And I consummately, unquestionably, absolutely need to kiss him again. Over and over and over until all those words he’d spoken in his recording, all those hinted promises and weighted meanings, all of them come to fruition with me unraveling under him.
I’ve come all this way. I’ve considered the pros. Debated the cons. Made my decision. It’s him. It’s him, or no one. I’ve found an interested guy. Kissed him. Now all I need to do is ask.
So, I ask.
“Final question. Will you bang out my ex?”
12
Spencer
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
My blood pounds. Static buzzes in my head. I count to three and try to control the tempest of emotions inside me. I should be angry. This feels like it should be anger.
Far fucking from it.
Restless need surges through my veins. My skin twitches. I’m aware of every end of my body, spiking with heat, like coming inside to a roasting fire after a long day in the snow. So aware that I feel my fucking arms at my sides and I don’t know what to fucking do with them. Fingers clenching and unclenching. Crawling with untapped anticipation. Knuckles aching to reach out and touch her again.
Any other girl, I’d have her on the floor half-undressed by now.
But this is Kennedy Fucking Walsh.
I tighten my fists. Fold them over my chest. And take another couple of steps away.
“I need to get over Ashton,” she says. Her palms lay flat against the door behind her. Like she’s holding back, too. “By having sex with you.”
I pinch the furrow in my brow, closing my eyes. Because if I see her gaze slip one more time to the front of my sweats, I’ll throw her on the couch and continue what she fucking started. Before I can get to the bottom of this complete personality one-eighty.
“Is this some kind of fucking joke?” I ask.
Since she hadn’t seen fit to speak to me since I interrupted her date at Kellermann’s the other week. Not even to finish her goddamn article. In class, she talked only to Rowe and concentrated hard on ignoring me. At Busy Beans with Hart, she’d served me tampered coffee without a hint of remorse. Hazelnut and peppermint, lemon and English toffee, peanut butter and cayenne, to name a few. Each worse than the last, to the point I started getting my morning drinks from the shitty campus dining hall next to the rec center. Otherwise, I’d be forced to continue choking down foul flavor combinations while meeting her icy stare. All to prove some bullshit point that doesn’t matter since she put me on effective cooldown.
Until tonight, when she threw herself at me, wearing… fucking pajamas?
It’s not the first time I’ve opened my door to an indecent proposal. As a football player—a damn good one—it comes with the territory. At away games, without fail, there’s always a knock after hours on my hotel room door. Behind it, a football groupie wearing a trench coat, heels, and a come-hither smile.
Kennedy’s in her normal winter coat and boots, snow melting on the front mat. Under the bulky wool, it’s all blue-and-green plaid. Like something straight out of an ad with a picture fucking perfect family in matching outfits posing for a fucking holiday greeting card. Cozy and wholesome and the complete opposite of those groupies in thongs and little else.
Except the top button’s undone. Like that little sweater she’d had on in Kellermann’s. Only this top isn’t as tight, and she doesn’t try to fix the errant button. Each side slouches to reveal the most stirring sight. Creamy skin. Edges of a light blue bra. I drag my gaze up, to the flush of her neck, the red of her cheeks, the dark pink of her lips from where I’d sucked them, all the way up to her eyes, which watch me intently.
She gives one slight shake of her head. “I’m completely serious.”
Then, she casts a glance around the living room. To the TV, playing a silent hockey game. I’d muted it at the slamming on the door. Had I known now what waited for me on the other side, I might not have been so ready to snap off the head of whoever disturbed my night.
Her eyes come back to me. She breathes. Deeply. “Natalie said you were alone.”
“Didn’t wanna go out,” I say, distractedly watching as, under that flannel, her tits rise and fall with that breath.
I avoid hookups on Valentine’s Day. Too many single girls. Which, normally, I’m all for. But this holiday brings out the worst of the bunch. The lonely. The desperate. The fucking batshit insane. And I don’t stick my dick in crazy. Not anymore.
“You seriously want me to fuck you,” I say, tearing my eyes off her chest. Meet her stare, just as her eyes flinch shut on the word ‘fuck’.
“I’m…” She opens her eyes again. Close up before she’d pounced on me with that kiss, I’d noticed the color. Brown at the middle. Flaring out to a lighter green. Hazel. Kennedy Fucking Walsh has fucking hazel eyes and when they stare at me hungrily like that, it makes me want to rip the buttons off her fucking dumbass flannel and take her right against that door. “I’m in need of physical intimacy.”
I want to burst out laughing at the serious tone. The polite words. That ice princess again, in case I forgot who I’m dealing with here. Like she hadn’t just asked me to bang her.
“You’re horny,” I correct.
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Cheeks burn red. Then, “Yes.”
“You hate me.” Likewise, I’m no fan of hers. Though I’m a fan of her current look. Or, at least, the rock hard dick in my pants is.
“Yes.”
“Then why?”
The question snaps something in her. Those hazel eyes blink, as though realizing where she is and who she’s with. She narrows
