The Revenge Pact (Kings of Football, #1)(39)

A sharp breath escapes me. Jealousy? Yes. Oh, yes.

Completely irrational.

Someone shoot me.

Ignoring Audrey, his eyes roam over me, pausing on my cleavage, then my legs, before coming back to my face. Even in the dim light, his gaze is a physical touch. Hot and slick. Stroking me.

Heat washes over me. It’s not often he checks me out so blatantly.

I remember the last time his eyes glittered with that kind of emotion.



* * *



“Put some damn clothes on in this house,” comes a terse voice. “I don’t need pledges panting over a little sister.”

I flip around from the fridge, an unopened beer in my hand as I tug my cover-up around my white bikini. It’s skimpy, yes, with cutouts that I love, but—Jesus, I have a mid-thigh-length terrycloth robe on over it.

Asshole!

Nervously, I grab my paperback of The Outsiders off the table and tuck it under my arm. “Your pledges know how to control themselves. It’s May and hot. No one ever uses the pool, and everyone is in class—”

“Taking advantage of the benefits of your pin, I see. Did you know he was going to give it to you? You looked surprised.” A sneer curls his lips. “So romantic.”

My jaw clenches. I had no clue Donovan was going to make his big gesture last night. He didn’t even discuss the idea of “pinning” with me, and because I’m not Greek, I was confused when he invited me to their weekly frat meeting. Sure, I knew what pinning meant, but I was fine with our exclusive arrangement. He’d told me he loved me, but this felt different.

He presented me at the meeting then nervously asked if I wanted to be serious.

I love the sense of family the frat has, and I’d have been crazy to not take the best relationship I’ve ever had to the next level.

He pinned my blouse while his brothers looked on. Then we partied.

I lift my chin. “How’s that hangover? You look like shit.” Lie. He’s wearing gym shorts and a sleeveless football practice shirt, his muscles taut and misty with sweat. “Which girl did you end up with last night?” I open my beer and take a swig of the longneck.

His eyes are stormy as he watches me swallow.

“Hello? River? Which girl? Audrey?” I sneer, just like he did.

“Not the one I wanted.”

“Poor little frat boy,” I say dryly.

Honestly, I live for these brief “interactions” with him. They’re infrequent—but intoxicating. My pulse hammers even now, my breathing increasing.

“Where. Is. Donovan?”

I take another sip. “Ever speak in long sentences, River? You. Should. Try. It.”

“Don’t come here if he isn’t here.”

I slam the bottle down on the table then whip off my cover-up and throw it at him. It bounces off his magnificent chest and hits the floor. “Eat a bag of dicks.”

His eyes glitter like stars. “I don’t fucking like you.”

“‘I lie to myself all the time. I never believe me,’” I reply as I shove the paperback into his chest. Hard.

He takes it without looking at it, his lashes fluttering.

“That quote is from The Outsiders. It’s like…you’re a wealthy West-Side Soc and I’m a poor East-Side Greaser and we fight all the time, even without provocation, for no reason at all except that we come from different worlds. The moral is, we all watch the same sunrise and sunset. Ponyboy, he’s the outsider, a Greaser just living his best life and telling the story of what happened to him. It’s a hard lesson he learns, and I’m him—right now. I’m fighting my way through life, trying to be more than what I came from. And you? Oh, you’re the bad guy, maybe not Bob, the one who tried to drown Ponyboy, but yeah, you’re a total rich prick. Ever read the Robert Frost poem about how ‘Nothing Gold Can Stay’? Ponyboy struggles to understand its meaning. He’s hanging on to innocence with a tight grip. Like me. Maybe like you. I don’t know because you don’t have real conversations with me. Why do you hate me?” I pause, sucking in air. My mouth is out of control, but I can’t stop. “The book’s been banned, which I love. I’m taking a lit class about those types of books in the fall. This book is a gift, from me to you. Read it and learn to treat me better, asshole.”

It’s a great exit line.

I bend down, snatch my cover-up off the floor, and— He jerks it away from my hands before I can slip it on, his chest heaving as he balls it up in his fist. His eyes burn as they drift over my body, the triangle bikini top that hugs my breasts, the tiny white bottoms on my hips.

The muscles in his jaw pop.

I count the seconds that stretch between us.

Twenty.

Then thirty.

Then forty.

Fifty.

Sixty.

The kitchen heats, the air thick as smoke.

I gasp. Needing to breathe.

He takes a step toward me, his eyes dilating, the black filling up the blue-gray of his irises.

The cover-up drops from his hands to the floor.

Neither of us notices.

“Anastasia.”

Is that…

Is that longing in his voice?

Sweat breaks out all over me and my body leans into him. The heat of his skin burns from just inches away. I tremble, his name on the tip of my tongue, tempted to ask him, please, God, what the hell is this between us— “River,” I say breathlessly. “What—”