The Mistake(94)

“How old were you? Fifteen?”

“Fourteen.” He winks at me. “I started early. That’s why I’m so good at it.”

I roll my eyes. “And so humble, too.” I stop to think about it. “Fourteen seems way too young to be having sex.”

“I don’t know if you could even call what we did sex,” he answers with a snort. “The first time lasted about three seconds, if that. Seriously, I got in, came, got out. The times after that, it was ten seconds. If that. I was such a horndog I couldn’t control myself when she took her clothes off.”

“What about the second girlfriend?”

“That’s when I was a junior. We dated for about a year. She was a great girl, kind of spoiled, but I didn’t mind because I liked spoiling her.” He frowns. “She cheated on me with an older guy. Actually, I think he went to Briar.”

“Aw, I’m sorry.”

“Broke my f*cking heart.” He gives an exaggerated groan of pain, then takes my hand and places it on his chest. “I’ve waited years for someone to show up and put it back together.”

I groan, too. From the sheer lameness of that statement. “You should have put that line in your poem.”

“I’ll write you another one,” he promises.

“Oh God. Please don’t.” A yawn overtakes me, and I twist around to glance at the alarm clock, surprised to find that it’s only ten-fifteen. “Why am I so tired?”

“I wore you out, huh?” He smiles smugly. “I was afraid I might’ve lost my moves during my CS, but I’ve still got it.”

“CS?” His abbreviations drive me nuts sometimes. I’m praying one of these days I’ll be able to figure them out on my own.

“Celibacy stretch,” he explains.

“It’s only been three weeks, horndog.”

“Actually, it’s been…six months?”

My eyebrows soar. “You haven’t had sex in six months?”

“Nope.” A sheepish look fills his face. “Not since I met you.”

“Bullshit.”

Now he looks hurt. “You think I’m lying?”

“No…of course not…” My mind struggles to digest the information. Even before I met the guy, I was well aware of his reputation—I witnessed it firsthand when he stumbled out of that bathroom at the frat party.

And he and I were apart the entire summer. Is he seriously telling me he didn’t fool around with someone even once during that time? Granted, I didn’t either, but I’m not John Logan, the manwhore who’s slept with half the girls at Briar.

“I almost did,” he adds, his features pained. “It was early on in the summer, and you were still ignoring my messages. I went to this chick’s place, fully intending to sleep with her, but when she tried to kiss me…I took off. It just didn’t feel right.”

I’m floored. Utterly floored.

“But this…” He leans closer and gently presses his mouth against mine in the sweetest kiss imaginable. “This…” Another kiss. “Feels…” And another one. “Right.”





30




Logan


Best. Weekend. Ever.

I honestly can’t remember the last time I smiled this much. Or laughed this much.

Or f*cked this much.

Grace and I have been going at it like bunnies since Friday night, and each time is even better than the last. Now it’s late Sunday morning, and we’re still going at it, tangled up in the sheets as my cock plunges into her tight heat. I’ve been diligent about asking her whether she’s sore, but she keeps claiming she’s not. And if she is sore, then she’s powering through it like a champ. Like a hockey player who bandages himself up, throws on his pads, and hits the ice, because the game is that important to him.

I guess I’m that important to her. Or maybe she just likes the ridiculous amount of orgasms I’ve given her. And she’s about to get another one. I went down on her for thirty minutes before I couldn’t take it anymore, desperately needing to be inside her, and her * is still wet and swollen from the ministrations of my tongue. It clutches me like a goddamn vise, while her slender body flexes against mine, her spine arching to meet each hurried thrust.

She’s close. I’ve memorized her responses, the noises she makes and the way her inner muscles ripple around my cock when her orgasm is imminent.