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It’s the sex, I tell myself as I save my notes from today’s marketing lecture and close my laptop, shoving it into my bag. The awesome sex.
And my general and regrettable lack thereof.
Maybe it’s time to get my head out of my ass and start looking. Looking at guys of my age and status—students—instead of millionaire playboys who travel halfway around the world to watch an opera in Sydney or eat at their favorite sushi restaurant in Tokyo.
Normal guys. Even if they aren’t so godlike in bed, or out of it.
Norman from my English class has asked me, like, a hundred times already this semester if I want to catch a movie with him, and Jaxon from my economics class mentioned three times in the past ten days that we should study together for the upcoming history test.
Jaxon is cute. And come on, Hawk’s not all that much older than me and Jaxon. I’m nineteen. Hawk is—as my googling him successfully revealed—twenty-two.
But going out with Jaxon… No. Just, no.
I snap my bag shut and close my eyes. Hawk. It’s normal to be thinking about him, I remind myself. He saved me the night of the break-up—swept in and made me forget the pain, made me feel good about myself, gave me lots of mind-blowing orgasms and turned the night into a sexy fairytale.
It’s over. It’s over now, Layla. Move on.
Still, I don’t call Jaxon, or Norman, and I don’t look at the boys as I walk out of the auditorium toward my car.
I don’t need boys, I decide. Not now. It’s good to take a break after being with Chance for two years. Concentrate on my studies, spend time with Dorothy, maybe visit Mom.
Let the memory of Hawk fade. Then maybe I’ll see his pic in the newspaper, in the entertainment section, or in Mom’s gossipy magazines, and smile fondly.
One day.
I head home, mulling over this, trying to decide if traveling to New York in the middle of the semester is a good idea, when my cell phone rings.
Parking my car, I pull out the cell. “Dorothy? I’m almost home.” Because who else might be calling me tonight? “Is everything okay?”
The silence at the other end of the line stretches.
Then comes a dark chuckle that trickles over my skin like melted caramel. “Everything’s okay, yeah. Depending on how you are, Hot Body.”
Heat spills in my chest, spreading up my neck. “I’m, um, fine.” I clear my throat. “What’s up?”
“Something’s definitely up and hardening.” I can hear the wolfish grin in his voice. “I’d send you a pic but pulling my pants down is a challenge where I’m at right now.”
The heat seeps into my cheeks.
Oh God. “Where are you?” I didn’t mean for my voice to go all breathy, but I can picture him in my mind and…
“On my bike.”
I bite my lip. “So no pics possible, huh?”
I know he rides a motorcycle. A big, mean-looking one. I’ve read much more than I should have about him these past few days, despite my resolve not to think about him.
“I could show you. Up and personal.”
I’m holding my breath, I realize, and let it out in a whoosh. “Is that so?”
Because I thought he’d never call me. That I’d never hear his voice again, or see his face across from mine.
“I’m not far from the restaurant where we met,” he says, his voice soft.” Come.”
I almost do. Holy crap, I’ll see him again. “And then?”
“I wanna take you for a ride.”
