Chapter 8 #2
Fuck. It’s a challenge pure and simple and Jefferson Parks isn’t the kind of guy who runs from a challenge.
My eyes drop to her mouth, and her breath stutters, the space between us shrinking until I can feel the heat radiating off her skin.
She doesn’t back up. Nah, she just stands there, steady, even as her fingers twitch like she’s fighting the urge to reach for me.
Then she exhales, shaky but certain, and tilts her chin up.
That’s all the permission I need.
I close the gap in one motion, my mouth crashing against hers, hard and hot.
The kiss is just as good as the first time–better–heated, desperate, full of every question neither of us wants to answer.
What is this? What does this mean? Where is it going?
How? She fists my shirt in her hands, pulling me closer, and I grip her waist, anchoring her against me like I might lose her again if I let go.
Her tits feel incredible against my chest while my dick threatens to break loose.
It’s fire and want and something dangerously close to trouble, and the only thing I know for sure is I don’t want it to stop.
“Stop,” she says, wrenching her mouth from mine. Her lips are puffy. Sexy. Her eyes wide. “We need to stop.”
With my cock throbbing against my leg, I inhale and exhale, willing my body to slow down.
“Do we?” I ask, leaning down to suck a kiss on her jaw.
“They’re going to wonder where we are,” she explains, placing her hands on my chest and pushing me away, before turning to look in the vanity mirror to clean up her lipstick and smooth out her hair.
So it is a secret.
“Yeah, well, you’re going to have to go out first.” I don’t hide the fact I need to adjust the front of my jeans.
This woman gets me harder with one kiss than anyone ever has before.
“I’m going to need a few minutes.” Her lips form a perfect circle, the shock of finding out how my body reacts to her.
As she passes me on the way to the door, I grab her wrist. “This isn’t over, Ingrid. ”
To my surprise she doesn’t argue, she just glances back at me one more time, leaving me and my boner all alone.
It’s my second shower of the night, but this one had nothing to do with getting clean.
I came home from Ingrid’s apartment still hot and throbbing, needing to work off some of the pent-up want that’s been building for days.
It’s one thing to have flirty little texts, but to have her in my hands, to have her mouth against mine…
it’s too fucking much and I ducked into the shower the minute we got back and stroked myself thinking about the way she looked at me–touched me.
Her hands were gentle when they skimmed over the bruise, and my arousal was as much from the mere fact skin was touching skin, but the erotism of not taking it a step further.
Everything about her is so fucking hot.
It doesn’t take long for the pressure to build. Not when I’m thinking about that soft pink mouth, or the feel of her tongue. Not when I’m imagining what her tits feel like in my hands, or how tight her pussy would clench around me when I’m inside.
That’s the image that does it, and I come, painting the tile, while I let the shower drown out my heavy breaths.
“Jesus, Christ,” I mutter to myself, hand flat against the shower wall.
The water runs cold, and I bask in it, like a post game ice bath, cooling off my muscles.
Reese doesn’t give a shit–he was already Facetiming with Twyler when we walked in the room, hardly able to be away from her for a few minutes without checking in.
They’re off the phone when I come out of the bathroom, my towel-dried hair a mess. My muscles are finally loose, but jerking off doesn’t fix the knot in my chest. I already know the truth. I’m not going to settle down until I can fully have her.
Reese is sprawled out on his bed in shorts and a Wittmore T-shirt, scrolling his phone, TV flickering low in the background. He doesn’t look up until I flop down on my own bed, dragging the comforter up over my waist.
“Crazy night,” he says, setting his phone aside. “It’s big enough we made it to the finals, but I still can’t believe Ingrid freakin’ Flockton brought the girls to the game.” He makes a face. “That’s insane, right?”
I smirk up at the ceiling. “Yeah, pretty wild.”
Reese shifts onto his side, eyeing me. “You’re not even freaking out. This is your celebrity crush, man. Years of posters, playlists, your ‘number one’ speeches. And she just shows up and you don’t care?”
I roll my eyes, trying to play it cool. “Relax. It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal?” Reese laughs, incredulous. “Bro, if I was single and Margot Robbie walked in and sat courtside, I’d be fainting. You’re acting like she’s just some random Kappa you met at a kegger who showed up at the game.”
I force a shrug, leaning back against the headboard. “Dude, she’s just a person, right? I’m not fifteen anymore. Crushes don’t count in the real world.”
Reese narrows his eyes, studying me like he’s waiting for me to crack. “So you’re telling me that you have a chance to hit that you’d pass because she’s ‘just a person.’”
“Shelby and the girls seem to like her. I’m not going to fuck things up for them.”
That answer appeases him, slightly. He still looks skeptical when he turns off the light, shrouding the room in the dark. I close my eyes and bask in it: the win, the rush, but most of all the kiss that comes flashing back to me, the way the curve of her hips felt in my hands–
“You were gone for a while tonight while the rest of us were watching clips from the games.”
“Seriously?” I say, rolling to my side and punching my pillow. “You’re still on about this?”
“Yep,” he presses from the bed next to mine. “Both of you were missing. You hit on her didn’t you?”
Heat flickers in my chest, sharp and guilty, but the lie comes easy. “Nope.”
“Come on.”
Reese is my best friend. It’s no surprise he doesn’t buy it. I wouldn’t.
“I didn’t hit on her,” I say smoothly, sliding lower into the bed. “I called my mom to let her know how the game went. You know how she is with the time difference. Figured I’d check in before she started calling us at 2 AM.”
That earns a laugh, because it’s happened more than once. Even so, it’s obvious he’s not sure. “Calling your mom, huh?”
“I swear on the trophy.” I hold up a hand in the dark. “Didn’t see or talk to her outside of everyone else. Chill.”
“You really want me to believe, that you, Jefferson Parks, Wittmore’s biggest fuckboy, is in your dream girl's house, she’s right there, and you don’t take a shot?”
“I know, it’s embarrassing,” I admit, because it is humiliating.
Jefferson Parks, Wittmore’s biggest fuckboy, is disappointed in himself.
I was in her house and had her alone. Her bed was right there, and I didn’t seal the deal.
Sure, I got a kiss, but that’s not what Reese is after.
My status as the campus playboy is in jeopardy.
“It’s like getting called up to the pros and sitting the whole game on the bench. ”
“Shit, man, that sucks...” Reese goes quiet for a beat before I hear him roll over, adding with the slightest laugh, “but I guess that explains why you needed a second shower.”