Page 65 of Breakaway Hearts

“Right, of course.” He leans back, raising his hands in surrender. “Me too.”

I look at him, skeptical, but he pulls out a textbook and starts reading. I watch for a minute, but he doesn’t look up, and I don’t want him to think I’m staring, so I go back to my textbook and try to pick up where I left off. Only now I’m not only hungry, I’m keenly aware of Owen sitting across from me, and the smell of that soup is lingering, making me sort of hope he leaves first, forgetting it on the table, so I can have it. Or I could just give in and accept the kindness, but that feels dangerous. Like a slippery slope that will lead me somewhere I do not want to go. Unless it’s drugged, and I find out without feeling like this whenever he’s close to me.

“Mads…” Owen says, almost pleadingly, so I look up and find the teasing gone, leaving hunger in his eyes. “I’m behaving, but if you keep biting that lip…” He shifts in his chair and for a second, I think he’s about to come over and show me exactly what it does to him.

I hate that I don’t hate the idea nearly as much as I should.

“Is that all it takes to remove your restraint? Who cares about consent if she’s biting her⁠—”

“Hell yes or fuck no,” he stops me.

“What?”

“I hate to give Colt credit, but it’s a damn good rule. That I stick to.” The intensity Owen says it with sends a wave of heat to my core. I like this corner of the library, because it’s always quiet, but I wish there were more people around right now. Lots of them. Because when I swallow, I’m not so much afraid of as anticipating what comes next.

“I’m not worried about what I’ll do, Madison,” he continues. “I’m just not ready to leave, but you’re looking at me like you’re about to jump me, and I don’t think I’m strong enough to say no to you. When I really don’t want to.”

I want to argue. To say he’s being ridiculous. But I haven’t had sex in months, and every time I try to get myself off, I picture him, then hate that, so I get upset and even more frustrated than I was before.

“I don’t date athletes, Owen,” I say before going back to my paper, which I obviously can’t read in this state. I hate that I used his first name, but Brooks would have been dismissive, and I’m surprised how apologetic I sound. Like I feel bad for turning him down.

“Who said anything about dating?”

I look up, expecting to see that puppy dog smile, teasing me, but his eyes are all heat, and I suddenly can’t breathe. But not like a panic attack where there’s no air; this time there’s so much, but it’s thick with the scent of his stupid body wash, the mint from the gum he’s no longer chewing, and another scent I can only describe as him. The one that excites and calms me in equal measures, that makes me want to do stupid things like actually consider this.

Before I know it, or make the conscious decision, I’m standing, and Owen either anticipated this, or he’s a hell of a lot faster, because he meets me on the side of the table, arms out like he wants to pull me into them, but he holds them back.

Waits for me to make the first move.

And for now, that’s enough. I don’t want to be scared and damaged, I just want to pretend to be a carefree coed and blow off some steam between the stacks.

I slam my mouth to Owen’s like I want to devour him, and he responds in kind, at first just with his mouth, his tongue demanding entrance I am more than happy to give, but as my hands find the back of his neck, pulling him closer, he lets his hands go free, pulling me into him.

His erection presses into me, and the fact that it doesn’t make me want to run away is as upsetting as it is a relief. I don’t even question it when he leads me between the rows.

The shelves dig into my back, which he must realize as he spins us around. I would feel guilty, but I’m sure his Wolves sweatshirt is cushioning the blow, and he isn’t complaining. In fact, he groans and says, “Fuck,” like he’s on top of the world, and I’d be cocky about that if I wasn’t busy trying to get him closer, to relieve the ache in my core, the need between my thighs.

His hands travel down, and I’m fully prepared to slap him if he grabs my ass like a piece of meat, but he goes just below, then lifts me so my legs wrap around his waist and he carries me to the wall, where he can press my back into a solid surface, and I relish the feel of him against me.

I’m wearing what I thought were very sensible shorts, but his fingers travel up my inner thigh, brushing the hem, and I clearly didn’t think of the access loose shorts provide, but I am so grateful someone else did.

I’m ruled entirely by my libido, anchoring my arms around his neck so I can move my hips and give him better access.

“Is this okay?” Owen asks as his fingers toy with the elastic on my very sturdy, very non-sexy, full coverage underwear.

Instead of answering, I press my pussy into his hand, and grind against it.

“Mads,” he presses, playing along, but there’s a warning to his tone, as he keeps his hand on top of the fabric, moving in a way that feels delicious.

I’m aching when he stops the movement and says, “Mads, I’m not going any further unless you⁠—”

A book falls off a shelf, not even near us, but I freeze. It brings me back to Trevor’s bedroom, when the door slammed shut and I realized that I didn’t know the man in front of me, at all. That every guy who’d walked in, that I thought might make him come to his senses and stop this, had all fooled me. I was locked in with them. No escape.

“Mads?” Owen is looking at me with concern, less like he’s waiting for consent and more like he’s about to call someone for me. I hope he’d try Jason first, but 911 or campus security is what a normal person would do, and that would just bury me even deeper into my memories from that night.

“I have to go,” I say. I shouldn’t have let myself get here in the first place.

“Madison,” Owen tries. I genuinely think he’s worried about me, and where I’m trying to go, but it just feels like he’s holding me here and not letting me leave.