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With his roommate watching.
Oh crap, here I go again. No, brain. No.
Why do I have a feeling this is going to be a disaster?
Chapter Eight
JOEL
“You got this, mate,” Jet tells me as I do my stretches at the starting line. “You’re ready.”
“Yeah.” Not sure I am. Running track is fun, but school competitions stress me out. What if I don’t run fast enough this time? What if I don’t win anything? What will my coach think of me?
What will my parents say? What will everyone think?
“You got this,” Jet says again. “Go get them.”
Jet at least won’t yell at me if I come last.
I can do this.
Jesus, what sort of loser has doubts about something like that? I can date a girl, take her to my place and not fucking panic that I can’t perform. She turns me on. I’m fully hard whenever I’m around her.
This has to fucking work.
I run track. Marathons. I have endurance. I perform. In everything. Bring it on.
But as she walks out of the building toward my car, I find myself gripping the wheel of my car like a lifeline.
I shouldn’t have worried, though. Not about getting hard, anyway. She sways her hips a little as she approaches, and holy fuck, is that the same girl I kissed three days ago at the bookstore? My sexy little nerdy girl?
In a tight, short black dress and heels, with her blond hair swept up and her golden-brown eyes lined with black behind her glasses, she’s goddamn hot. Hotter than ever. The dress is pretty conservative, but the cleavage shows off the lushness of her boobs, the curve of her hip, the length of her shapely leg.
She’s still herself—and as she slides into the passenger seat I notice that her earrings are dragons, which pleases me in its nerdiness—but she’s also something else, something more. Something darker than the gold of her hair and the bronze of her eyes, the white of her skin and the pink of her cheeks.
An old soul. An honest soul. A girl who likes sex. Who wants sex. Who’s made for sex.
I’m so hard it hurts.
I reach for her glasses. I take them off, then I slide my hand around her neck, along her smooth, satiny skin, and pull her to me for a deep kiss. She gasps in my mouth, and I thrust my tongue past her sweet lips, needing her. My other hand, still on the wheel, is threatening to break it. My gut clenches so hard I think I might come just from her taste, the feel of her.
“Fuck.” I break off, pull back, lick my lips. Her sweetness lingers. “If I don’t stop, we won’t be going anywhere.”
She laughs, a little husky, her eyes brilliant and dark. She’s affected by the kiss as much as I am, and the thought thrills me.
“Buckle up,” I tell her and drive her to one of my favorite places—an old, tiny bar close to where she works with low music and dark décor. They serve some pretty good wine, and she tells me to order for her.
That’s fucking hot.
I order her a good white wine and a red one for myself. She’s sitting so close to me our legs touch, and every time I glance her way, my eyes are inexorably drawn to her breasts. Then her glasses, and her warm brown eyes behind them.
I want to throw her on my bed, rip off her clothes, leave her in her shoes and those sexy librarian glasses, and fuck her hard.
My dick is an iron bar in my pants.
We talk about history and books and comics, but I can’t focus. I want her. I want to touch her. Pleasure her. Hear her moan as I go down on her. As I thrust into her.
Will she be on board with that? Is it too soon? It’s just that I can’t remember ever being so hard for a chick, a chick I also happen to like as a person, and it’s fucking me up.
