“For your information,” she says through gritted teeth. “I’m not in the habit of shaming my partners. Especially when their work is top-notch. I’d be a shitty partner if I behaved that way.”
“It’s not shitty to hold people accountable.”
“Agreed. But that’s not what we’re talking about here. You did the work, and you did it well, which is why I corrected the typos without making a fuss.” She’s calling them typos, but it was more than that. I wrote the wrong damn word. “It wasn’t a power play or some underhanded method of putting you down.” She wraps her arms around her midsection. “If I’d known the changes would upset you, I’d have pointed them out so you could correct them.”
“Okay.” That’s all I wanted. To be treated like anyone else. No special treatment.
She nods. “Okay.”
A beat passes and we stare at one another, neither of us willing—or able—to break the silence.
Sutton licks her lips, tongue gliding over the tender pink flesh in a way that has my cock stirring.
“Did we just have our first real fight?” I ask, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.
“I think so.” She spins on her heel, sashays over to the nightstand, and yanks the drawer open. When she turns back to me, Rose is resting in her palm. “And now,” she says, voice low and husky. “If you’re done being a stubborn ass, I believe we have unfinished business.”
I quirk a brow in silent challenge.
“You.” She takes a step toward me, hips swinging. “Me.” Another step. “Rose.” She swaggers past, trailing a finger across my chest. “The desk.”
My pulse spikes and my feet are cemented to the floor as she sets the toy on the desk and plants her palms on the surface, that perfect ass on display. She turns to look over her shoulder and when our eyes meet, my cock springs to attention.
Fuuuck.
“Come on, Devin. You can spend the night stewing about that paper or you can make my fantasies come true.” She flashes me a devilish smile. “Unless you’d rather watch?”
32
SUTTON
Nothing like a hard-hittinggame of football to get the adrenaline pumping.
I’d known Michigan would be a rough game—it’s all anyone’s talked about on campus this week—but it’s turning out to be brutal, both on the field and in the stands. The fans are in rare form, vacillating between pride and frustration, the mood in the stadium shifting with each play.
“Come on, ref! He was clearly holding. Get your head out of your ass!”
Case in point.
The heckler seated in the front row at the forty-yard line hasn’t shut up since kickoff.
There should be a rule against assholes getting such good seats.
Look, I’ve never cared about football, but it’s impossible to stand on the sideline each week and not become invested in Waverly’s dream of making a championship run. A dream that will end today if they don’t turn things around.
We’re up by three, but it’s late in the fourth quarter and nothing’s guaranteed. Not with the way this game has been going. If they lose…
I can’t think about it. Can’t think about how it’ll crush Devin.
On the bright side, my performance has been on point.
I nailed my pushups. Slayed the t-shirt cannon. And my pre-halftime dance was freaking spectacular, if I say so myself.
Which I do.
Obviously.
Even Coach Sharpe complimented my performance today, so, #winning.
