The Charlie Method (Campus Diaries #3)

Chapter Sixteen Charlotte

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHARLOTTE

The heart of the Method

I T ’ S MIDNIGHT, AND I CAN ’ T SLEEP . N OT A WINK . N OT A SINGLE STUPID solitary wink. My mind is racing too hard. It’s been spinning like a top since I left the hockey arena earlier.

I can’t get the idea out of my head that I might be sexting with my lab partner and my annoying classmate who calls me sugar puff .

The moment I got home tonight, I reread our chats, searching for any clues that Lars and B are Will Larsen and Beckett Dunne. All it achieved was coming up empty-handed in the identity department and becoming extremely horny from the content of our chats.

Like the fantasy I confessed to Lars a few nights ago, when I revealed that while I’ve had sex inside a car, I’ve never done it on a car.

My cheeks grow warm as I read the exchange.

LARS:

Is that it, baby? You want to lie back on the hood of the car, legs spread wide while we take turns fucking you?

My thighs clench as I envision the dirty picture he painted. Except now the fantasy morphs. Instead of the vague, nondescript Viking faces I’ve conjured in my mind, the guy stepping in the cradle of my thighs is my lab partner, Will.

He runs his hands over my thighs, and I realize that if it really is Will, then I already know what his hands look like. Long, capable fingers. Short, blunt nails. He scrapes those familiar palms over my thighs as he stands there with his hard cock jutting out, a pearly drop pooled at the tip.

A moan slips out, and I cast a self-conscious glance at my bedroom door. I hate living in a house where ten other girls on the floor can hear every sigh and whimper that wafts out of my room. I’d much rather live in the dorms with a roommate. At least then I’d only have to be embarrassed about one person hearing me get myself off.

Which is precisely what I’m going to do right now, because the idea that I’ve been exchanging sexy messages with the two hockey players I watched tonight, one of whom tried to pound another guy’s face into the ice like some wild animal…

Another moan is ripped from my throat.

Oh God, since when does the idea of violence turn me on? It shouldn’t be getting me this hot. And I shouldn’t be modifying my fantasy, turning up the heat. Will Larsen is still between my legs, but Beckett Dunne is at his side now, squeezing my breast, leaning down to kiss me while his friend gets ready to fuck me.

I bite my lip as I picture Beckett’s teasing smirk. Will’s gleaming eyes.

A warm shiver races through my body. My eyelids close before I can stop them. My hand slips inside my pajama shorts, beneath the waistband of my panties.

I imagine Will’s hands on my waist as he pushes his cock inside me. I hear Beckett’s drawl, soft and commanding in my ear, telling me how much he wants me. How he can’t wait for his turn.

The heat between my legs intensifies as I rub slow, deliberate circles over my clit. I can practically feel the hood of the car, the cold metal against my back as Will presses into me. I feel his body against mine. His entire length filling me. I feel Beckett’s thumb on my nipple, his lips tracing my collarbone.

I swallow my gasp, my hips rocking up to meet my own touch.

There’s no stopping this. A swirl of X-rated images assaults my brain, but it’s the thought of being with both of them at once that sends me over the edge. My body tenses, waves of pleasure crashing through me as I hear Beckett whispering my name, Will groaning that he’s coming too. The orgasm is exquisite. It tingles in my fingertips and toes, sparks dancing all over my flesh and throbbing between my legs.

Oh.

My.

Fucking God.

It takes me a few minutes to catch my breath. Fine, I think, when my heart rate finally slows. Maybe the notion that my sexy Swedes are Will and Beckett isn’t entirely unappealing.

Question is, is it a fantasy that should stay virtual, or should I act on this insanity and meet them for a threesome?

Because honestly, that sounds like the premise of a cold case documentary about the gruesome murder of a college girl.

There are ways to ensure my safety, though. I can ask for face pics to verify that it’s them. Request a public place for our first meetup and make sure Faith knows where I’ll be.

The logistics are manageable. It’s the consequences that I fear.

Luckily, I have a tool that can help me decide.

Wide awake now despite the late hour, I hop out of bed to grab my laptop. Then I crawl back under the covers and open a new document.

ACTION: Meet up with the Swedes.

The pros include trying new things, college is meant for experimentation, and endless pleasure.

On the flipside: maybe it won’t be at all pleasurable.

Really, I could be in store for a major disappointment, because we all know fantasies never live up to reality. A threesome sounds great on paper, but then you put it into practice, and suddenly you’re drowning in a sea of awkward questions. Like where do all the body parts go? And what happens when one of them is fucking me? Is the other one just sitting there playing a video game, waiting for his turn? Please, miss, may I penetrate you now?

I choke down my laughter. Yeah…I suspect the mechanics might not be as smooth and effortless as the fantasy suggests.

But is that a reason not to do it?

I hit the return key and get started on the outcome analysis. The heart of the Method.

What is the worst thing that could happen if I do this?

OUTCOME #1: I get an STI.

Possible. But I feel like as long as we’re using protection, I should be okay, right?

I pull up a web browser to look up some trusted statistics.

Two websites tell me condoms are 85–98 percent effective in preventing STI transmission. Another one says they’re 97 percent effective with perfect use and 86 percent effective with typical use. As an overachieving perfectionist, I assign myself to the first camp. Perfect use, baby.

But fine, let’s be pragmatic. I’ll call it 90 percent effective. Although…that stat is lower for STIs that don’t have full condom coverage. For those, the risk is reduced by about 70 percent. I also have a higher risk of oral herpes if I give a blowjob without a condom on. Which, let’s be real, I’m not going to use a condom for a blowjob. So…let’s lower that to a 30 percent risk during a condomless BJ.

My parents have no idea the kind of monster they created when they gave me access to the internet.

To the question Can I live with this , I write YES .

OUTCOME #2: People will find out and judge me.

This one bothers me a lot, and when I’m done assessing all the outcomes, it’s the only one I answer NO to about whether I can live with it.

Because yes, I consider that outcome worse than chlamydia. I don’t want people gossiping about me and my sex life. What if it snowballs into a college-wide rumor that eventually reaches the ears of a job recruiter? A professor whose recommendation I need for grad school?

I’m pacified by the reminder that when asked who they’ve hooked up with, Gigi did say they never name names.

Still, doing this would require a high level of trust in both guys. And I suddenly realize I’d feel better about giving out that trust if Lars and B were Will and Beckett. Because they’re not complete strangers. They’re people I could hold accountable if the rumor mill started churning.

And if all else fails—lie, lie, and deny.

I assign it a medium probability that people might find out. Let’s say 50 percent. Can I live with that?

Maybe.

No.

Yes.

I think…yes.

My heart is pounding as I type a response to the invitation waiting on the app.

ME:

I won’t meet without face pics.

It’s nearly two in the morning, but I’m dealing with two college boys who are probably still out partying, so I’m not surprised to see someone typing.

LARS & B:

Fair enough.

There’s a long delay. More typing.

LARS & B:

Incoming.

When the photo appears on the screen, my heart jumps into my throat and renders my windpipe useless.

Confirmation received.

It’s them.