowd. In my mind I’m begging for more, for the other hand to slide up my shirt and squeeze mercilessly, for his teeth to find my shoulder, for weeks, months, eons of frustrations to pour out of me.

  Instead I hear, “Careful, you two!” The sound of a familiar smug voice snaps me out of my near-orgasm, and it’s only Mase’s firm grip that stops me from leaping away. Trevor fucking Matlin, vomit pile to the stars, president of this fraternal cesspool, and the guy who let Lizzie get fucked last semester in more ways than one. She said he apologized and she no longer wants to feed his nuts to a woodchipper, but I’m not quite as forgiving. “We take no responsibility for anyone getting knocked up on our dance floor.”

  From what I’ve heard, Trevor doesn’t take responsibility for knocking girls up anywhere, but that’s for him and his poisonous ex to deal with.

  I expect Mase to tell him to fuck off, but instead, he just clasps my forearm and says, “Come on.” Despite having no clue where he’s taking me, I let him pull me through the house, up the stairs, and suddenly, I’m in a room I quickly realize my best friend must know all too well.

  “What are we doing in Trevor Matlin’s room, Mase?”

  “What we clearly need to do,” he replies.

  I wait for him to say, “Talk.”

  He says, “Fuck.”

  “Mase—”

  “We obviously need to get it out of our systems,” he says, sounding almost clinical. “I mean, if you don’t want to, that’s cool, but not really the impression I was getting downstairs.”

  My cheeks burn as I think about how just a minute earlier, I was writhing against his hand, so close to coming I could practically feel the edge I’d been about to tip over.

  Yes, I want to.

  But this feels crazy, after barely talking since he got here. I don’t know what I’ve missed in the last two years. For all intents and purposes, I’m about to fuck a stranger.

  His lips spread into a slow, smug smile. “And I brought you up here because there’s no sports shed around, and I assume you’re still a screamer.”

  Just like that, all the weird feelings are gone, replaced with fiery, blazing want. I don’t give a shit about the last two years right now; all I see is the guy who snuck into the camp kitchen to make my favorite smoothie after we lost a big game to Camp Mitonka Lake, poured two glasses, and watched me drink mine while he licked his off my body.

  And this doesn’t feel so random.

  And I don’t feel nervous at all.

  “Strip,” I order him.

  He raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

  “You wanted to fuck,” I remind him, locking Trevor’s door. “That involves taking off clothing. And I’d like you to go first.”

  His lips twitch with a smile, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he pulls his shirt over the back of his head and tosses it to the floor. His ribbed white sleeveless undershirt glows against his skin, showing off his broad shoulders, rock-hard biceps, and the promise of an equally fuckhot body underneath. But I only have to speculate a few moments before he pulls that off too.

  I hiss in a breath through my teeth, and immediately feel my cheeks warm up as a result. Mase’s smug grin suggests he didn’t miss my admiration of his toned, muscular body and lickably smooth skin. The boy has been working out, no question, and it is paying off like whoa.

  “I think it’s your turn now,” he says, nodding at me.

  “Nope,” I say sweetly, because I already lost control for a second there and I won’t do it again. “Still yours.”

  He raises an eyebrow and I’m sure he’s gonna come back with a snide comment, but instead, he toes off his sneakers, and pulls off his socks. “Nothing?”

  “Nothing.”

  Long, strong fingers that can palm a basketball and lord only knows what else with ease move to his belt buckle and make quick work of it. He glances up and holds my gaze, watching me watch him as he unbuttons and then unzips his fly.

  And then his jeans are on the floor, and he’s wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs being strained to their limit.

  Sweet Jesus.

  “I think it’s your turn now.” His voice is deep, throaty, and I feel it tingling up and down my spine, out through my extremities. It is my turn, but I can’t make myself move.

  He walks up to me, standing so close I can smell beer and mint gum faintly on his breath, and reaches for the hem of my shirt.

  I don’t stop him.

  Inch by inch, those long, thin fingers slide my top up my body with the patience of a surgeon, hi
s jawbone set tight, his cheekbones in high relief, his long lashes dusting them when he blinks.

  When he tosses it on the floor, he waits, as if I might stop him before he goes any further.

  I have no intention of doing anything that crazy tonight.

  Seemingly convinced I’m not putting the brakes on anything tonight, he moves his mouth to my neck, and I feel the touch of his tongue an instant before the nip of his teeth elicits a strangled moan from my throat.

  He grins against my skin. “Fuck, I missed that sound.”

  Those large palms settle at my waist, slide up my rib cage. Thumbs stroke my breasts through the fabric of my bra with painful slowness. Anyone else might think he was being gentle, loving, caring with those soft touches. But I know he knows better than that.

  He’s torturing me. And he’s enjoying every second of it.

  “Are you going to take off those jeans yourself?” he asks, taking another little nip of my neck, followed by a cooling, soothing swipe of his tongue. “Or do you still need my assistance?”

  I do like the way it feels to have his fingers working the buttons, but there’s an edge of condescension in his voice, and it makes me not want to give him this. “I think I can handle it,” I say with all the acid I can muster given the way he’s firming his touches now, increasing pressure with both his hands and mouth.

  I pull away and take care of my own boots, socks, and jeans, ignoring him all the while, just because I can.

  But when I turn back around, he’s staring at me, looking like a starving man as his dark eyes rake me up and down. I’m not even sure he realizes he’s slowly slicking his lips. I only realize I’m doing the same when I bite down on mine.

  He shakes his head, a little laugh emerging in that deep, throaty voice. “Christ, Jo. When the hell did you get that body?”

  “Exactly what body do you think you were fucking before?” I shoot back.

  “One that had a whole lot fewer curves,” he says, stepping forward again. He takes a breast in his hand and stares at it as though it’s a wondrous thing, even through the ice-blue cotton of my bra.

  And then he leans down and takes it in his teeth, surprising me into crying out loud enough that they can probably hear me over the music blasting downstairs.

  I immediately clap a hand over my mouth, but he straightens up and pulls it away. “We’re not kids hiding in the woods anymore, Cait,” he says, rubbing a thumb over my lower lip. “You can scream all you like.”

  I close my eyes and let my hands roam over his shoulders as he tastes every inch of my throat, my collarbone, and lower. His skin is so smooth, stretched over tight, rippling muscles. It’s like groping a marble statue, except for the warmth of his body heat and the racing pulse beneath. He may not be on track to being a pro athlete anymore, but he sure as hell has the body of one.

  “Make me.”

  Before I can even process what’s happening, he lifts me by my waist and tosses me onto Trevor’s bed like I’m some five-foot-nothing, hundred-pound cheerleader. I can’t hold back a delighted little squeal as he does, and I know he doesn’t miss it because he can no more stop the huge grin spreading across his face at the sound. Then he climbs over me and buries his face in my neck, turning my squeal into a moan with one hard suck on my skin that’s definitely gonna leave a mark.

  I’ve missed this roughness, the way his large hands grip and teeth sink in. He grunts his approval as his hands squeezing my breasts turn my nipples to diamonds, and takes his mouth off my chest just long enough to say, “This needs to come off, now,” while one hand tugs at my bra strap.

  “If you rip it, I’ll kill you,” I murmur. “Don’t tell me you still haven’t mastered one-handed removal.”

  He laughs lowly and the sound shudders straight through me. Fuck, I am horny. “Best you take it off.”

  I snort but roll away just long enough to do what he says and toss my bra on the floor. “Better?”

  “Much.” He takes my ribcage in hands that nearly span it and brushes his thumbs over my nipples until they’re back in full force, murmuring in appreciation at his handiwork.

  “Tits are still tiny,” I say wryly when I’ve handled all the scrutiny of his stare that I can, especially given Andi’s impressive rack.

  “Your tits are fucking perfect,” he says without missing a beat, taking a nipple in his mouth and rocking his hips against mine so I can tell just how much he’s enjoying them. If I thought I was turned-on before, that sends me over the limit. Much as I enjoy the foreplay, I’m about three seconds from exploding, and even that seems like too long to wait.

  “Fuck me,” I demand, pushing my hips back, letting him feel through two layers of cotton how wet and ready I am. It comes out less like an order and more like a plea but I don’t even care. I’ll happily cede some pride if it gets me off right the fuck now.

  “Impatient, are we?”

  “Get inside me right now or I will fucking kill you.”

  He laughs, loudly this time, and sits back on his haunches, then thankfully obliges by sliding my underwear down my legs. “Just as bossy as I remember.”

  “I make no apologies.”

  “I wouldn’t want any.” He tosses the panties to the floor, then glides his hands up my bent legs, parting them.

  I reach out blindly for Trevor’s nightstand drawer to grab a condom, but he’s pulled me too far down the bed, and I can’t reach. “Leave it,” he says, his hands stroking up and down my legs, thumbs caressing the sensitive skin on the underside of my thighs.

  For a moment, I actually let myself contemplate it—I am on the Pill—but I quickly shut it down. I may not have been with anyone else in the months since I was last tested, but he definitely has. “We need to use—”

  “We will.” He leans over and presses a kiss right below my bellybutton. Then another one a centimeter below that.

  Oh. Oh. “But we don’t—you don’t…” He never did. He fully admitted he was totally freaked out by the idea of going down on a girl, just as we were about to try for the first time. His brother had convinced him he’d suffocate. (Probably should’ve been our first clue about Will.) “At least it means you don’t have to try sucking me off,” he’d joked, though I’d wanted to, so I did it anyway.

  “I should have.” He pulls me farther down the bed, sliding himself to his knees on the floor. His thumbs part me open and he takes a slow, hungry taste, then groans with approval. “I really fucking should have. God, you taste good.”

  Yes, he definitely should have. Holy shit. He might’ve had less scruff scraping the insides of my thighs back then, but that long, firm tongue—

  “Fuuuuuck.” Christ, I am loud. “Oh, God, Mase, holy shit.” I didn’t even know a tongue could work that far inside a person but if there’s one thing Lawrence Mason possesses, it’s stellar control of the body’s strongest muscles.

  “Yeah,” he mutters as he slides two of those basketball-palming fingers inside me. “I definitely should’ve done this sooner.” He pulls out and pushes back in, repeating the motion while circling my clit with his tongue. “You don’t even know how fucking hard hearing you makes me.”

  I want to know. I want to strip him all the way down and stroke his beautiful cock, feel how much I still turn him on these years later. But I can’t say that, can’t get out any words at all when he’s fucking me with strong, purposeful hands, devouring me like he’s starving and I’m his last meal. And then he adds a third finger, pushing in slowly, so tight it’s a little painful, but fuck if I don’t love that pain. I pant shamelessly as he works me, licking around his hand, sucking my clit between his teeth until I’m nearly in tears with the desperate need to come.

  “Harder,” I manage to grunt as I rock my hips against his hand, taking him as deeply as I can. “Mase, fuck me harder. Now.”

  Oh, how he complies, moving his wrist double-time until I’m muffling my screams as I come on his hand and tongue.

  I’m still panting in the aftersho
ck when he moves away, but instead of joining me on the bed, he storms over to the nightstand. He yanks open the drawer and withdraws a foil packet, then stalks back to the foot of the bed. I don’t even have a second to get a word out before he flips me over onto my stomach.

  We’ve never fucked like this; in the past, we were all about missionary, or me sitting in his lap. I’m used to seeing his eyes, touching his chest, feeling a sense of…reverence, I guess, even when we were going at it under the bleachers or whatever. But there’s nothing like that here, just rough, raw hunger.

  I barely hear the rip of the foil over the sound of my own panting, or the snap of the elastic of his boxer briefs as he yanks them off with a quickness. And then I feel his cock pressing hard and hot against my ass and I groan, already imagining how good it’s gonna feel inside me. He pulls back to roll on the condom and then grips my hips to hold them steady before sliding inside me with a brutal slowness that has me biting ugly plaid blanket.

  “Jesus fuck,” he mutters as he pushes fully inside, then pulls out and slams home again. There’s no gentleness to it, no grace, no sense that we’ve done this before, because frankly, we haven’t, not like this, not just to get off and go our separate ways.

  But fuck it. That’s where we are now—who we are now. I push back on his cock with the same force he’s giving me, and he grunts out in surprise, then clutches my hips tighter, tight enough to bruise. And maybe it’s messed up that I like it, that I like the pain and even the anger, because it’s something, it’s feeling, it’s proof that we’re here, and fuck, fuck, fuck he’s re-angled to hit the right spot and every snap of his hips makes me see stars until finally I explode into a million luminescent pieces.

  Afterward, the room is full of our quiet panting, thunderous over the faint strains of music pouring in from downstairs. Slowly, the room comes into focus, and even more slowly, so does what we’ve just done.

  “Shit.”

  I’m not even sure which of us mutters it. Especially since I’m sure we’re both thinking it.

  He doesn’t say another word as he slips out of me, and I don’t watch him remove and tie off the condom or slip on his boxers; I don’t watch him at all. Instead, I pick up and throw on my clothes like I’ve just been rescued from the Himalayas in the dead of winter and given a pile of blankets.