Chapter 11
Max
I stared at the ceiling, momentarily disoriented by the silence (no alarm?) and the sun streaming through the cracks in the blinds.
Then I felt the weight on my chest.
Imogen.
She was draped over me like a very expensive, very warm blanket.
Her head was resting on my pectoral muscle, her platinum hair fanned out across my skin like a silk spill.
Her leg was thrown over my hips, her knee pressing dangerously close to my morning erection.
One of her hands was tangled in my chest hair, gripping lightly even in sleep.
I didn't move. I barely breathed.
I just looked at her.
She looked younger when she slept. The faint line of worry between her eyebrows was gone. Her lips, usually painted that bruised red or pursed in sarcasm, were soft and pink and slightly parted.
The memory of last night crashed into me. The sound of her crying out my name. The feel of her breaking around me. The absolute, shattering trust in her eyes when she let me take her virginity.
Fuck.
I was in deep. I was at the bottom of the ocean without a tank.
I lifted my hand slowly, careful not to wake her, and checked the time on my watch. 7:32 AM.
I had missed morning skate.
I, Maxwell Vane, who hadn't missed a practice since I was twelve years old, had slept through a session because I was too busy being a human pillow for the Dean's daughter.
Panic flared in my chest—the old, familiar fear that if I slipped up once, the entire house of cards would collapse.
But then Imogen shifted. She murmured something unintelligible—"...charcoal..."—and nuzzled her face into my neck. She kissed my pulse point, sleep-drunk and instinctive.
The panic evaporated.
Screw the skate. I’d do extra conditioning later. This—holding her, feeling her warmth seep into my bones—was worth a thousand suicides on the ice.
"Morning," I rasped, my voice thick with sleep.
Imogen stirred. One hazel eye cracked open. She blinked, focusing on my chin, then my mouth, then my eyes.
A slow, lazy smile spread across her face.
"Hi," she whispered.
"You're drooling on me," I lied.
"I am enhancing your hydration," she mumbled, stretching like a cat. Her body moved against mine—skin on skin, friction on friction.
I groaned, my hands instinctively finding her waist to hold her still.
"Don't move like that," I warned. "Unless you want round two before coffee."
She stopped stretching. She propped herself up on her elbows, looking down at me. The sheet fell away, exposing her bare chest.
I swallowed hard. My gaze tracked over the creamy skin, the faint bite mark on her collarbone (my mark), the rosiness of her nipples.
"Round two sounds... educational," she teased. "I feel like I missed a few chapters of the textbook last night."
I reached up and cupped her breast, my thumb brushing over the peak. She gasped, her eyes darkening.
"We have to talk," I said, though my body was screaming talk later, fuck now.
"About what?" She leaned into my hand.
"About this," I gestured between us. "About us. About the fact that I missed practice and you're in my bed and if your father finds out, he'll have me deported. And I'm from New Hampshire."
Imogen laughed. She leaned down and kissed me—soft, sweet, tasting of morning breath and intimacy.
"He won't find out," she said against my lips. "We're ninjas. We're spies. We're..."
"Liars," I finished for her.
She pulled back, sitting up and pulling the sheet around her. The mood shifted from playful to serious.
"Max," she said quietly. "Do you regret it?"
I sat up, ignoring the twinge in my back. I grabbed her hand, lacing our fingers together.
"No," I said firmly. "Not for a second. But we have to be smart, Imogen. The deal with your dad... it’s fragile. If he thinks I'm distracted, or that I'm... compromising you... he pulls the plug. On me. On the team funding. On everything."
"So we hide it," she said. It wasn't a question.
"We hide it," I agreed. "In public, I'm the Warden. You're the assignment. We study. We bicker. We keep distance."
"And in private?" She tilted her head, a challenge in her eyes.
I leaned in, biting her lower lip gently.
"In private," I growled, "you're mine."
She shivered. "Deal."
"Good," I said. "Now go shower. We have a test to pretend to study for."
"Shower with me?" she asked, looking at me through her lashes.
I looked at the clock. 7:45 AM.
"Five minutes," I said, throwing off the covers. "And no touching the bruise."
The next three days were a masterclass in deception.
We were living a double life.
By day, we were the model of academic rehabilitation. We sat in the library, textbooks open, a respectable three feet of distance between us. I quizzed her on Baroque architecture. She quizzed me on fluid dynamics. We frowned. We looked serious. We ignored each other when people walked by.
By night, we tore each other apart.
The apartment became a playground. The kitchen counter. The shower. The rug in front of the TV. Every surface was christened. We couldn't get enough. It was like a dam had broken, and years of repression were flooding out.
But it wasn't just the sex.
It was the way the world looked.
I walked across campus and the grey, brutalist concrete of the engineering buildings didn't look depressing; it looked structured. The bite of the wind didn't feel hostile; it felt crisp.
I caught myself smiling at a squirrel. A literal squirrel.
"You're glowing," Jinx said to me on Thursday during lunch.
We were in the athlete's cafeteria. I was eating grilled chicken and broccoli. Jinx was eating a burger that looked like a heart attack on a bun.
"I am not glowing," I said, stabbing a piece of broccoli. "I'm sweating. It's hot in here."
"No, dude," Jinx leaned in, lowering his voice. "You look... lighter. Did you get laid? Or did you finally discover that there are emotions other than 'stoic rage' and 'hungry'?"
I froze. I chewed slowly.
"I passed my midterms," I said flatly. "Academic success is fulfilling."
"Right," Jinx snorted. "And I read Playboy for the articles. Seriously, Warden. Spill. Is it the Dean's daughter? Are you guys... you know? Polishing the goalpost?"
"Jinx," I said, giving him the Look. The one that usually made freshmen wet themselves. "If you finish that sentence, you're running suicides until you puke."
"Okay, okay!" Jinx held up his hands in surrender. "Touchy. Just saying. You look happy. It’s weird. It’s unsettling the natural order."
I looked down at my plate.
Happy.
Was that what this was? This terrified, exhilarating, chest-tightening feeling?
I looked across the cafeteria.
Imogen was sitting two tables away with Chloe. She was wearing a thick cream sweater and jeans. She was laughing at something Chloe said.
As if sensing my gaze, she looked up.
Her eyes locked onto mine.
For a second, the mask slipped. Her face softened. Her lips curved into a small, secret smile that was just for me. She reached up and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear—a gesture I now knew meant she was nervous or thinking about me.
My heart hammered a double-time rhythm against my ribs.
I wanted to walk over there. I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to put my hand on the back of her neck and tell everyone in this room that she belonged to me.
But I couldn't.
So I nodded—a curt, professional nod—and looked back at my broccoli.
But under the table, my leg was bouncing with nervous energy.
Mine, the beast in my head growled. Mine.
Friday night was the test.
Not an academic test. A social test.
The hockey team was throwing a mixer with the volleyball team. Mandatory attendance. "Team bonding," Leo called it. "An excuse to get drunk," I called it.
Imogen had to go. She was technically still "part of the team family" as Leo's sister, and staying home would look suspicious.
We drove separately. Rule #4 of the Secret Boyfriend Handbook.
I arrived first. The house was already packed. The music was loud enough to vibrate my teeth.
I grabbed a water and found a corner. The vantage point. The sniper's nest.
Ten minutes later, Imogen walked in.
She was wearing a black dress. Simple. Tight. Short enough to be interesting, long enough to be legal. She had her hair down in those loose waves that made my fingers itch.
Every head in the room turned.
I watched the reaction. I watched the way Miller straightened up. I watched the way the lacrosse captain—the idiot from the victory party—licked his lips.
A surge of possessiveness roared through me, hot and acidic.
Don't look at her, I thought violently. Don't you dare look at her.
She scanned the room. She found me immediately.
She didn't smile. She didn't wave. She just held my gaze for a second—a silent I see you—and then turned to Leo, giving him a hug.
The game began.
I spent the next hour in hell.
I watched her flirt. Not overtly—she was behaving, keeping her promise—but Imogen Sterling flirted by breathing. She laughed at jokes. She touched arms. She was the center of gravity, and every male in the room was falling into her orbit.
I stood in my corner, crushing my plastic cup, radiating "Do Not Approach" energy so strong that even Jinx gave me a wide berth.
"You look like you're plotting a murder," a voice said.
I looked down. It was Chloe. Imogen’s roommate.
She was holding a red cup and looking at me with shrewd, intelligent eyes behind her glasses.
"I'm observing," I said.
" observing what?" Chloe asked. "The way Miller is drooling over Imogen? Or the way Imogen keeps checking her phone every three minutes to see if you've texted her?"
I stiffened. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Please," Chloe rolled her eyes. "I live with her, Vane. She hasn't slept in her own bed in a week. She comes back to the dorm to change clothes and hums while she does laundry. She hates laundry."
She stepped closer, lowering her voice.
"I don't care what you guys are doing," Chloe said. "But if you hurt her... if you're just using her to get the letter or pass the time... I will put laxatives in your protein powder. I know chemistry. I can make it untraceable."