The Locker Room(55)

“Did you tell her about me?”

“No. I haven’t told anyone about you.”

“Ouch,” he says on a chuckle. “And just last week I sent out a family newsletter with your face on the front and your name on the bottom, letting everyone know you’re my girl.”

“I hope it was a flattering picture.”

“Nope, sent a real woof bag picture to everyone.”

“That’s fair, you know, since I haven’t told my family about you.”

“And why’s that again?” He crosses his legs at the ankles, getting more comfortable.

“Self-preservation. I’m not ready for the invasion of my privacy. Don’t worry, they’ll find out at Christmas when I’m constantly hanging by my phone, waiting for a text from you.”

And here’s the truth I’m part terrified to share. He’s probably thought me indifferent at times, a girl with a tough exterior. But I’m not really. This is offering him something that makes me vulnerable. He’s awesome to joke around with, and I definitely love putting him in his place, but I can trust him with this.

“Are you saying you’re going to miss me over winter break?”

“Yeah, I am. Terribly.” I turn into him and run my finger over his jaw, the thick scruff of his five o’clock shadow pulling under my freshly painted fingernail. “I really like you, Knox, and I’ve become quite addicted to your random pop-ins and flirtatious texts. You make me feel special, something I’m not sure Neil ever made me feel.”

“Damn, Ealson. I wasn’t expecting you to say that.” He scratches the side of his head. “You kind of made my stomach do flips.”

“In a good way?”

He nods and brings his lips to mine, where he presses the softest of kisses across my mouth. “In a very good way. I like you a lot too. So even though we’re breaking rule number two and not doing all the oral”—he winks—“I’m fucking happy just getting to know you.”

“I think you’re the first guy to ever say that.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re right.” He laughs and presses another kiss to my lips. “But you’re worth it.”





Lindsay looks past my shoulder and into my dorm room, then furrows her brow. “Where’s Knox?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, rubbing my eye with my palm. “He dropped me off last night and went back to his place.”

“What?” Lindsay’s eyes nearly bug out of her head. “You mean he didn’t make a move to peel that dress off you?”

“Nope.” I sink into one of the armchairs in the common area. “We made out a little in his truck, but then he walked me to my dorm and kissed me good night. When he got back to the loft, he sent me a sweet text, and then I went to bed.”

“How on earth did you two not do it last night? I’m honestly becoming sexually frustrated from you two not fucking.”

I shrug and lean my head against the back of the chair in a dreamlike state. “It’s more than just sexual attraction between us. We like each other past everything physical. I truly like being around him and getting to know him.”

“Still, how do you keep your hands to yourself?”

“It’s hard.” I think back to being in the truck last night when I was on top of his lap, the hem of my dress almost around my waist as I straddled him. His hands roamed my back, mine ran over his thick chest. We kept things to our mouths only, but God, was I tempted to beg for more. Just from the strength and command in his hands, I know he’s going to be amazing in bed, but now I feel determined to keep working on our friendship. The man I’m getting to know is one of the nicest—and often cockiest—I’ve ever known. I actually think our sexual relationship will be better the more we know about each other. Am I horny? Yes. So much. But, friends first. Always.

“Well, props to you for being so strong-willed. I would have sat on his face the first time he noticed me.”

“Aren’t you classy,” I joke. “How are things with the freshman?”

“Ugh”—she flops to the side—“he’s so immature.”

“Well, he is fresh from high school, after all,” I point out. “I’m sure it takes them at least a year to mature. What’s he doing?”

“I can’t tell you.” She drapes her arm over her eyes.

“Well, now you’re going to have to tell me.”

“Tell you what?” Dottie asks, coming into the room, coffee in hand, her hair looking like she stuck her finger in a light socket overnight. She pushes Lindsay’s legs up, sits, and then drapes Lindsay’s legs over hers.

“Apparently Lindsay’s freshman fling is immature,” I provide.

“You haven’t told her about the whole boob thing?” Dottie asks in disbelief. “Oh my God, Lindsay, you need to tell her.”

“What happened?” I shift in my seat, ready for a story, because with Lindsay, the stories are always good.

“I just can’t. You tell it.”

“My pleasure.” With a huge smile, Dottie says, “The guy likes boobs.”

“Okay, so . . . he’s a breathing male, makes sense.”