Holy. Hell.
She’s wearing an emerald green cocktail dress that hugs her in ways I’m absolutely not prepared for. The silky fabric flows over her curves like it was made just for her, and her hair’s pinned up, with a few loose strands framing her face. She looks… stunning. Not that Dylan doesn’t always look good—hell, she makes sweats and a hoodie look hot—but this? This is different.
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. My brain screams at me to look away, but my eyes aren’t listening. They trail down her body, taking in every detail, from the way the dress shifts when she moves to the soft shimmer on her skin. I’m practically willing my cock to stay down, to behave.Not now. Not now, man.
She reaches the bottom step, her lips curving into that subtle, teasing smile that drives me insane.
“You good?” she asks, raising a brow, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
“Yeah,” I croak, clearing my throat. I offer her my arm, trying to keep things together. “You ready?”
She hooks her arm with mine, and the warmth of her skin shoots straight through me. I lead her out to my car, every step a battle to keep things cool. She’s my girl, but there’s something about seeing her like this—so confident, so beautiful—that makes me feel like I’ve won the lottery.
We slide into the car, and I start the engine, the soft purr of it cutting through the silence. Dylan shifts in her seat, crossing one leg over the other, and I catch the faintest hint of her perfume—something warm and a little spicy.
“So,” she says, glancing over at me with a playful grin. “How hard is it to keep your eyes on the road right now?”
I let out a low laugh, gripping the wheel tighter. “Harder than I’d like to admit.”
She laughs, and the sound feels like a reward.
The drive to the university’s community center doesn’t take long, but every second feels drawn out, like I’m holding my breath without meaning to. When we finally pull into the lot, I cut the engine and glance over at her.
“You look amazing, by the way,” I say, because if I don’t get it out now, it’s going to eat at me all night.
Her eyes soften, and she leans over, brushing a quick kiss on my cheek. “Thanks, Matthew.”
We head inside, and the place is decked out in gold and chocolate decorations. There are white fairy lights strung along the walls, and round tables are scattered throughout the space, each draped in dark tablecloths. The room smells like roasted meat and warm bread, and the low hum of conversation fills the air.
I keep my arm around Dylan’s waist as we grab some appetizers—mini sliders for me, bruschetta for her—and do our best to mingle. She’s not one for small talk, and neither am I, but we manage, sticking close to each other. It’s just staff and donors here tonight. Dylan is the only student in attendance.
“Do I have something on my face?” she asks after I catch myself staring at her again.
“Just beauty,” I say without missing a beat. She rolls her eyes, though I catch the way her lips twitch like she’s trying not to smile.
Before we can grab drinks, I spot Coach Woosley across the room, chatting with a group of donors. He catches my eye, gives me a nod, and makes his way over to us.
“Dylan, Matthew,” Coach greets us, clapping me on the back before turning to Dylan with a grin. “You ready for your big moment?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” she mutters, her fingers fidgeting with the strap of her purse.
Coach chuckles and gives her a reassuring look. “You’ll be great. Just tell them what you told me—how hard you’ve worked and what this scholarship means to you.”
Easier said than done, I think, but Dylan just nods, biting her bottom lip in the way she does when she’s trying to psych herself up.
Coach gives me a look that saystake care of herbefore heading off to mingle again. I lean closer, my voice low so only she can hear. “You’ve got this, Dyl. Just breathe, okay?”
She gives me a quick, tight nod. “Okay.”
A few minutes later, the room quiets as Coach Woosley steps up to the podium and taps the mic. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for being here tonight. I have the pleasure of introducing one of our scholarship athletes—Dylan Murphy.”
I squeeze Dylan’s hand before she pulls away, straightening her shoulders as she walks to the front of the room. She looks confident, but I know her well enough to see the nerves simmering just under the surface.
She steps up to the mic, gives the room a quick scan, and then smiles—one of those genuine, no-holding-back smiles that makes my chest swell with pride.
“Good evening, everyone. Thank you to Coach Woosley for the introduction.” She pauses, letting the room settle. “If anyone missed it, my name is Dylan Murphy, and I’m here at CSU on a full-ride lacrosse scholarship. No, you’re not imagining things—I am a girl.”
The crowd chuckles, and I can’t help but grin.
