by Marie James
“What’s up, Simone?” Liam asks without taking his eyes off the door. It’s clear he’s window shopping today as well. Either that, or he’s waiting for someone specific.
“Just came to say hi. I’m Simone,” she says, holding her hand out for me to shake. “Do you play ball?”
Cut right to the chase, why don’t we?
Liam huffs beside me. Cleat chasers aren’t uncommon around the diamond—hell, every sport has a group of females who follow the players’ every move. We call them jersey chasers. Some are hoping to marry a star, some just want to brag about banging an athlete, and some are just attracted to the attention hanging around a team brings. None of them really have a clue what’s actually going on during a game because they’re too busy scoping out their hopeful for the after party.
I get the feeling Simone belongs to the third group. She seems like the type who belongs to no one and everyone at the same time and loves every second of it—which is fine by me.
“Bryson, short stop.”
“Mmmm,” she purrs, taking the empty seat beside me. I ogle the bounce of her breasts in her thin top, praying her wardrobe malfunctions, but my unlucky streak that started with this class continues as her shirt holds up. Light shines off the teardrop diamond hanging around her neck and I place the blame for struggling to pull my eyes from the exposed skin of her chest on that.
Her hand lingers on mine, as if the way her eyes roam up my arm isn’t enough for me to understand her intentions. One of the benefits of being a ball player is never having to hunt for interested women. Even third strings get their fair share of attention. Gorgeous, hot as fuck women flock to athletes, and no matter how far out of my league this woman seems to be, I know she’s not. None of them are. I don’t take advantage of the girls who follow the team, but I’m not ashamed to reap the benefits.
She’s empty-handed, no books or backpack, which isn’t uncommon for students the first week of school. “You haven’t gotten your books yet?”
Liam chuckles again.
“I’m not in this class,” she says with a sweet grin.
Liam’s weight shifts beside me and he rolls his eyes as he looks in her direction over my shoulder. “Simone, you’re not registered at this school.”
Her eyes snap to him and she raises a brow, her glare glacial. I wonder if there’s any bad blood between them, or even with her and the other guys. As much as I’d like to take this chick for a ride, cleat chasers aren’t worth the turmoil they may cause for the team. I’ve met women who pride themselves on pitting team members against one another. Most are sent from rival teams as a distraction.
“I graduated over the summer,” she says, bringing her eyes back to me. “Will I see you at the party tonight?”
“We’ll be there,” Liam answers for both of us.
“I can’t wait to see you there.” She trails her finger up my arm as the teacher enters the room and places his briefcase on the lectern.
She walks away, the sway of her hips riveting me once again. I know exactly where I’d put my hands when I slam inside her for the first time. Simone is seriously on my radar.
“I hope you’re not intent on love,” Liam whispers beside me, his eyes staying on the professor as he discusses the syllabus for the semester. “That girl runs through men like Sunday morning Taco Bell.”
I laugh at his graphic description. “Nah, man. Love is not even on my radar. Just looking for a little fun.”
“Search no further. Simone is one hell of a good time.”
I look over at him to gauge his response, and even though I find nothing menacing in his eyes, I decide full disclosure is still the best way to go. “Hooking up with her a problem?”
He chuckles and covers his laugh with his hand when the teacher stops talking and locks eyes with us. The professor moves his attention back to the rest of the class and continues speaking, but Liam waits a few minutes before angling his head closer to mine. “Simone is kind of like a rite of passage. She’s the first one to jump on the new guys when the school year starts. I’m not even surprised to see her here, even though she graduated last year. You’re going to be an extra nice treat, since you’re not a freshman. Have at her, man, just make sure you wrap it up. I’m not saying she’s got anything, but she’s been around.”
I nod. Most jersey chasers jump from guy to guy, so that tidbit of information isn’t new.
“Surprisingly tight pussy, all things considered.” His smile fades and my brows draw together, thinking he suddenly has an issue with the idea, until I follow his gaze.
His eyes bore into the back of a brunette’s head as she leans in close to another guy, whispering in his ear. I turn my attention back to the teacher. Drama is something I try to avoid at all cost. Even though Liam is the closest thing to a friend I’ve found on campus, it’s not enough to go wading through his shit-storm.
Chapter 7
Olivia
My full bladder reminds me I fell asleep before relieving it. I pull sweats on over my sleep shorts, but don’t bother with the hoodie. A quick trip to the restroom and back doesn’t call for the full body armor this morning. Since it’s Saturday, I don’t anticipate Bryson being up just as the sun is coming over the horizon.
The door knob moves away from my hand the second I reach for it and I freeze, my eyes wide as Bryson stands before me wearing nothing but a towel and a smile. My gaze skirts across his sculpted chest and abdomen, and I tighten my fist, my fingers itching to trace his muscles and tickle the dark line of hair leading into the plush fabric below his belly button.
His throat clears and my eyes snap up to his. He’s not even trying to avoid the awkward way I was staring at him. A knowing smirk marks his handsome face, forcing a frown to harden mine. His cocky attitude rubs me the wrong way. Combine that with the anger I feel for even being attracted to him in the first place, I’m nearly in a rage within seconds.
“I know I would normally dart off to my room after getting caught gawking at you, but I really need to pee.” I look around his arm into the bathroom. Meeting his knowing gaze is no longer an option.
When he steps past me into the hallway, the heat rolling off his skin ignites the same reaction to mine. The tiny hairs on my arms stand up, as if reaching out to him as he slides a mere inch from my body. I can’t blame him. We don’t live in a luxury condo or anything. It’s not what I wanted when I moved away from home and started college, so the hallway isn’t wide enough for two people to walk past each other without touching. Considering Bryson’s size, I’d literally have to turn sideways to get past him.
“I don’t mind you looking,” he whispers in my ear. He’s too close for comfort, a few inches inside my personal space, but that doesn’t keep my body from leaning toward him a fraction.
Straightening, I shuffle back and shut the door in his face. His chuckle pierces through the wood as I sit on the lid of the toilet, doing my best to catch my breath.
He has to go. There’s no way I can continue to live in this apartment with him. For the first time since he arrived, the urge to pack up and move home hits me. The notion is unwelcome and only lasts as long as it takes to inhale a few fortifying breaths.
His scent is everywhere in the humid room, and as much as it should unnerve me, it is actually refreshing. The aroma of Bryson’s body wash or shampoo is thick and masculine—nothing like the way I’m used to the bathroom smelling. I take comfort knowing it’s the opposite of Duncan’s scent, which has always had more of a rich, expensive edge to it.
I take care of business, but remain in the bathroom for several long moments. After getting my stupid hormones under control, I head to the kitchen for coffee, crossing my fingers Bryson already left. He doesn’t stick around much. This last week, he seemed to only be home when it was time for him to crash.
The coffee begins its dark drip into the carafe when I feel Bryson approach from the hallway. When he doesn’t say anything after a few moments, I turn around, questioning whether h
e walked up at all.
I wasn’t wrong. He’s leaning against the counter, a smirk on his face. I groan internally, knowing he’s going to bring up the whole towel thing. A gentleman wouldn’t mention it again, but I’m discovering Bryson Daniels is far from a gentleman.
I do my best to feign nonchalance at his presence, but hate how the sight of him makes my breath catch and nipples tighten in my tank top. His eyes move down, as if they waved a flag in his direction.
“Coffee?” I ask, ignoring my body’s reaction to him.
“Nah, I think I’ll have a beer,” he says, pushing off the counter and reaching for the handle of the refrigerator. The kitchen is almost as small as the hallway, but his hand grazing my hip as he bends down to grab his drink out of the fridge feels intentional.
I sidestep away from him. “It’s a little early for that, don’t you think?” I ask, glancing toward the clock on the microwave. It’s just after seven.
The bottle hisses when he twists off the top. Thankfully, he moves back against the other counter, putting as much space between us as the small kitchen allows. He raises his eyebrows at my words. “It’s evening, Olivia. If you didn’t sleep all day, you’d know that.”
There isn’t a hint of chastisement in his voice, just plain fact. I pull my phone out of my pocket to verify and reach over to turn off the coffee pot. No sense in drinking it now. I don’t set out to have hours opposite most people. Some days, it just happens that way.
“I’m heading to a party off campus,” he says, holding the beer out to me. “Wanna go? You can drink. I’ll drive.”
My eyes glance over his distressed jeans and nice button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I didn’t think anything of his attire before, just assumed he was getting ready for the day. And now that I think deeper, it’s still not surprising, given the time. Young, single guy dressed nice on a Friday evening, kind of par for the course, isn’t it?
The thought of a college party makes my stomach turn, even if the idea of hanging out with Bryson, regardless of the fact that I’ve been dodging him all week, is enticing. But I’ve avoided any form of social situation for months, and a smiling ball player isn’t enough to make me want to change that.
“No thank you.”
“You sure? I don’t mind. It’s my first party here, so I have no intention of getting smashed or anything.” He winks at me. “I’ll make sure you get home safe.”
“I have no doubt,” I say, walking past him into the living room. “Parties really aren’t my thing. I would normally be polite and say something like ‘not this time’, but the answer will always be no. Feel free to never ask again.”
“You don’t go to class, I’ve never seen you leave the apartment, and the only two people you speak to are your mom and boyfriend. I don’t know if that’s very healthy, Olivia.” He sits down in the armchair as I curl up on the couch.
“I didn’t realize you were a psychology major,” I snipe, reaching for the remote with every intention of turning the volume up until he takes the hint and leaves.
He leans forward and snatches the device out of my hand before I can even hit the power button.
“What do you do for fun?” He places the remote out of my reach on the table.
“Sleep,” I quip.
“Sleep is a necessity, not a means of entertainment.” His lips twitch and I contemplate asking him to tone his sex appeal down a notch, but I’m not certain he even realizes how tempting he is.
“Naps are the highlight of my day,” I tell him. “I look forward to every one I take. Sometimes I’m thinking about my next nap when I’m dozing off for a current nap.”
He shakes his head, but a beautiful smile lights his face. Colgate commercial, anyone?
“Are you afraid to be around people? Is that another part of your germaphobia?”
I gawk at him, my hackles rising further the longer this conversation continues. “Germaphobia? Just because I like things clean does not mean I’m a damn germaphobe. And for your information, I’m not anthrophobic either.”
“I don’t know what that word means, but your brain is incredibly sexy. Do you know lots of big words?” His smirk forces me to realize he’s messing with me.
“Do you always flirt your way out of situations your mouth gets you into?”
“I usually use my mouth to get me out of those same situations.” I watch, riveted, as he licks his lips.
“Not gonna work this time, buddy.”
“Too bad,” he whispers before rising to his feet and walking out.
Guilt isn’t too far behind the closing of the front door. I know my decision to stay away from him is the right one, but it seems like I almost gravitate toward him. I fire up the TV as a means to ignore the thoughts going through my head.
The guilt triples when my daily alarm goes off, reminding me it’s time for Duncan. I feel lower than dirt when I silence the alarm and make no move to turn on my laptop.
Chapter 8
Bryson
“Where exactly is this party?”
Liam settles into the passenger seat of my truck as I pull away from his dorm room.
“It’s a Sigma Chi party,” he says.
“A frat party? That’s where we’re headed?” I don’t have an issue with frat guys, but they tend to stick together and aren’t very welcoming to guys they think are there to poach their girls.
“Sigma house has two sororities across the street. The Delta Phi Lambda is stuffed full of women. Those bitches are smoking hot and easier to fuck than hookers.”
I cut my eyes over to him. “My sister is a Delta at Washington State,” I inform him through gritted teeth.
“Is she hot and easy?” Liam asks with a lopsided grin.
“Do you have a death wish?” I snarl.
He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Calm down, dude. It was a joke.”
He wasn’t joking when he said it, but by the tone of his voice, I can tell he now regrets the words. I narrow my eyes and turn my gaze back to the road, deciding to let it slide this time. One more mention of my sister, though, and I’ll lay his ass out.
“Turn up here,” he says, pointing to a row of taillights. “We might as well park down here and walk to the house. Probably won’t be able to find anything closer.”
Pulling into a grassy field, I park between two other cars, the owners unloading and grabbing things out of the trunks.
The walk to the Sigma house is quick. Music blares through the sound system and out the front door. Hips gyrate to the heavy bass on the porch and across the sloping lawn. My eyes skirt across the crowd, short skirts, high heels, and barely-there shirts—if you can call them that—fill my line of sight. Women have to make up at least two-thirds of the party, from what I can see, all different levels of inebriation, their tits and ass on display for anyone who’s not blind. I nod in approval as couples pair off and find dark corners to make out in. A ball player I recognize from practice hands me a beer, and I twist the top. As I take a long pull, my eyes dart back and forth, trying to decide where I should post up for a while.
A warm hand slides up my back, and I grin, turning toward the attention.
“Hey there, handsome.” Her drawl is slow, betraying her attempt to sound sober.
Simone, the sexy as hell non-student.
“Hey, Simone.” I nod toward the red cup in her hand. “You get an early start?”
She grins and lifts the cup to her lips. “Always.”
“This party is pretty big,” I say, looking around, trying to ignore her fingers as they skate down my stomach and hook inside the waist of my jeans.
“The first frat party of the semester is always big.” She stumbles closer to me, and I have to catch her by the arms to keep her from knocking us both over.
“Easy,” I whisper in her ear as she lays her head against my chest.
“Wanna get out of here?” Her face tilts up and her eyes meet mine. She blinks rapidly, and I lift a brow, trying to deci
de whether she has something in her eyes or she’s attempting to look sexy and failing. I appraise her. Still sexy, but nowhere near as put together as she was that first day in class.
“I just got here. Do you need a ride home?”
She nods and bites her lip. “I need a good, hard ride.”
I grin down at her. Only nine o’clock and she’s drunk and ready to fuck. I wonder if she was a Delta before she graduated. With that thought, I make a mental note to check on the Delta girls in Washington. If Emerson is slutting it up in college, I’ll lose my damn mind.
Simone presses her tits harder against my chest, and as much as my dick needs the attention, drunk girls are not my thing. I’ve seen too many friends hook up with a chick who has buyer’s remorse the next day and shouts rape.
Simone doesn’t seem like the type to complain even if the entire team gangbanged her, but I’m not willing to take my chances. Besides, if a girl can’t participate, there’s really no point. Most guys are just looking for a girl to sink inside of, but I’m more interactive than that.
“Do you want to give me a ride?” she whispers against my jaw.
“You’re drunk, beautiful.” I push her hair off her forehead. She is gorgeous, in an overly done up sort of way.
She nips my bottom lip and the sweet scent of strawberry daiquiri, or something similar, wafts up. It’s not entirely unpleasant, and I don’t push her away when her tongue brushes my lips.
Just because I don’t like drunken sex doesn’t mean I’m not down for a little impromptu make out session.
I suck her cold, fruit-flavored tongue into my mouth, and her breath hitches. Her hands move to rest near my zipper, and my cock thickens, angling toward her touch.
“You want me,” she pants, her fingers finding my straining erection over my jeans.
