18. Maren
Maren
I drag Riggs away from the bleeding frat boy, my fingers digging into his arm hard. My pulse crashes in my ears, drowning out the whispers that follow us across the quad. Fucking great. As if I needed more attention.
“Let go,” Riggs growls, but doesn't actually try to shake me off.
“Not until we're away from this shitshow,” I mutter, steering him toward student parking. The lot is a maze of beat-up Hondas and fancy SUVs bought with daddy's money. I weave through them, putting as much distance between us and the scene as possible.
When we're safely away from all the prying fucking eyes, I finally release him. My hand feels empty without his solid muscle beneath it, which is exactly the kind of thought I need to squash immediately.
“What the actual fuck was that?” I demand, spinning to face him.
Riggs rolls his shoulders, flexing his hand. His knuckles are already starting to swell, skin split across two of them. There's a smear of the frat boy's blood on his wrist.
“Guy needed his teeth rearranged,” he says simply, like he's commenting on the weather. His eyes are still dark, pupils blown wide with lingering adrenaline.
“And now campus security is probably looking for you. Or worse, Harlow saw the whole thing and is adding 'violent tendencies' to whatever file he's keeping on me.” I run a hand through my hair, tugging at the roots. “Jesus, Riggs. I don't need you fighting my battles.”
“No one talks about you like that,” he says, his voice hard as granite.
Something flutters in my chest—a dangerous, warm sensation I refuse to acknowledge.
“I've been dealing with this shit for a year,” I snap. “I don't need your bullshit making it worse.”
He steps closer, crowding me against a car. I can smell the gum on his breath, see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. “It's not bullshit.”
“Whatever.” I duck under his arm, needing space, needing air. “I'm going home.”
My apartment is fifteen blocks from campus, not a bad walk on a normal day. But today feels anything but normal with Riggs Rhodes trailing me like a persistent shadow, his long legs easily keeping pace no matter how fast I walk.
“Go away,” I say without looking at him.
“No.”
“I'm serious, Riggs.”
“So am I.”
We reach the edge of the student parking lot, and he suddenly jogs ahead, blocking my path.
“Let me drive you,” he says, gesturing toward his beat-up old pickup truck a few spaces away.
“I'd rather walk barefoot through broken glass.”
“Not right now, Maren,” he growls, stepping directly into my path. “Get in the fucking truck and let me drive you home.”
I cross my arms, cocking one hip. “Or what?”
His jaw tightens, a muscle twitching beneath the stubble. “I don't have it in me to deal with your badass bitch routine at this moment.” He takes a deep breath, his broad chest expanding beneath his thin t-shirt. “For once, do what the fuck I'm asking without all this extra fucking shit.”
The raw frustration in his voice catches me off guard. It's not the cocky, self-assured Riggs I'm used to dealing with.
“Fine,” I say after a long moment, dropping my arms. “But only because I don't feel like ending up on another campus security camera today.”
Relief flashes across his features before he masks it with his usual smirk. “Smart choice.”
His truck is exactly what you'd expect—faded paint, a dent in the passenger door, and a cracked dashboard that's seen better days.
The inside smells like him—like cinnamon gum and that cologne he wears that I refuse to admit does things to me.
There's a coffee cup in the holder, a sweatshirt crumpled in the back seat, and what looks like a half-eaten protein bar and a small, worn hockey puck on the dash.
“Your chariot,” he says, unlocking the passenger door with an old-fashioned key. No fancy key fobs for Riggs Rhodes.
I slide onto the worn leather seat, dropping my bag at my feet. “When was the last time you cleaned this thing? The Jurassic period?”
He walks around to the driver's side, yanking the door open with more force than necessary. “I’ve seen your apartment. You have no room to fucking talk.”
Riggs backs out of the space with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the back of my seat. Something so masculine about that, but fuck if it doesn’t turn me on a bit.
We fall into silence as he drives. I stare out the window, watching the campus fade into the slightly shabbier off-campus housing area.
“You know,” Riggs says after a few minutes, his voice deceptively casual, “I was about ten seconds away from fucking throwing you over my shoulder and tying you to the dashboard, all just to fucking drive you home.” He glances over at me, his eyes dark.
“Why must you make everything so fucking difficult?”
A laugh bubbles up from my chest, unexpected and genuine. “You're such a fucking hockey caveman,” I say, shaking my head. “And if you tried that shit, I'd put a skate blade to your balls so fast your head would spin.”
Riggs' grin is slow and deliberate, eyes never leaving the road. “Maybe I'd like it.” His voice drops an octave. “You threatening my balls is probably the hottest thing I've heard all day.”
“You need therapy,” I mutter, but there's no heat behind it. I turn to look out the window, watching the blur of brick apartment buildings and student housing fly by.
“Probably,” he agrees easily. “But I'd rather have you.”
The simple honesty in his voice catches me off guard. I glance over, but his profile gives nothing away—jaw set, eyes fixed on the road, one hand draped casually over the steering wheel. His knuckles are starting to purple where they connected with Frat Boy's face.
He pulls into the only open spot in front of my building, killing the engine. Grabbing my bag, I hop out of his truck before he comes to do something like open my fucking door for me.
I hear the truck door slam, followed by the beep of the lock.
“I didn't invite you up,” I say without turning around.
“Just like you didn't invite me the countless other times I've been here, and we hung out,” he counters, his voice closer than I expected. “Stop fucking pushing me away because of the other night when I tasted you.”
I freeze, the words hitting me like a slap. Fucking Riggs, always cutting straight through my bullshit.
“We are not talking about that,” I say, jamming my key into the lock with more force than necessary. The door swings open, and I step into my tiny apartment, not bothering to close it behind me. If he wants to follow, he will. If not, whatever.
I drop my bag on the floor and immediately start peeling off my hoodie. Class was suffocating today, even before the quad incident. Tugging my t-shirt over my head next, I let it fall to the floor as I kick off my boots.
The door clicks shut, and I hear the familiar sound of Riggs' keys and wallet hitting my coffee table. I don't bother turning around as I unbutton my jeans and shimmy them down my legs, stepping out of them with ease and leaving me in just panties and socks.
I pad to the fridge, the old linoleum cool under my socked feet. The chill from the refrigerator washes over my nearly naked body as I grab a bottle of water. Something about the cold feels clarifying after the clusterfuck of a day.
I can feel him watching me from across the tiny room. The weight of his gaze skims over my bare back, my shoulders, the curve where my ass meets the edge of my black panties. I don't give him the satisfaction of turning around or covering up. Let him look and suffer.
“If you don't want to end up in my mouth again or on my dick, then go put something on,” Riggs growls.
I twist the cap off my water bottle, taking a slow, deliberate sip before I turn to face him. He's leaning against my kitchen counter, knuckles white where he grips the edge like he's physically restraining himself.
“It's my apartment,” I say, one eyebrow raised. “I'll wear what I want.”
“You know exactly what you're doing.” His jaw tightens, that muscle twitching again.
“Maybe I just don't like clothes.” I take another sip, letting a drop of water slide down my chin, my throat, between my breasts. His eyes track its path like a predator.
“And maybe I don't like being fucking tortured,” he counters, running a hand through his hair. There's a thin sheen of sweat at his temples despite the cool air. “You want me to leave? Fine. But don't fucking play games.”
“Who's playing?” I set the water bottle on the counter, crossing my arms under my breasts, pushing them up slightly. It's a power move, and we both know it. “You're the one who followed me home.”
“What are we doing here, Maren?” he asks, voice quieter now. “You push me away, then parade around half-naked. You let me touch you last week, let me taste you, then ghost me for days. What the fuck do you want from me?”
The question hangs in the air between us, heavy, and my eye twitches from being put on the spot. What do I want from him? Safety? Destruction? Both?
“I don't know,” I answer honestly, the words scraping my throat. “I don't know what I want.”
He stares at me for a long moment, chest rising and falling with each deep breath. Something shifts in his expression. Before I can react, Riggs closes the distance between us in two long strides.
“I'm done waiting for you to figure it out,” he says, voice low and rough.
His body cages me, the cool metal at my back contrasting with the heat radiating from him. He doesn't touch me yet, just hovers there, close enough that I can feel his breath on my face, count each of his eyelashes. My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
“Golden b—” I start, but the word dies in my throat as his hand comes up to cradle my jaw, thumb brushing over my bottom lip with a gentleness that contradicts everything else about him in this moment.
“Shut up,” he murmurs, and then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss isn't gentle. It's possession, pure and simple. His lips claim mine with an intensity that steals the breath from my lungs and the thoughts from my head. It feels like when you’re spiraling out of control and finally you put your headphones on and can focus on one single thing. I’m not spiraling anymore; my headphones are his hands and his mouth is my music and all I can focus on is this.
My hands hang useless at my sides for a moment, my brain struggling to catch up to what's happening. He angles my face exactly how he wants it, his other hand gripping my hip, fingers digging into bare skin. It feels like I’m being consumed from the inside out.
Something in me surrenders. I let my body melt into his, letting him take my weight as my knees weaken.
My hands find their way to his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands, longer on top and shorter at the sides.
I stroke through it, feeling the silky texture against my palms, tugging slightly when his teeth graze my bottom lip.
He groans into my mouth; the sound vibrates through me, settling low in my belly. The hand on my hip slides around to the small of my back, pulling me flush against him. Even through his jeans, I can feel how hard he is, pressing insistently against my stomach.
I should push him away. I should maintain some semblance of control over this situation. But for once in my life, I don't want to be in control. I want to see what happens when I let go, when I let Riggs take the lead.
All I can feel is Riggs—his hands, his mouth, the solid wall of his chest against my nearly naked body. He kisses like he plays hockey. Like nothing else in the world matters but the goal. And I’m the goal.
His mouth moves to my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin beneath my ear.
And his hands slide down my sides, fingers splaying across my bare ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs against my skin, his voice rough. “Tell me to stop and I will.”