A shadow falls over me. I look up to find Olly standing above me, the afternoon sun hitting his back, giving him an ethereal, godlike glow—devilish gleam more like it—unconsciously luring admirers with the sharp angle of his jaw and devastating hearts with a smile.
No wonder he was my muse before we ever met.
He arches one dark brow and a slow smile spreads across his full mouth. “See something you like?”
My stomach clenches with the truth.
Okay, so the luring part isn’t unconscious—Olly is gorgeous and he knows it. “It’s hard to see anything over the size of your head.”
“You should see the size of my other one.”
And… my internal temperature shoots up ten degrees.
Olly flirts with everyone. It doesn’t mean anything.
I roll my eyes, willing the heat out of my skin, and pack up my things before holding one hand above my head. Olly takes the invitation and tugs me to my feet. We’re so close now I can smell the sweet tang of cherry cola on his breath, reminding me of the first day I saw him sitting a few rows in front of me during a lecture, a soda can to his lips.
Since that day, I’ve had an insatiable need to know if he tastes just as sweet.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
Olly slings an arm over my shoulder, breaking my moment of secret infatuation. I should crumple beneath his weight—his body thick and enticingly powerful compared to my tiny frame—but his touch is light and gentle.
“Aren’t you working today?” I ask as we walk across campus in the direction of my apartment.
“I am.” His lips brush the tip of my ear. “But I wanted to see your face first.”
My stomach flips at his honesty, my silly crush forming scenes in my head that will never play out in reality.
“What storyline is your dirty mind plotting now?” he asks, peering down at me.
Heat blooms up my neck, coloring my cheeks.
His grin widens. “You blush so easily for a woman paying her way through school by writing about fucking.”
“I write romance. The bedroom scenes are… necessary.”
“Thefuckingscenes are the best part.” His lids lower in a smoldering look that should only be reserved for movie stars.
And my skin invents a new shade of where’s-a-hole-I-can-bury-myself-in red as I look for eavesdroppers.
He kisses the top of my head, chest rumbling with laughter. “You’re too fucking adorable.”
I want to groan. He’s right—not about the adorable part. My nonexistent dating life proved that. I’ve written more than twenty full-length spicy romance novels, but I still blush like a shy virgin whenever someone mentions sex.
Unlike my monk-like existence, Olly has a very active social life, which he has shared—in graphic detail—since the first day we met two years ago.
I’d watched him from afar for most of my first semester at college, too shy to approach him and too stubborn to admit I wanted to. Because boys weren’t, and still aren’t, a part of mydistraction-free plan to work hard and graduate school debt-free.
But Olly is a distraction I can never say no to.
After trying to finish a chapter between classes one day, I found my crush reading over my shoulder, grinning. He’d caught shy Lacey Wright scribbling a bodice-ripping, eye-popping scene.
I was mortified, but instead of judgment, he offered me his dirtiest smirk and described one of his hookups in nipple-hardening detail.
I’d finished drafting the entire book that night, and we’ve been inseparable ever since.
