On it.
“What is he on?” I ask, suspicious.
He just smiles. “Don’t worry, Vi. You and Willow can still be roommates.”
I shake my head and stride away from him. “I need a shower. And my own clothes before class.”
This can’t be happening.
All of it.
Any of it.
I go back into his room and find my bag on his desk. He tossed it there haphazardly last night, not bothered when it knocked everything askew. I rummage through it for the first time. My pointe shoes are there, the ribbons carefully wrapped so they don’t get tangled. I certainly didn’t do it, and a warm, gooey feeling swims through me.
Who are we?
We should be enemies.
We were, until he decided that we weren’t.
I think, in a way, he knew the outcome of last night before he even arrived at the dance studio. As much as he rolls with the punches—sometimes literally—he’s better when he has a plan. Like in hockey, there are plays. A rule book. Sometimes they go off-script, but he shines when he knows where to put his feet.
That’s my interpretation anyway.
His father must’ve given himself away.
Somehow.
I don’t have many clothes. He stashed my underwear in here, too. I grab them and my jeans. In his closet, I find a folded towel and take it with me.
Hopefully there’s shampoo and conditioner in the bathroom—but part of me doesn’t want to count on it. Guys can be heathens about taking care of their skin and hair.
I lock the door and immediately flip on the water to hot. Thereisa small bottle of conditioner under the sink, and I silently cheer at whoever slept with a smart girl. I strip out of Greyson’s clothes and step under the blast.
A minute or several later, the door opens and closes. My eyes, which had been closed as I massaged shampoo through my hair, fly open.
Then the curtain pulls back, and Grey steps in with me. Naked, of course. His abs are out of this world. I reach out and touch them before I can stop myself, then let my hand fall away. His cock is hard, bobbing between us.
He’s beautiful, and I kind of hate it. His beauty is what lets him get away with almost everything. Maybeanything.
He smirks. “You think a lock can stop me?”
I roll my eyes.
He motions for me to turn around. I do carefully, giving him my back. Water pounds into my chest. His fingers massaging my temples is too good. I lean into his hands. He lets it go on for another few minutes—probably longer than my hair needs—then gently turns me around. I face him again and keep eye contact as I step back under the water.
Once the soap is out, we trade places. I squirt conditioner into my palm and run it through the strands. He grabs the shampoo and does his own hair, until I stop him. I let out a tsk and inch closer.
We’re doing this.
I reach up and slide my hands into his hair. He watches me carefully. I drag my nails lightly against his scalp, and he hums.
“I might get used to this,” he murmurs.
“Don’t.”
“Why not?”