I take a step back. He takes one forward.
The thing about me is, I can play the long and short game. I like to be teased. Delayed gratification is some kind of torturous foreplay, even if it means I’m spending all day thinking about him. And I think by the look in his eyes, he knows that.
“Okay, how about we make a deal instead?” he says with an unmistakable glint.
My chin rises. “I’m listening.”
“You let me take you out for dinner tonight, and then we come home and…” His teeth capture his bottom lip, and I’m tense all over, watching the movement.
I swallow hard. “And?”
His eyes fill with hunger and victory, voice dropping an octave. “And you can be the good girl that I know you are and let me spread you out on that new bed, and not stop until you’re begging me to.”
My knees actually wobble. Who says that at nine in the morning? Who looks like that while saying it? Who fucking knew my roommate had a filthy mouth? Color me thrilled.
He just grins, devastatingly handsome as he is, and he knows exactly what he’s done to me. “Go to class, gatinha. I’ll take care of the rest tonight.”
I spin toward the door before my brain convinces my body to do something reckless. Responsible Adult Liv barely wins this round.
But I don’t think she’ll survive dinner.
***
I tap my pen. Cross my legs. Uncross them. Nothing helps. My body feels like it’s suspended in a state ofalmost.
It’s unfair, really, to expect anyone to sit through a ninety-minute lecture on fifteenth-century plaster when they’re basically experiencing extreme horniness.
You did this to yourself. Remember the speech about loving delayed gratification?
By the time class ends, I’ve learned absolutely nothing about art history except that brushstrokes apparently make me think of Jay’s hands, ones I know intimately.
I pack up quickly, slipping into the stream of students spilling out into the crisp air.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and when Dad’s name flashes on the screen, I swipe to answer.
“Hey, Dad.”
“My daughter is alive and well. Just checking in. Haven’t heard from you in a while.”
Guilt pricks—I meant to email him last week and didn’t. I meant to call him the week before, but I also didn’t. My dad worries far more than my mom does. “I know, I know. I meant to call, but—well, classes.”
He chuckles. “Classes or boys?”
I nearly choke on my own spit. “Father! I’ll have you know I’m an angel.” With horns, but what he doesn’t know…
“Alright, alright.” He softens. “So what’s new, kiddo?”
I bite my lip, shifting my bag higher on my shoulder as I weave through the crowd of students. “School is good, I’m loving it here so far.”
“And Daphne and Finn are taking care of you?”
I internally laugh at the fact that my dad was so innocent to all of the trouble we three got into when we were younger.
“I don’t see them as much as I’d like, but we’re all good.”
“And your roommate? You said he’s a friend of theirs, right?”
“Yep, he’s good,” I say, keeping it breezy. What I don’t add isgood at bed-building, good at making me laugh, good atmaking me lose my damn mind before nine a.m.None of that is Dad-appropriate information.
