I blush, but it’s automatic, not real. “I think I’ll pass.”
“Seriously? You’re not even a little bit curious?”
I start to say no, but just then I glance back and see Clay Newell standing with his friends. He’s got his phone out, typing one-handed, and his other hand is holding a cannoli, which he’s chomping like a cigar. I catch sight again of a cluster of angry red acne along his neck, just above the hoodie, and the view makes something inside me wither. He’s objectively attractive, sure. But up close, he looks like every other guy on this campus: a little bit “red pill,” a little bit too self-sure, already aging before his time. Compared to Kent, he’s a Ken doll left out in the sun. Compared to Kent, every guy here is.
“He’s all yours,” I mutter to Emmeline. “I’m not really looking for a boyfriend right now.”
Emmeline gives me a mock salute, then tucks her phone into her bag and scans the crowd. “You do you, girl. But if you change your mind, Clay’s always at the rec center. And I mean always.” She winks, then turns to flirt with a redheaded sophomore hovering by the coffee.
I let out a slow, steadying breath, trying to exhale the stale classroom air and all the feelings that come with it. In my head, I run through the comparison test again: Clay’s sweaty grip versus Kent’s huge, surgical hands that could break a walnut but always touch me like I’m made of glass. Clay’s beer-and-Axe body spray smell versus Kent’s pure, clean warmth—soap, sandalwood, something bitter and expensive. Clay’s smirk versus the way Kent’s mouth goes hard at the corners when he’s about to come, the way he growls my name with his face buried between my legs.
I snap back when Clay returns, the boy chewing. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then gestures at the door with his chin. “Hey, Mary Kate, you wanna come to a party on Friday? My fraternity’s throwing a thing. Sigma Epsilon Chi. It’s gonna be, like, wild. You should bring your friends.”
He says “Sigma Epsilon Chi” like it’s a golden ticket. I can practically hear Emmeline shrieking with delight. I force a smile, trying to look interested. “I’ll see if I can make it.”
He grins, satisfied, and then leans in again. “Just saying, last time we threw a party, the cops came twice. You like to party, right?”
I almost laugh. I want to say, “I’ve done more in a single night than you have in your entire college career, pal,” but I just nod and murmur, “Sure.”
He pats me on the back—a touch too lingering, too familiar—and then drifts off toward the elevators, already talking about supplements and protein intake with his buddies.
I watch him go, then look down at my hands. They’re sticky with cannoli cream. I wipe them on a napkin and pack up my bag,thinking only of Kent. Of his hands, his mouth, the look in his eyes when he made me come with a single, brutal lick on my clit. How he pushed his tongue into my pussy hole, and then pulled out and licked the taut clench of my back button. Of how deliciously dirty the older man is. Of what he’s promised me for tonight. My phone buzzes again, and I know it’s him, probably telling me to be on time, to come straight to the basement sauna without passing go.
I toss my empty paper cup and slide out the door, bracing for the cold. All I can think of is him, the only man who’s ever made me feel wanted and needy and feminine at the same time.
Friday night at the Sigma house doesn’t stand a chance.
11
ILLICIT TIMES IN THE SAUNA
KENT
The sauna is the size of a small guest bedroom, finished in kiln-cured cedar that still leeches resin in the corners. I like to run it at a temperature just shy of tropical, a climate that warps the wood and beads sweat on your skin before you’ve even shut the glass door. Tonight I take it up an extra notch—pure Scandinavian torture, hot enough to haze the air, to make you gasp when you step inside. The recessed lighting throws everything amber, even my own hands as I wipe down the upper bench and set out the little tray of oils. Eucalyptus, orange, and a third bottle that’s unlabeled, but smells faintly of honey and musk. I arrange them with surgical precision on the highest slat, then adjust the folded towels—one navy, one white—on the lower bench.
When I check the heat dial, I see it’s at one-ten. Perfect. I thumb it a notch higher, because I want the room thick with steam when she arrives. A fresh hiss emerges from the corner vent, and the cloud grows instantly, a slow-motion explosion of humidity that coats the glass in a film of condensation. It’s a microclimate engineered for sweat, submission, and the particular needs of aman who can’t resist controlling every variable, even when his own body is the experiment.
I strip down to my gym shorts—black, loose, with a worn waistband—and wipe the sweat already collecting along my ribs. I think, for a second, about just going naked. It’s not like she hasn’t seen it. But then I remember the innocence in Mary Kate’s eyes when I make her wait, the way she loves the reveal, and I keep the shorts on for her sake, for the hell of it.
I sit, hands on knees, and for a moment it’s quiet but for the staccato tick of the little clock above the door and the relentless throb of my own pulse. The air is so dense with eucalyptus it’s almost narcotic; I can feel it in my sinuses, tingling, as if it’s readying me for something wonderful and irreversible.
And then, as I stare at the gleaming sweat on my own thighs, I have a thought—not new, but sharper than before. I could tell her, tonight. I could tell Mary Kate everything: that the “medical condition” was a fabrication, that the stones were real but the pain never was, that I invented the whole protocol just to get her hands on me. I could tell her that I’ve had my eye on her since high school, and that my marriage to her mom was a ruse. I could strip myself bare, in every sense, and let her see the worst of me. Would she run? Would she dash for the hills, screaming? Or would she stay, and laugh, and thank me for giving her a way to touch me without guilt?
But the thought dissolves the moment I hear footsteps outside, muffled slightly from soft slippers, but unmistakable for their lightness. My whole body tenses in anticipation, nerves pulled tight as violin strings. She’s coming, and there is no room for honesty tonight. Only hunger.
The glass door swings open, and the white-out glare of the hall gives way to the dim, boiling glow of the sauna. Mary Kate steps in barefoot, skin flushed at her collarbones, the outline of her body blurred by the terrycloth robe cinched at the waist. Her hair is loose and damp at the ends, like she just stepped out of a shower, and her eyes are already glazed with heat. I watch her pause, toes curled against the cedar, nostrils flaring as she takes in the air.
She closes the door behind her, sealing us both in, and leans against the glass. For a second, she says nothing—just lets her eyes travel over me, from my bare chest to my abs to the tented shorts that do nothing to hide the anticipation underneath. I sense she wants to drag this out, to make a game of it.
“You really go all-out,” she says, voice soft, a little fuzzy from the heat. “Do you always use the sauna this way? Or is this a special treatment?”
I grin. “Depends on my company.”
She snorts, rolling her eyes, then pads forward until she’s standing right in front of me, close enough that I could touch her knee with a tilt of my finger. The robe gapes a little at the top, and the sweat beads on her neck, gathering in the hollow of her throat.
She holds my gaze, chin up. “It’s so hot in here,” she says, and for a moment it’s just literal, a meteorological observation, but then I see the corners of her plush pout twitch up. “I’m going to faint if I wear this thing.”
Then, Mary Kate undoes the belt and lets the robe fall open, slow and deliberate, before shrugging the fabric off entirely. It pools around her ankles, leaving her utterly naked in the amber light.There’s nothing—no bra, no panties, no hesitation. Her breasts are bare, huge and round and luminous, skin slick with heat and the faintest sheen of oil from her post-shower ritual. Her waist is narrow, hips wide, and between her legs is that delicate triangle of blonde hair I’ve come to love, glistening in the wet air. Her thighs are strong, the shape of her calves athletic, and I see a fine film of sweat already outlining every muscle, every curve.
