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The ladder creaks under his weight, but he quickly makes his way up.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” he grumbles. “Getting inside.”
“You know we have that thing called a door? Another one of those magical things. You push it open andenterinside like a normal human being.”
He quirks his brows at me. “What about your roommates?”
I open my mouth but close it because, damn, I hate it when he’s right.
“Move,” he whispers, his arm reaching for the windowsill. There’s about half a foot between the stairs and the window, and I watch as he hoists himself inside my room.
His gaze meets mine once he’s inside, those dark eyes staring at me as he breathes hard—the material of his shirt shifts with each breath, stretching over the hard muscles and broad shoulders.
I graze my teeth over my lower lip, remembering the feel of those shoulders under my fingertips as he was eating me out on the hood of his car.
Just thinking about it has me all hot and bothered all over again. Because damn…
“Nice shirt.”
I blink, my gaze dropping down, only to realize I’m wearing a Raven’s hoodie.
His Raven’s hoodie.
The one he gave me at the beginning of the semester, and I conveniently never gave it back.
Shit.
I completely forgot about it.
“It’s a hoodie,” I shrug nonchalantly. I turn around, ready to get back to my laptop when he tugs me back.
“It has my name on it.”
“You want it back?” With my free hand, I grab the edge of the hoodie, ready to pull it over my head, when he grabs my hand and stops me.
“Nah, keep it. It looks better on you anyway.”
And there it is again. That warm feeling that spreads over in the pit of my stomach.
Feeling uncomfortable, I shift from one foot to the other. “Well, it’s big and comfy. That’s the only reason why I keep it around.”
“You like your things big and comfy, huh?” he smirks.
I glare at him, making my way to my bed. “I seriously don’t know why I even let you in.”
“Because wanting to admit it or not, you missed me.” Flashing me a smile, he grabs the back of his shirt and pulls it over his head, letting it drop on the chair before he bends down and ruffles through his bag.
I lean against my pillows, watching the muscles of his back work. “In your dreams, hotshot.”
My fingers itch to grab a camera and take a few shots of him. Shots that are completely different from what I did for the school paper. Something just for me.
Different scenarios go through my head when I see him pull a bottle out of the bag.
My brows pull together as I sit upright. “Are you hurt?”
Prescott looks up, panic flashing in his eyes for a split second before he nods reluctantly. “It was a rough game.”
