The Mistake

“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 fucked 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 pussy 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.

“Oh.” She gasps when I rotate my hips, and her eyes glaze over. “Feels…so… good.”

Good doesn’t even begin to describe it. It’s…fucking divine. Pure heaven, right here in this bed. I worship her pussy. I worship her.

The base of my spine tingles, pleasure tightening my muscles. I snake my hands beneath her ass and dig my fingers into her firm flesh, locking us tighter, fucking her harder. I come first, my mind scattering, foggy and incoherent. She’s right behind me, squeezing the hell out of my dick as she makes a breathy, blissful noise that drives me wild.

Every time after we’ve had sex this weekend, I’ve almost blurted out that I love her. And every time, I’ve clamped my lips together to stop the words from escaping because I’m scared of saying it too soon. I’ve known her since April, but we weren’t dating then. Now we are and it’s nearing the one-month mark, but I’m not sure what the etiquette for I-love-you’s is. I told my first girlfriend I loved her after two weeks of dating. My second, after five months. So maybe I should split the difference and tell Grace…at the three-month point. Yeah. That seems like an appropriate amount of time.

Once we recover from our respective orgasms, we decide to finally drag ourselves out of bed. It’s almost noon and we haven’t eaten since we woke up, and my stomach rumbles like the engine of a muscle car. We throw on some clothes, because no matter how many times I try to convince her, Grace refuses to walk around naked in case my roommates come home. I’ve been teasing her mercilessly about her unwarranted modesty, but I’m quickly discovering that Grace has one incredibly annoying trait—she’s always right.

We’ve just entered the kitchen when footsteps echo from the front hall.

“See!” she gloats at me. “They would have caught us!”

“Trust me, the guys have seen me naked on multiple occasions,” I answer dryly.

“Well, they’re never going to see me naked, not if I can help it.”

I suddenly picture Dean ogling her bare tits, and the hot streak of jealousy it triggers makes me realize just how grateful I am that she decided to wear clothes.

But it’s not Dean who strides into the kitchen a minute later. It’s Garrett, with Hannah on his tail. Although they look startled to find Grace at the counter, they greet her with warm smiles before turning to smirk at me. Smug bastards. I know exactly what’s going through their heads—a singsong taunt. Lo-gan has a girrrrl-friend.

“Hey.” I narrow my eyes. “I thought you guys were crashing at the dorm this weekend.”

“I bet you did,” Garrett mocks, his gray eyes gleaming.