FIVE
Ozzie
I have a date.
Well, a study date. With Mila.
Mila, with the radiant crown of tousled curls on top of her head, statuesque frame, and the face of a queen.
I would have preferred a date, but all I really want is to spend time with her. So, I’ll take study buddy status over nothing.
She told me to meet her in the sorority’s common room and bring cookies.
It’s a thing, I guess. When outsiders visit Beta Beta Psi, they must bring baked goods as a hostess offering.
For this task, I phoned my sister-in-law Betsy, who talked me through each step. Thanks to her, I ended up with something resembling cookies. They’re not pretty, but they taste good.
When I stroll up to the sorority house, there’s a Harley parked outside and a couple sitting together on a porch swing. I bite back the slight tightness in my throat. These two in front of me look at each other like two souls that found each other in a former life and the next.
When the man sees me climb the stairs, Tupperware full of cookies in hand, he stands. I swallow hard because he’s got at least an inch on me in height and more muscle than fat.
“Going somewhere, friend?”
He’s one of those guys who exudes so much machismo and confidence that I might piss my pants. I thought I was confident, but this dude could break me in half.
But I’m not scared. I stand up straight and nod. “I’m here to study with Mila.”
The man growls like a bear.
“I’m sorry, are you, like, security or something? I brought cookies….”
The woman perched on the porch swing stands up and walks up to me, eyes bright and a kind smile. “Ooh, cookies. Thank you.”
The door opens, and I can finally breathe again. Mila comes out, looking like an angel in a tight black concert tee-shirt and cut-off jeans that are so ripped to shreds that I can see bits of upper thigh struggling to burst out. The ribbed fabric of her shirt stretches over her breasts, distorting the writing in the best possible way. Mila wears her hair down in a long, thick mass of waves; my hands itch to lose themselves in the softness. She looks too good for a study date. It’s not her fault. Mila would look sexy in dirty overalls and a hard hat. And now, I’m picturing her like that, except shirtless, said overalls revealing side-boob that could bring me to my knees. I can only pray my jeans can camouflage the hardening erection as my imagination runs away with me.
Chill, Oz. She’s a human being. Get to know her first.
“Hey,” Mila says, offering me a small smile.
The man crosses his arms over his chest and turns to Mila. “You know this guy?”
She nods and slaps Crosby’s beefy arm. My brain and body react wildly to this interaction, this touch between her and Crosby. I barely know either of them, but I do not want her touching that guy, and I do not like it that this man seems to be personally interested in her protection. Who the fuck is he?
If I’m honest, who the fuck am I? But all I know is my instincts want to punch the guy because she touched him.
What has she done to me? Why am I like this?
I’ve never reacted this way in a social situation. I’m starting to think my family is right — I tend to silo myself in my studies, and I don’t talk to other humans nearly enough.
But then again, I think this is more than my lack of social skills or my interpersonal skills proving to be rusty.
This jealousy is something wild and unfamiliar.
I picture carrying her away from here, away from the leering eyes of other people, taking her home to my bed, spreading her thick thighs wide under me. I would please her so well with my mouth, hands, and rigid length, exploring every warm, wet, soft inch of her. Those hips, those pouty lips…her underboobs. I know she’s built for me, every square inch warm, full, and fuckable.
Pull yourself together; you don’t even know her, Oswald Gwynn. That’s the second time in 30 seconds I’ve had to redirect my thoughts.
I definitely should have jerked off before our study date.