The instant I sent the damn thing I cringed—physically cringed.
I don’t know what it is about her that throws me off my game every damn time.
And who the fuck uses terms like “touch base?”
“Yep,” she says, hunched down as she retrieves her notebook and pen. Everyone else around us has their laptops out, prepped and ready to take notes when class starts in a few minutes, except us.
“Good deal.” I tap my pen against my notebook, remembering I still have her hot pink one in my bag. I forgot to give it back last time but in my defense, she couldn’t get out of here fast enough.
Professor Longmire flicks the lights off down in front, turning the auditorium dark except for the glow of the projector screen.
It makes me think of being at the movies, which then makes me think about the fact that I can’t remember the last time I took a girl on an actual date. There was this one chick freshman year … took her to dinner and a movie on Friday night … and by the time Monday rolled around she’d all but broadcasted to the entire school that we were dating—as in boyfriend/girlfriend.
Twitter. Facebook. Instagram. Snapchat.
She made it as official as she possibly could, hashtagging the hell out of my name in every combination she could think of as well as posting a selfie she took of the two of us when I wasn’t looking.
Fucking. Psycho.
I swore off dating after that and decided to focus solely on football with a side of academics.
A week later Irie Davenport walked into my life, and she’s been dancing circles around my mind ever since.
Professor Longmire drones on about some ancient civilization down below. Irie scribbles notes as fast as she can, pausing every so often to chew on the cap of her pen. She looks so serious, so deep in thought, like she’s in her own world.
I try to focus on the lecture, but sitting next to Irie is a constant distraction.
Every time she crosses and uncrosses her legs, every time she softly clears her throat or tucks her hair behind her ear, every time she so much as shifts, the world around me blurs into the background and my attention draws to her like a magnet no matter how hard I try to redirect it.
It also doesn’t help that we’re in the midst of an unseasonably warm January day and she’s currently in nothing more than a strappy cotton tank and cut-off jean shorts that showcase her long, toned legs.
What I wouldn’t give to have those legs wrapped around me …
And they will be.
Eventually.
I steal another glance from the corner of my eye. Sweet Jesus, I don’t even think she’s wearing a bra. My palms flash hot as I imagine the feel of her creamy tits against them, and my cock strains against the inside of my jeans.
Longmire finishes his lecture after an hour, flicking on the main lights without any kind of warning. My eyes sting until they adjust and Irie gathers her belongings like she’s got a plane to catch in some terminal in BFE.
“Oh, one more thing before you go,” Longmire says. “Every Friday in recitation, there will be a ten-question quiz on the week’s lessons. I highly suggest you study for these as half the questions are essay.”
I glance at Irie, who doesn’t seem the least bit fazed by any of this.
Quizzes have never been my strong suit. Shit, who am I kidding? Academics have never been my strong suit. But I’ll be damned if I look like a C-average moron in front of my partner.
In front of her.
Following Irie toward the exit, I catch her before she disappears into the crowd like last time. “Hey, we should probably study for that quiz.”
“I knew you were going to say that,” she says as we walk together, her emotionless stare focused ahead.
“Tomorrow night,” I say.
She’s quiet at first, striding through the crowd to the building’s exit, but I keep up with her, damn near shoulder to shoulder.
“All right,” she says, exhaling. “When?”
“Six,” I say.
Her lips press together. “Fine. We’ll meet at the library.”
I’m sure she assumed I was going to invite her to my place, but my loudmouthed roommates would ruin this careful song and dance we’re in the midst of in two seconds flat by making some smart-ass comment.
I can’t risk that.
We step into the daylight, sneakers soft against the sidewalk. People gawk at us walking together, and a couple of girls size her up with envious scoffs, though Irie doesn’t seem to notice. Or if she does, she doesn’t care.
“Cool. It’s a date,” I say.
Irie shoots me a look. “No, it’s not.”
Her full cherry lips wrestle the smallest hint of a smirk.
I give her a wink and then I head west to my next class.