He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. "So you’re telling me you abandoned me—after the night I just gave you—for coffee?"
I bite my lip, trying and failing to suppress the slow, satisfied smile stretching across my face. "I mean…yeah."
His groan is low and dramatic, but his grip only tightens, fingers pressing into my waist, his body warm and solid above mine. "Used and discarded, just like that."
"You poor thing. How will you survive?" I tilt my head, pretending to pout as I trail a hand down his bare chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath my fingers.
His hand moves, sliding under the hem of his shirt I stole—well, technically borrowed—his thumb brushing the soft skin just above my hip bone, making me shiver.
"You gonna make it up to me?" His voice drops, deep and husky, like he already knows the answer.
I suck in a slow breath, my body already reacting to how he’s touching me, to the heat in his gaze, the weight of knowing exactly what he’s capable of now.
I lick my lips, tilting my chin up, letting my fingers skate lower over his stomach. "I don’t know, how exactly can I make it up to you?"
His eyes darken, and I barely have time to breathe before he moves.
One second, he’s hovering above me, and the next, he’s rolling us, his hands gripping my hips as he pulls me onto his lap, my knees settling on either side of him.
I gasp, bracing my hands on his shoulders as he looks up at me, his thumb dragging lazy circles along my waist, pushing my shirt higher until he lifts it over my head and it finds its home back on the floor.
He leans back on the pillow, his smirk all male as he intertwines his fingers behind his head.
“You could start by showing me what that mouth can do.”
And oh, I do.
Finals week is actual hell.
I don’t think I’ve seen the sun in three days. I don’t think I’ve eaten a real meal since yesterday. If I have to look at one more equation, my brain is going to leak out of my ears.
Lyla and I are holed up in the library, surrounded by textbooks, loose papers, and enough caffeine to probably send us into cardiac arrest.
I groan, dropping my forehead onto my open notebook. “I’m not going to survive this.”
Lyla flips a page in her psych textbook, not even looking up. “Oh, you’ll be fine. If your football boyfriend can help you pull off a B in math, you can do anything.”
I lift my head just enough to glare at her. “He is not a football boyfriend.”
She smirks. “Mmm. He’s a football player. He’s your boyfriend. Sounds like a football boyfriend to me.”
I open my mouth to argue, but before I can, a familiar voice cuts in.
"Is my girl falling apart yet?"
I immediately straighten, my stomach flipping at the sound of Jaxon’s voice.
He grins as he stops next to our table, still slightly out of breath, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder like he sprinted here between obligations. He’s in his team-issued sweats, his hoodie hanging loose, and there’s a light sheen of sweat at his hairline that tells me he just finished lifting.
And fuck, does he look good.
With his insane schedule combined with the chaos of finals, we’ve had to settle for stolen moments between classes, or we end up falling asleep tangled up in each other before spending much time talking. I’m so looking forward to the winter break coming up. If the team keeps winning, they’ll be busy well into the break, but at least we won’t have the added pressure of classes.
"Depends," Lyla muses. "Did you bring her food? Because if not, you should probably back away slowly."
Jaxon smirks, reaching into his hoodie pocket and tossing something onto my notebook.
A Twix bar.
