The Mistake (Off-Campus #2)(76)

“You’re on.”

We settle in for the movie, Logan on his back, and me snuggled up beside him with my head on his chest. He strokes my hair as the first scene fills the screen. It’s an incredibly un-scary cold open involving a busty blonde, an unseen malevolent force, and a scalding shower. The blonde meets her grisly end by burning alive—the evil spirit, of course, has ghosted the water temperature. Logan tries to give me a high-five after the death scene, which I refuse to reciprocate because I actually feel bad for the girl. Kudos to her—the only decision she makes is to take a shower, and who can fault her for that?

The movie unfolds in the most predictable way. A group of college students conduct paranormal experiments in the ghost house, and then bam—the first one dies.

“Here it comes,” I say gleefully. “The levelheaded reason for why they stay in the house.”

“Watch, the ghost won’t let them leave,” Logan guesses.

He guesses wrong.

On the screen, the characters argue about whether they should go, and one of the girls announces, “We’re doing important work here, guys! We’re proving the existence of paranormal entities! Science needs this. Science needs us.”

I burst out laughing, shuddering against Logan’s rock-hard chest. “Did you hear that, Johnny? Science needs them.”

“I f*cking hate you,” he grumbles.

“Five bucks…” I say in a singsong voice.

His hand slides down to pinch my butt, making me squeak in surprise. “Go ahead and gloat. You win the battle by getting five bucks out of me, but I win the war.”

I sit up. “How do you figure?”

“Because you still have to sit through the rest of this movie, and you’re going to hate every second of it. I, on the other hand, am enjoying it immensely.”

The jerk is absolutely right.

Unless…

As he refocuses his attention on the movie, I nestle close again, only this time I don’t rest my hand on the center of his chest. I plant it lower, mere inches from the waistband of the sweatpants he changed into after dinner. He doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too engrossed in the movie. Ha. He won’t be for long.

With the utmost nonchalance, I drag my hand to where the hem of his white wife-beater has ridden up slightly. Then I sneak my fingers beneath it and lightly stroke the hard plane of his stomach, and his breath hitches. Fighting a smile, I flatten my palm and stop moving it. After a moment, he relaxes.

On the screen, the idiot troupe of paranormal “experts” attempts to record the spirit’s voice using a contraption right out of Ghostbusters.

I scoot up and kiss Logan’s neck.

He tenses, and then a chuckle escapes his lips. Low and mocking. “Won’t work, baby…”

“What won’t work?” I ask innocently.

“What you’re trying to do right now.”

“Mmm-hmmm. I’m sure it won’t.”

I tease him with soft kisses on the side of his neck, angling my body so he’ll be sure to feel the heat of my * against his thigh. God. *. I’m even starting to think like him now. He’s corrupted me with the dirty words he whispers when we fool around, and I like it. I like the thrill of being bold and wanton, and I love the way his warm flesh quivers when I taste him with my tongue.

His head is turned toward the screen, but I know he’s no longer paying attention to the movie. The bulge in his sweatpants grows, hardens into a long, thick ridge that pushes up against the fabric. I kiss his throat, feeling the strong tendons straining, his Adam’s apple fluttering beneath my lips.

When he speaks, his voice is so raspy it sends a shiver through me. “Do you want to go upstairs?”

I lift my head and meet his eyes. They’re heavy-lidded, hazy. I nod.

He doesn’t shut off the movie. He just hops to his feet, pulls me up with him, and leads me upstairs, holding my hand the entire time. His bedroom is a lot tidier than the last time I saw it. The night I showed up to yell at him for that stunt with Morris. God, it feels like a lifetime ago.

We stand two feet apart. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch me. He simply stares, with what can only be described as wonder shining in his eyes.

“You’re so beautiful.”

Hardly. I’m wearing faded jeans and a loose striped shirt that keeps falling over one shoulder, and my hair is a tousled mess because it was insanely windy outside earlier. I know I don’t look beautiful, but the way he’s gazing at me…I feel it.

I reach for the bottom of my shirt, then pull it over my head and let it fall to the ground. His nostrils flare when my skimpy bikini-style bra is revealed. Holding his gaze, I bring my hands behind my back and undo the tiny clasp, and then the bra falls away, too.

Logan sucks in a breath. He’s seen my breasts before. He’s seen me naked, actually. But the hunger in his eyes, the glittering admiration…it’s like he’s looking at me for the first time.

I wiggle out of my jeans and panties, and approach him with confidence that startles me. I should be nervous, but I’m not. My hands are steady as I tug his wife-beater off him. God, his bare chest never fails to make me light-headed. It’s sculpted. Masculine. So f*cking perfect.

He doesn’t say a word when I ease his sweatpants down. He’s not wearing boxers. His erection juts out, hard and imposing, and when I curl my fingers around it, he makes a desperate noise at the back of his throat.