The Locker Room(47)

Emory: I have a good hand too, you know . . .

Knox: I see what you’re trying to do. Get me all hot and bothered from the shock of hearing that you masturbate. Sorry to inform you, babe, but in my imagination, you masturbate to me anyway. Nice try.

Emory: Damn it. Are you really not going to budge?

Knox: On the first day I met you, I asked you out to lunch and you said no. My pride took a hit that day. I’m just stubborn enough to hold on to that nugget and power through. The question is, are you really that stubborn not to go out to lunch with me?

Emory: It’s the principle of the thing.

Knox: Your loss.

Emory: You’re an ass.

Knox: Whoa, say that again. Turned me on.

Emory: I hate you.





“Psst, babe, over here.” I look through the books on the bookshelf and spot a black backward hat, followed by a pair of blue eyes—my favorite pair.

It’s December.

December. And Knox hasn’t cracked, not even a little.

We’ve had some pretty heavy make-out sessions and the minute it starts to turn over to something more, he pulls away and turns on a movie, or starts reading a book, or looks at sports highlights. His resistance is platinum level. It’s driving me crazy.

So crazy I’m just going to say it: I’m horny.

I’m the horniest girl on campus—with my competition for the title nowhere near me—because every time I’m with Knox, I’m not only faced with the hottest guy I know, but I’m left with metaphorical blue balls whenever we part.

Anytime I see him, all I want to do is tear his clothes off then let him do the same to me. I want to roll around naked, our sweaty bodies clapping together—yeah, clapping. I want to make so many noises with him, that’s how freaking insane I am. It’s come to the embarrassing point that whenever I see any marketing material of him around campus, I get a dull ache between my legs.

Sports brochures are turning me on.

This is so stupid.

Over a lunch bet.

A simple lunch bet. It’s ridiculous, something I should have given in to, but I swear on my left nipple that’s constantly hard, anytime I think about losing the bet, Holt or Carson text me with words of encouragement.

This isn’t just about me.

It’s about them and walking up to bat to a Britney Spears song.

So I’m holding strong. At least I think I am.

“Knox, what are you—?”

“Come over here, Em.” He motions with his fingers. Fingers I have yet to experience. Fingers I want deep inside me, twiddling, flicking, massaging.

Maybe I could become acquainted with those fingers right now . . .

Wait, no. No, I can’t.

Not only would I lose the bet, but if Mrs. Flower caught me with my skirt up around my waist, that would be the end of my internship and everything I’ve worked hard for this semester. Being under her reins hasn’t been easy.

Speaking of which, I look to the left where Mrs. Flower is talking to a student, well, more like berating, and when I see that the coast is clear, I set down the stack of books I was putting away on the cart and make my way around the shelf where Knox pulls me by the hand and into his chest.

His lips find mine immediately and then his hand falls to my backside where he grips my skirt, bunching it up in his hand and lifting it to an inappropriate level. I swat at his hand, but it does nothing but intensify both his kiss and his hold on me.

We’ve gone through a fair amount of Chapstick over the last few months, our mouths inseparable when we’re together, but our make-out sessions are nothing like this, nothing this carnal, this needy. When I pull away, I stare at his crazed eyes.

“Knox, what’s going on?”

He pins my hands above my head and kisses the side of my neck. “I want you, Em. I want you so fucking bad.”

Jesus. Here? Now?

Couldn’t he have said that the other night when his hand was dancing with the smooth waistband of my silk shorts?

“What are you doing here?”

“Trying to study with the team. We’re in the red room, which has given me the perfect view of your tiny ass in this short skirt, prancing around the library. It’s driving me so goddamn crazy.”

“You’re here? With the team? Since when?”

“An hour ago,” he says, his lips moving up to my jaw.

“And you didn’t come to say hi?”

“Not when you’re dressed like this.”

I sigh as his teeth graze my skin. “I’m always dressed like this.”

“Yeah, which reminds me, can you start wearing pants please? It’s fucking winter.”

“I have leggings. It works.”

“In too many tortuous ways.” His lips still, and he lets out a long breath as his head drops near my shoulder. “Damn it, Em, you’re killing me.”

“You think this is easy on me? This is the stupidest bet I’ve ever taken part in. Do you know how many times we could have had sex by now?”

“I can’t even think about it or else my dick will cry.”

No one likes a crying dick.

“What’s going on over here?” Both Knox and I jump from the shrill voice of Mrs. Flower. We turn side by side and I swear my stomach hits the floor when I see the disapproving look on Mrs. Flower’s face.