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“It’s legit. I can show it to you.” His diamond stud earring moved left and blocked my view. I didn’t even know this guy’s name.
“Let’s dance.” I clamped my hand around his wrist and dragged him toward the floor, ignoring his protests as I set up shop a few couples over from Easton.
“Whoa, mamacita.” He sipped his drink with the tiny straw and pulled me closer, pinning me against his body. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
I knew what I was doing when I started to dance with him. His hand slid down the back of my dress and gripped my ass and I let him. His tongue, cold from the drink, dipped into my mouth. I pulled back and his fingers tightened, pulling me into his pelvis and I dared a glance over one shoulder and found Easton in the crowd, his eyes on me. For once, there wasn’t an ounce of playfulness in their depths.
I escaped from my Latin lover halfway into the next song and squeezed through the crowd, heading for the dim hall that led to the bathrooms. Just before the break of bodies, a hand clamped around my wrist, pulling me right and into an empty nook, just behind the stage speakers.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Easton was close, pushing me back against the wall, his voice a growl in my ear, his body flush against mine.
“What?” I gave a half-hearted attempt to push against his chest. “What are you talking about?”
“Is that what you like?” His hands settled on my waist and he pulled me tighter against him. He jerked his head toward the crowd. “Rico Suave types?”
“Maybe.” I leaned my shoulders back against the wall and looked up at him. “Does it matter?”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It matters.”
“Why?”
He started to say something and stopped, changing course. “Why do you keep running from me?”
“I’ve got to go to the bathroom.” I pushed off the wall and stood.
His hands tightened, holding me in place. “Uh-uh,” he said darkly. “You’re not running from me again.”
“I have to pee,” I said, clearly enunciating every unsexy syllable.
That smile cracked along his face. “You don’t have to pee.”
“I do,” I insisted.
“You went to the bathroom fifteen minutes ago and haven’t drank anything since. You either have a bladder infection or you’re too chicken to talk to me.”
“I—” My mouth opened, then shut.
“Which is it, Elle? Horrific infection or intimated by my sexual prowess?” He cocked one brow, waiting. As if I could choose either of those paths.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Maybe I just don’t like you. Ever thought of that?”
He chuckled and leaned closer until his mouth was at my ear. “If you didn’t like me, you wouldn’t have kissed him.”
“Oh my God,” I sputtered. “That’s the stupidest—” I pushed against his chest and he stayed in place, my palms now resting on the strong planes of his pecs.
“It worked.” He lifted his head away from my ear and met my gaze, his mouth less than a foot from mine. “I saw you kiss him and wanted to rip him in two.”
I needed to stop looking into his eyes. Needed to stop clinging to his shirt. Needed to stop my body from leaning into his heat.
“You have no idea of the things I want to do to you,” he growled, his gaze dropping to my mouth, his fingers tightening on my hips. He lowered his mouth and I tried to stay still, tried not to meet his lips halfway.
I tried, and I failed. Pushing off the wall, I collided into his mouth.
Four hours later, in a tiny apartment overlooking the stadium, I met the beauty that was Easton’s cock.
Chelsea was right. It was pretty. It was perfect. It overwhelmed my pleasure receptors and unleashed a sexual monster inside me. A monster that, seven years later, would start to eat away at our lives.
4
3 years later
EASTON
Florida State had been full of women. It was started as a women’s college, back in the 70’s, and the demographic remained slanted, pussy spilling across this campus in every direction but up.
I came down on a recruiting trip in March. Left my house with a scarf and gloves, and boarded a 747 that sat on the runway for an extra forty-five minutes to allow a blizzard to pass.
Six hours later, I was on a bus, rolling through palm trees and looking at girls in bikinis, stretched out like hot dogs on a broiler, outside their dorm.
I’d signed my letter of intent the next morning, and started envisioning my college career at Florida State. Pitching no-hitters to the sound of cheers. Beer flowing like water. A different brunette in my bed every night. A suntan in December. Leaving Tallahassee with a big check in hand and pro contract, untethered and on the top of the world.
