But I can’t resist the chance to be alone with Olly or the giddy feeling bubbling up inside of me, knowing I’m the one going home with him tonight.
“Let’s go.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Olly
Lacey shifts from one foot to the next, standing awkwardly by the couch in my studio apartment instead of lounging all over it like she usually would.
I lean against the kitchen counter, fold my arms over my chest, and watch in fascination as she tucks a nonexistent stray hair behind her ear. “You’re nervous.”
My voice is louder than I intend, but her anxiousness is confusing and a little arousing.
She tucks her chin into her neck, making rolls of skin appear as she shakes her head and pulls a face. “No, I’m not.”
I grin. “You’re a fucking sexy dork.”
Lacey’s cheeks flush a deep rosy pink, so bright that even my studio apartment’s dim lighting can’t hide the blush. Turning toward the couch, she bumps into a corner table—a piece of furniture that has sat in the same spot for two years…
She’s acting like she’s never been in my apartment before. What’s got her so jittery?
She bends down to pick up a book that tumbled off the table.
Fabric cups her ass like a second skin, and the seam between her thighs splits her pussy into two puffy mounds.
Heat sizzles at the base of my spine and throbs in my balls as my cock bucks against my zipper—thick and ready. All I’d have to do is tug her pants down and tell her to grip her ankles.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
When did I become the guy who almost comes in his jeans over his best friend?
Is that why Lacey is so nervous? Can she see my erection?
Shit. The last thing I want is to make her uncomfortable just because my balls forgot that best friends don’t empty them.
I point a thumb over my shoulder to the dresser. “I’m gonna change.”
She nods, straightening the book and her body. “Good idea. Me too.”
Lacey walks to the dresser and collects the pajamas she keeps here for the nights she sleeps over.
She gives me a shy smile and darts to the bathroom.
I look down at my bulging crotch. “Off limits. Now calm the fuck down.”
I swap my jeans for sweats, shove my longest hoodie over my shoulders, and let it settle over my crotch. Scrubbing my hands up and down my face, I jog in place for a few seconds. “Okay, you’re going to talk your best friendthrough getting her professor—without blowing your load in your pants like a horny teenager.”
The bathroom door opens, and she walks out in the oldest pair of flannels she owns, so thin I can see hints of skin in the light. The white tank top looks almost identical to the tit-bouncing one she wore on campus the other day.
Is it too late to become religious and start praying?
“Leftover Chinese?” Distraction. Perfect.
“Dumplings?”
