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The Mistake

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The Deal (Off-Campus Book 1)

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He’s a player in more ways than
College junior John Logan can get any
girl he wants. For this hockey star, life is
a parade of parties and hook-ups, but
behind his killer grins and easygoing
charm, he hides growing despair about
the dead-end road he’ll be forced to
walk after graduation. A sexy encounter
with freshman Grace Ivers is just the
distraction he needs, but when a
thoughtless mistake pushes her away,
Logan plans to spend his final year
proving to her that he’s worth a second
Now he’s going to need to up his

After a less than stellar freshman year,
Grace is back at Briar University, older,
wiser, and so over the arrogant hockey
player she nearly handed her V-card to.
She’s not a charity case, and she’s not
the quiet butterfly she was when they
first hooked up. If Logan expects her to
roll over and beg like all his other puck
bunnies, he can think again. He wants
her back? He’ll have to work for it. This
time around, she’ll be the one in the
driver’s seat…and she plans on driving
him wild.

The Mistake
An Off-Campus Novel
Elle Kennedy

Table of Contents
About the Book
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9

Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22

Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35

Other Titles by Elle Kennedy
Author’s Note
About the Author








girlfriend sucks.
First off, there’s the awkward factor.
As in, it’s really fucking awkward. I
can’t speak for all men, but I’m pretty
sure that no guy wants to leave his
bedroom and bump into the girl of his
dreams after she’s just spent the whole
night in his best friend’s arms.
Then there’s the self-loathing

element. This one’s a given, because it’s
kind of hard not to hate yourself when
y; ou’re fantasizing about the love of your
best friend’s life.
At the moment, the awkwardness is
definitely winning out. See, I live in a
house with very thin walls, which means
I can hear every breathy moan that
leaves Hannah’s mouth. Every gasp and
sigh. Every thump of the headboard
smacking the wall as someone else
screws the girl I can’t stop thinking
Fun times.
I’m on my bed, flat on my back and
staring up at the ceiling. I’m not even
pretending to scroll through my iPod
library anymore. I popped the ear buds

in with the intention of drowning out the
sounds of Garrett and Hannah in the
other room, but I still haven’t pressed
play. I guess I’m in the mood to torture
myself tonight.
Look, I’m not an idiot. I know she’s
in love with Garrett. I see the way she
looks at him, and I see how they are
together. They’ve been a couple for six
months now, and not even I, the worst
friend on the planet, can deny they’re
perfect for each other.
And hell, Garrett deserves to be
happy. He plays it off like he’s a cocky
sonofabitch, but truth is, he’s a goddamn
saint. The best center I’ve ever skated
with and the best person I’ve ever

known, and I’m comfortable enough with
my hetero status to say that if I did play
for the other team? I wouldn’t just fuck
Garrett Graham, I’d marry him.
That’s what makes this a trillion
times harder. I can’t even hate the dude
who’s tapping the chick I want. No
revenge fantasies to be had, because I
don’t hate Garrett, not in the slightest.
A door creaks open and footsteps
echo in the hallway, and I pray to God
that Garrett or Hannah doesn’t knock on
my door. Or open their mouths, for that
matter, because hearing either of their
voices right now will only bum me out
even more.
Luckily, the loud knock that rattles
my doorframe comes from my other

roommate, Dean, who waltzes inside
without waiting for an invitation. “Party
at Omega Phi tonight. You down?”
I dive off my bed faster than you can
say pathetic, because a party sounds like
a fan-fucking-tastic idea right about now.
Getting wasted is a surefire way to stop
myself from thinking about Hannah.
Actually, no—I want to get wasted and
screw someone’s brains out. That way if
one of those activities doesn’t help me
with my don’t-think-about-Hannah goal,
the other can serve as backup.
“Hell yeah,” I answer, already
fumbling around for a shirt.
I slip a clean T-shirt over my head
and ignore the twinge of pain in my left

arm, which is still sore as shit from the
bone-jarring body check I took at the
championship game last week. But the
hit was totally worth it—for the third
consecutive year, Briar’s hockey team
secured another Frozen Four victory. I
guess you can call it the ultimate hat
trick, and all the players, myself
included, are still reaping the rewards of
being three-time national champions.
Dean, one of my fellow defensemen,
calls it the Three P’s of Victory: parties,
praise and pussy.
It’s a pretty fair assessment of the
situation, because I’ve been on the
receiving end of all three since our big
“You gonna be the DD?” I ask as I

throw a black hoodie over my T-shirt
and zip it up.
My buddy snorts. “Did you really
just ask me that?”
I roll my eyes. “Right. What ever
was I thinking?”
The last time Dean Heyward-Di
Laurentis was sober at a party was
never. Dude drinks like a fish or gets
higher than a kite every time he leaves
the house, and if you think that affects his
performance on the ice in any way, then
think again. He’s one of those rare
creatures who can party like past-day
Robert Downey Jr. and somehow be as
successful and revered as present-day
Robert Downey Jr.

“Don’t worry, Tuck’s the DD,” Dean
tells me, referring to our other
roommate, Tucker. “The pussy’s still
hung-over from last night. Said he needs
a break.”
Yeah, I don’t exactly blame him.
Off-season training doesn’t start for
another couple weeks, and we’ve all
been enjoying the time off a little too
much. But that’s what happens when
you’re riding a Frozen Four high. Last
year after we won, I was drunk for two
weeks straight.
I’m not looking forward to the offseason. Strength and conditioning and all
the hard work it takes to stay in shape
are exhausting, but it’s even more

exhausting when you’re working tenhour shifts at the same time. It’s not like
I have a choice, though. The workouts
are necessary prep for the upcoming
season, and the work, well, I made a
promise to my brother, and no matter
how sick to my stomach it makes me, I
can’t renege on it. Jeff will skin me alive
if I don’t fulfill my end of the deal.
Our designated driver waits at the
front door when Dean and I come
downstairs. A reddish-brown beard
devours Tucker’s entire face, giving him
a werewolf vibe, but he’s been
determined to try out this new look ever
since a chick he met at a party last week
told him he had a baby face.
“You know that Yeti-beard doesn’t

make you look more manly, right?” Dean
says cheerfully as we walk out the door.
Tuck shrugs. “I was going for
rugged, actually.”
I snicker. “Well, it’s not that, either,
Babyface. You look like a mad
He flips up his middle finger as he
heads for the driver’s side of my truck. I
settle in the passenger seat while Dean
climbs into the pickup bed, saying he
wants some fresh air. I think he just
wants the wind to mess up his hair in
that tousled, sexed-up way girls drop
their panties for. FYI—Dean is
nauseatingly vain. But he also looks like
a male model, so maybe he’s allowed to

be vain.
Tucker starts the engine, and I drum
my fingers against my thighs, itching to
get going. A lot of students in the Greek
system piss me off with their elitist
attitudes, but I’m willing to overlook that
because…well, hell, because if partythrowing was an Olympic sport? Every
frat and sorority house at Briar would be
a gold medalist.
As Tuck reverses out of the
driveway, my gaze rests on Garrett’s
black Jeep, all shiny in its parking space
while its owner spends the night with the
coolest girl on the planet and—
A n d enough. This obsession with
Hannah Wells is really starting to mess
with my head.

I need to get laid. ASAP.
Tucker is noticeably quiet during the
drive to Omega Phi. He might also be
frowning, but it’s hard to tell
considering someone shaved off all of
Hugh Jackman’s body hair and pasted it
on Tuck’s face.
“What’s with the silent treatment?” I
ask lightly.
His gaze shifts toward me to offer a
sour look, then shifts right back to the
“Oh, come on. Is this about all the
shit we’re giving you about the beard?”
Exasperation shoots through me.
“Because that’s like the first chapter of
Beards for Dummies, bro—if you grow

a mountain man beard, your friends will
make fun of you. End of chapter.”
“It’s not about the beard,” he
I wrinkle my forehead. “Okay. But
you are pissed about something.” When
he doesn’t respond, I push a little harder.
“What’s going on with you?”
His annoyed eyes meet mine. “With
me? Nothing. With you? So much I don’t
even know where to start.” He curses
softly. “You need to stop this shit, man.”
Now I’m genuinely confused,
because as far as I can tell, all I’ve done
in the past ten minutes is look forward to
a party.
Tucker notices the confusion on my
face and clarifies in a grim tone. “This

thing with Hannah.”
Although my shoulders stiffen, I try
to keep my expression vague. “I have no
idea what you’re talking about.”
Yup, I’ve chosen to lie. Which is
nothing new for me, actually. It seems
like all I’ve done since I came to Briar
is lie.
I’m totally destined for the NHL.
Going pro all the way!
I love spending my summer as a
grease monkey in my dad’s shop. It’s
great pocket money!
I’m not lusting over Hannah. She’s
dating my best friend!
Lies, lies and more lies, because in
every one of those instances, the truth is

a total bummer, and the last thing I want
is for my friends and teammates to feel
sorry for me.
“Save that bullshit for G,” Tucker
retorts. “And by the way? You’re lucky
he’s distracted with all this lovey-dovey
stuff, because if he wasn’t? He’d
definitely notice the way you’re acting.”
“Yeah, and what way is that?” I
can’t stop the edge in my voice or the
defensive set of my jaw. I hate that Tuck
knows I have feelings for Hannah. I hate
even more that he finally decided to
bring up the subject after all these
months. Why can’t he leave it alone?
The situation is already shitty enough
without having someone call me on it.
“Seriously? Do you want me to list it

off for you? Fine.” A dark cloud floats
through his eyes as he begins to recite
every fucking thing I’ve felt so guilty
about. “You leave the room whenever
the two of them enter it. You hide in your
bedroom when she stays over. If you
guys are in the same room, you stare at
her when you think nobody is looking.
“Okay,” I interrupt. “I get it.”
“And don’t get me started on your
“You’ve always been a player, but dude,
you’ve hooked up with five chicks this
“So it’s Thursday. Five girls in four

days. Do the fucking math, John.”
Oh shit. He first-named me. Tucker
only calls me John when I’ve really
pissed him off.
Except now he’s pissed me off, so I
first-name him right back. “What’s
wrong with that, John?”
Yup, we’re both John. I guess we
should take a blood oath and form a club
or something.
“I’m twenty-one years old,” I
continue irritably. “I’m allowed to hook
up. No, I should be hooking up, because
that’s what college is all about. Having
fun and getting laid and enjoying the fuck
out of yourself before you go out in the
real world and your life turns to shit.”
“You really want to pretend all these

hook-ups are just some rite of passage in
the college experience?” Tucker shakes
his head, then lets out a breath and
softens his tone. “You can’t screw her
out of your system, man. You could
sleep with a hundred women tonight and
it still wouldn’t make a difference. You
need to accept that it’s not going to
happen with Hannah, and move on.”
He’s absolutely right. I’m well
aware that I’ve been wallowing in my
own bullshit and bagging chicks left and
right as a distraction.
And I’m equally aware that I need to
stop partying myself into oblivion. That I
need to let go of the tiny little sliver of
hope that something might happen, and

simply accept that it won’t.
Maybe I’ll get started on that
tomorrow, though.
Tonight? I’m sticking to my original
plan. Get wasted. Get laid. And to hell
with everything else.


I STARTED MY freshman year of college as
a virgin.
I’m beginning to think I’ll be ending
it as one, too.
Not that there’s anything wrong with
being a card-carrying member of the VClub. So what if I’m about to turn

nineteen? I’m hardly an old maid, and
I’m certainly not going to be tarred and
feathered on the street for still having an
intact hymen.
Besides, it’s not like I haven’t had
opportunities to lose my virginity this
year. Since I came to Briar University,
my best friend has dragged me to more
parties than I can count. Guys have
flirted with me, sure. A few of them
straight up tried to seduce me. One even
sent me a picture of his penis with the
caption “It’s all yours, baby.” Which
was…fine, it was super gross, but I’m
sure if I’d truly liked him, I might have
been, um, flattered by the gesture?
But I wasn’t attracted to any of those

guys. And unfortunately, all the ones
w ho do catch my eye never even look
my way.
Until tonight.
When Ramona announced we were
going to a frat party, I didn’t have high
hopes for meeting anyone. It seems like
every time we go to Greek Row, the frat
boys just try to sweet-talk me and
Ramona into making out. But tonight I’ve
actually met a guy I kinda sorta like.
His name is Matt, he’s cute, and he’s
not giving off any douchebag vibes. Not
only is he somewhat sober, but he also
speaks in full sentences and hasn’t said
the word “broski” even once since we
started talking. Or rather, since he

started talking. I haven’t said much, but
I’m perfectly content to stand there and
listen, because it gives me time to
admire his chiseled jawline and the
adorable way his blond hair curls under
his ears.
To be honest, it’s probably better if I
don’t talk. Cute guys make me nervous.
total-brainmalfunction nervous. All my filters shut
off and suddenly I’m telling them about
the time I peed my pants in the third
grade during a field trip to the maple
syrup factory, or how I’m scared of
puppets and have mild OCD that could
possibly drive me to tidy up your room
the moment you turn your head.
So yeah, it’s better if I simply smile

and nod and toss out the occasional “oh
really?” so they know I’m not a mute.
Except sometimes that’s not possible,
especially when the cute guy in question
says something that requires an actual
“Wanna go outside and smoke this?”
Matt pulls a joint from the pocket of his
button-down and holds it in front of me.
“I’d light it up here but Mr. President
will kick me out of the frat if I do.”
I shift awkwardly. “Ah…no, thanks.”
“You don’t smoke weed?”
“No. I mean, I have, but I don’t do it
often. It makes me feel all…loopy.”
He smiles, and two gorgeous
dimples appear. “That’s kinda the point

of weed.”
“Yeah, I guess. But it makes me
really tired, too. Oh, and every time I
smoke it I end up thinking about this
Power Point presentation my dad forced
me to watch when I was thirteen. It had
all these statistics about the effects of
weed on your brain cells, and how,
contrary to popular belief, marijuana
actually is highly addictive. And after
every slide he’d glare at me and say, do
you want to lose your brains cells,
Grace? Do you?”
Matt stares at me, and in my head
there’s a voice shouting Abort! But it’s
too late. My internal filter has failed me
once again and words keep popping out
of my mouth.

“But I guess that’s not as bad as what
my mom did. She tries to be the cool
parent, so when I was fifteen, she drove
me to this dark parking lot and pulled out
a joint and announced that we were
going to smoke it together. It was like a
scene out of The Wire—wait, I’ve never
actually seen The Wire . It’s about drugs,
right? Anyway, I sat there panicking the
whole time because I was convinced we
were going to get arrested, and
meanwhile my mom kept asking me how
I was feeling and whether or not I was
‘enjoying the pot’.”
Miraculously, my lips finally stop
But Matt’s eyes have already glazed

“Uh, yeah, well.” He clumsily waves
the joint around. “I’m gonna go smoke
this. I’ll see you later.”
I manage to hold in my sigh until he’s
gone, then release the heavy breath and
give myself a mental slap on the wrist.
Damn it. I don’t know why I bother
trying to talk to guys. I go into every
conversation nervous I’m going to
embarrass myself, and then I end up
embarrassing myself because I’m
nervous. Doomed from the start.
With another sigh, I head downstairs
and search the main floor for Ramona.
The kitchen is full of kegs and frat boys.
Ditto for the dining room. The living
room is packed with very loud, very

drunk guys, and a sea of scantily clad
girls. I applaud them for their bravery,
because the weather outside is frigid and
the front door has been opening and
closing all night, causing cold air to
circulate through the house. Me, I’m nice
and toasty in my skinny jeans and tight
I don’t see my friend anywhere. As
hip-hop music blasts out of the speakers
at a deafening volume, I fish my phone
out of my purse to check the time and
discover that it’s close to midnight. Even
after eight months at Briar, I still
experience a teeny sense of glee every
time I stay out past eleven, which was
my curfew when I lived at home. My dad

was a real stickler for curfews.
Actually, he’s a real stickler for
everything. I doubt he’s ever broken a
rule in his life, which makes me wonder
how he and Mom managed to stay
married as long as they did. My freespirit mother is the polar opposite of my
stuffy, strict father, but I guess that just
proves that the whole opposites-attract
theory has some merit.
“Gracie!” a female voice shrieks
over the music, and the next thing I
know, Ramona appears and throws her
arms around me in a tight hug.
When she pulls back, I take one look
at her shining eyes and flushed cheeks
and know she’s drunk. She’s also as
scantily clad as most of the other girls in

the room, her short skirt barely covering
her upper thighs, her red halter-top
revealing a serious amount of cleavage.
And the heels of her leather boots are so
high I have no clue how she can walk in
them. She looks gorgeous, though, and
she’s drawing a ton of appreciative
stares as she links her arm through mine.
I’m pretty sure that when people see
us standing side by side, they’re
scratching their heads and wondering
how on earth we could possibly be
friends. Sometimes I wonder the same
In high school, Ramona was the funloving badass who smoked cigarettes
behind the building, and I was the good

girl who edited the school newspaper
and organized all the charity events. If
we hadn’t been next-door neighbors,
Ramona and I probably wouldn’t have
known the other existed, but walking to
school together every day had led to a
friendship of convenience, which had
then turned into a real bond. So real that
when we were looking at colleges, we
made sure to apply to all the same
schools, and when we both got into
Briar, we asked my father to speak to the
residence office and arrange for us to be
But even though our friendship
started off strong this year, I can’t deny
that we’ve drifted apart a little. Ramona
has been so obsessed with hooking up

and being popular. It’s all she ever talks
about, and lately I’m finding that she
kind of…annoys me.
Crap. Even thinking it makes me
feel like a shitty friend.
“I saw you go upstairs with Matt!”
she hisses in my ear. “Did you guys hook
“No,” I say glumly. “I think I scared
him off.”
“Oh no. You told him about your
puppet phobia, didn’t you?” she
demands, before heaving an exaggerated
sigh. “Babe, you’ve gotta stop revealing
all your crazy up front. Seriously. Save
all that stuff for later, when you’re in a
relationship with the guy and it’s harder

for him to run away.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Thanks for
the advice.”
“So are you ready to go or should
we stay a while longer?”
I glance around the room again. My
gaze lands in the corner, where two girls
in jeans and bras are making out while
one of the Omega Phi guys films the
passionate display with his iPhone.
The sight makes me stifle a groan.
Ten bucks says that video will wind up
on one of those free porn sites. And the
poor girls probably won’t find out about
it until years from now, when one of
them is about to marry a senator and the
press digs up all her embarrassing dirt.
“I wouldn’t mind going now,” I

“Yeah, I guess I’m cool with it too.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Since when
are you cool with leaving a party before
A frown puckers her lips. “Not much
point in staying. Someone already beat
me to him.”
I don’t bother asking who she’s
talking about—it’s the same guy she’s
been talking about since the first day of
the semester.
Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis.
Ramona has been obsessed with the
gorgeous junior ever since she bumped
into him at one of the campus coffee
houses. Like seriously obsessed. She’s

dragged me to almost all the Briar home
games just to watch Dean in action. I
have to admit, the guy is hot. He’s also a
major player, according to the gossip
mill, but unfortunately for Ramona, Dean
doesn’t date freshmen. Or sleep with
them, which is all she really wants from
him anyway. Ramona has never gone out
with anybody for more than a week.
The only reason she even wanted to
come to this party tonight was because
she heard that Dean would be here. But
clearly the guy isn’t fucking around with
that no-freshmen rule. No matter how
many times Ramona throws herself at
him, he always leaves with somebody
“Let me just use the washroom first,”

I tell her. “Meet you outside?”
“’Kay, but be quick. I told Jasper
we’re leaving and he’s waiting in the
She darts off toward the front door,
leaving me with a prickle of resentment.
Nice that she asked me if I wanted to
leave when she’d already made the
decision for us.
But I swallow the irritation,
reminding myself that Ramona has
always done that, and that it never
bothered me in the past. Honestly, if it
wasn’t for her making decisions and
forcing me to step out of my comfort
zone, I probably would’ve spent my
entire high school career in the

newspaper office, writing the advice
column and offering life tips to students
without having ever experienced life
Still…sometimes I wish Ramona
would at least ask me what I thought
about something before deciding that we
should do it.
The downstairs bathroom has a long
line, so I weave through the crowd and
head upstairs to where Matt and I had
been talking before. I’m just approaching
the bathroom when the door swings open
and a pretty blonde saunters out.
She jerks when she spots me, then
offers a smug little smile and adjusts the
bottom of a dress that can only be
described as indecent. I can actually see

the crotch of her pink panties.
As my cheeks heat up, I avert my
gaze in embarrassment, waiting until
she’s at the stairs before I reach for the
doorknob. I barely get my hand on it
when the door opens again and someone
else walks out.
My gaze collides with the most vivid
blue eyes I have ever seen. It only takes
a second for recognition to dawn on me,
and when it does, my face burns hotter.
It’s John Logan.
Yep, John Logan. AKA the star
defenseman of the hockey team. I know
this not just because Ramona has been
stalking his friend Dean for months, but
because his sexy, chiseled face was on

the cover of the school newspaper last
week. Since the team’s championship
win, the paper has run feature interviews
with all the players, and I’m not going to
lie—Logan’s interview was the only one
I paid any attention to.
Because the guy is smoking hot.
Like the blonde, he looks startled to
find me in the hallway, and like the
blonde, he recovers quickly from his
surprise and flashes me a grin.
Then he zips up his pants.
Oh my God.
I cannot believe he just did that. My
gaze involuntarily drops to his groin, but
he doesn’t seem bothered by that either.
He cocks a brow, shrugs, and then walks

Wow. Okay.
That should have icked me out.
Forget the very obvious bathroom hookup. The zipper move alone should have
placed him directly in douchebag
Instead, knowing he’d just fooled
around with that girl in the bathroom
evokes a rush of jealousy I don’t expect.
I’m not saying I want to have a
random hook-up in a bathroom, but—
Fine, I’m lying. I totally want that.
At least with John Logan, I do. The
thought of his hands and lips all over me
unleashes a flurry of hot shivers that
shimmy up my spine.
Why can’t I fool around with guys in

bathrooms? I’m in college, damn it. I’m
supposed to be having fun and making
mistakes and “finding myself”, but I
haven’t done jack shit this year. I’ve
been living vicariously through Ramona,
watching my bad girl best friend take
risks and try new things, while I, the
good girl, stand there clinging to the
cautious approach to life that my father
drilled into me when I was still in
Well, I’m tired of being cautious.
And I’m tired of being the good girl. The
semester is almost over. I have two
exams to study for and a Psych paper to
write, but who says I can’t do all that
and still squeeze some actual fun in

There are only a few weeks left in
my freshman year. And you know what?
I plan on making good use of them.


ease back on the partying.
And that’s not just because I got so
trashed last night that Tucker had to haul
me over his shoulder and cart me
upstairs to my bedroom because I was
too dizzy to walk.
Though that was a major factor in the
decision-making process.
So now it’s Friday night, and not
only did I turn down a party invite from
one of the guys on the team, but I’m still
nursing the same glass of whiskey I

poured more than an hour ago. I also
haven’t taken a single hit off the joint
Dean keeps shoving in my direction.
We’re hanging out at our place
tonight, braving the early-April chill as
we huddle together in the small
backyard. I take a drag of my cigarette
while Dean, Tucker and our teammate,
Mike Hollis, pass around the joint, and
I’m only half-listening to Dean’s
incredibly raunchy recap of the sex he
had last night. My mind keeps wandering
back to my own hook-up—the sexy-assin sorority sister who’d lured me into
one of the upstairs bathrooms and had
her way with me.
I might have been drunk and my
memory might be a bit hazy, but I

definitely remember fingering her until
she came all over my hand. And I
absolutely remember being on the
receiving end of a pretty spectacular BJ.
I don’t plan on telling Tuck about it,
though. You know, since apparently he’s
keeping a tally of my hook-ups. Nosy
“Wait, back up. You did what?”
Hollis’s exclamation jars me back to
the present.
“I sent her a dick pic.” Dean says
this as if it’s something he does every
Hollis gawks at him. “Really? You
sent her a picture of your junk? What,
like some kind of fucked-up sex

“Naah. More like an invitation for
another round,” Dean answers with a
“How the hell will that make her
want to sleep with you again?” Hollis
sounds doubtful now. “She probably
thinks you’re a douche.”
“No way, dude. Chicks appreciate a
nice cock shot. Trust me.”
Hollis presses his lips together like
he’s trying not to laugh. “Uh-huh. Sure.”
I flick my ash on the grass and take
another drag. “Just out of curiosity, what
constitutes a ‘nice cock shot’? I mean, is
it the lighting? The pose?”
I’m being sarcastic, but Dean
responds in a solemn voice. “Well, the

trick is, you’ve gotta keep the balls out
of it.”
That gets a loud hoot out of Tucker,
who chokes mid-sip on his beer.
“Seriously,” Dean insists. “Balls
aren’t photogenic. Women don’t want to
see them.”
Hollis’s laughter spills over, his
breaths coming out in white puffs that
float away in the night air. “You’ve put a
lot of thought into this, man. It’s kinda
I laugh too. “Wait, is that what you
do when you’re in your room with the
door locked? Take photos of your
“Oh, come on, like I’m the only one

who’s ever taken a dick pic.”
“You’re the only one,” Hollis and I
say in unison.
“Bullshit. You guys are liars.” Dean
suddenly realizes that Tucker hadn’t
voiced a denial, and wastes no time
pouncing on our teammate’s silence.
“Ha. I knew it!”
I arch a brow and glance at Tuck,
who may or may not be blushing under
the five inches of beard growth on his
face. “Really, man? Really?”
He offers a sheepish grin.
“Remember that girl I was dating last
year? Sheena? Well, she texted me a
picture of her tits. Said I had to return
the favor.”
Dean’s jaw falls open. “Dick for

tits? Dude, you got played. No way are
those even remotely comparable.”
“What’s the equivalent of tits then?”
Hollis asks curiously.
“Balls,” Dean declares, before
taking a deep pull of the joint. He blows
out a ring of smoke as everyone laughs at
his remark.
“You just said women don’t want to
see balls,” Hollis points out.
“They don’t. But any idiot knows
that a dick pic requires a full frontal shot
in return.” He rolls his eyes. “It’s
common sense.”
Someone clears their throat from the
sliding door behind me. Loudly.
I turn around to find Hannah standing

there, and my chest squeezes so tight my
ribs ache. She’s wearing leggings and
one of Garrett’s practice jerseys. Her
dark hair is loose and falling over one
shoulder. She looks gorgeous.
And yup, I’m a total asshole friend,
because suddenly I’m picturing her in my
jersey. With my number scrawled across
So much for accepting and moving
“Um…okay,” she says slowly. “Just
making sure I’m not misunderstanding,
but…you guys are talking about sending
pictures of your penises to girls?”
Amusement dances in her eyes as she
glances around the group.
Dean snorts. “We sure are. And

don’t roll your eyes like that, Wellsy.
Are you really gonna stand there and tell
us that G hasn’t sent you pictures of his
“I’m not going to dignify that with an
answer.” She sighs and rests her forearm
on the edge of the door. “Garrett and I
are ordering pizza. Do you guys want to
pitch? Oh, and we’re putting on a movie
in the living room. It’s his turn to pick so
it’ll probably be some God-awful action
movie, if you guys want to watch with
Tuck and Dean instantly pipe up with
yeses, but Hollis shakes his head
regretfully. “Maybe next time. My last
final is on Monday so I’m spending the

rest of the weekend cramming.”
“Eek. Well, good luck.” She smiles
at him before releasing the doorframe
and taking a step back. “If you guys want
a say in the pizza toppings, you better
come inside now, otherwise I’m going to
load it with veggies. Oh, and what the
hell, Logan?” Those green eyes narrow
at me. “I thought you said you only
smoke at parties. Am I going to have to
beat you up now?”
“I’d like to see you try, Wellsy.” My
tone is filled with humor, but the second
she ducks back inside, the humor fades.
Being around her is like a punch to
the gut. And the thought of sitting in the
living room with her and Garrett, eating
pizza and watching a movie and seeing

them all cuddly and in love…a hundred
times worse than a gut punch. It’s an
entire hockey team slamming you into the
“You know what? I think I might go
to Danny’s thing after all. Can I catch a
ride with you to the dorms?” I ask
Hollis. “I’d drive over myself but I don’t
know if I’ll end up drinking.”
Dean stabs out the joint in the ashtray
on top of the closed barbecue lid. “You
won’t end up drinking, dude. Danny’s
RA is a total Nazi. He patrols the halls
and does random room checks. No
I don’t care. All I know is that I can’t
stay here. I can’t hang out with Hannah

and Garrett, not until I manage to get a
handle on my stupid infatuation with her.
“Then I won’t drink. I just need a
change of scenery. I’ve been home all
“A change of scenery, huh?”
Tucker’s cloudy expression tells me he
sees right through me.
“Yes,” I say coolly. “Got a problem
with that?”
Tuck doesn’t answer.
Gritting my teeth, I mutter my
goodbyes and follow Hollis out to his
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, I’m in the secondfloor corridor of Fairview House, and

it’s so eerily quiet that my spirits
plummet even lower. Shit. I guess the
resident advisor really is a hard-ass. I
don’t hear a peep from any of the rooms,
and I can’t even call Danny to find out if
the party was canceled, because in my
haste to escape my house, I forgot to
grab my phone.
I’ve never been to Danny’s dorm
before, so I stand in the hallway for a
moment, trying to remember the room
number he’d texted me earlier. Twotwenty? Or was it two-thirty? I wander
past each door checking the numbers,
and my dilemma solves itself when I
realize there isn’t even a room twothirty.
Two-twenty, it is.

I rap my knuckles against the door.
Almost immediately, footsteps sound
from behind it. Someone’s there, at least.
That’s a good sign.
Then the door swings open, and I
find myself looking at a total stranger.
Granted, she’s a very pretty stranger, but
a stranger nonetheless.
The girl blinks in surprise when she
sees me standing there. Her light brown
eyes are the same shade as her hair,
which hangs in a long braid over her
shoulder. She’s wearing loose plaid
pants and a black sweatshirt with the
university logo on the front, and from the
utter silence in the room behind her, it’s
obvious I knocked on the wrong door.

“Hi,” I say awkwardly. “So…
yeah…I guess this isn’t Danny’s room?”
“Um, no.”
“Shit.” I purse my lips. “He said it
was room two-twenty.”
“One of you must’ve gotten the
number wrong then.” She pauses. “For
what it’s worth, there’s no one named
Danny on this floor. Is he a freshman?”
“Oh. Well, then he definitely doesn’t
live here. This is a freshman dorm.” As
she speaks, she plays with the bottom of
her braid and not once does she look me
in the eye.
“Shit,” I mumble again.
“Are you sure your friend said it was

Fairview House?”
I falter. I was sure, but now…not so
much. Danny and I don’t hang out too
often, at least not on our own. Usually I
see him at post-game parties, or he
comes over to my place with our other
“I have no idea anymore,” I answer
with a sigh.
“Why don’t you call him?” She’s
still not meeting my gaze. Now she’s
staring down at her striped wool socks
as if they’re the most fascinating things
she’s ever seen.
“I left my phone at home.” Fuck. As I
mull over my options, I run a hand
through my hair. It’s growing out and I
desperately need to get it buzzed, but I

keep forgetting to do it. “Is it cool if I
use yours?”
Even though she looks hesitant, she
opens the door wider and gestures for
me to come in. Her room is a typical
double with two of everything, but while
one side is neat as a pin, the other is
slob central. Clearly this girl and her
have very
philosophies about tidiness.
For some reason, I’m not surprised
when she walks over to the tidy side.
She definitely seems like she’d be the
neat one. She goes to the desk and
unplugs a cell phone from its charger,
then holds it out to me. “Here.”

The second the phone exchanges
hands, she creeps back toward the door.
“You don’t have to stand all the way
over there,” I say dryly. “Unless you’re
debating making a run for it?”
Her cheeks turn pink.
Grinning, I swipe the phone screen
and pull up the keypad. “Don’t worry,
gorgeous. I’m just using your phone. I’m
not going to murder you.”
“Oh, I know that. Or at least I think I
know that,” she stammers. “I mean, you
seem like a decent guy, but then again,
lots of serial killers probably seem
decent too when you first meet them. Did
you know that Ted Bundy was actually
really charming?” Her eyes widen.

“How messed up is that? Imagine you’re
walking along one day and you meet this
really cute, charming guy, and you’re
like, oh my God, he’s perfect, and then
you’re over at his place and you find a
trophy dungeon in the basement with skin
suits and Barbie dolls with the eyes
ripped out and—”
“Jesus,” I cut in. “Did anyone ever
tell you that you talk a lot?”
Her cheeks are even redder now.
“Sorry. Sometimes I babble when I’m
I shoot her another grin. “I make you
“No. Well, maybe a little. I mean, I
don’t know you, and…yeah. Stranger
danger and all that, though I’m sure

you’re not dangerous,” she adds hastily.
“But…you know…”
“Right. Ted Bundy,” I supply,
fighting hard not to laugh.
She fidgets with her braid again, and
her averted gaze gives me the
opportunity to study her more closely.
Man, she really is pretty. Not drop-dead
gorgeous or anything, but she has a
fresh-faced, girl-next-door look that’s
seriously appealing. Freckles on her
nose, delicate features, and smooth,
creamy skin right out of a makeup
“Are you going to call?”
I blink, suddenly remembering why I
came inside in the first place. I look

down at the phone in my hand, and now
I’m examining the number pad as intently
as I was examining her moments before.
“Here’s a tip—you use your fingers
to dial, and then you press send.”
I lift my head, and her barely
restrained grin summons a laugh from my
throat. “Great tip,” I agree. “But…” I let
out a glum breath. “I just realized I don’t
know his number. It’s saved in my
Shit. Is this my punishment for
Garrett’s girlfriend? Getting stranded on
a Friday night with no phone or ride
home? I guess I deserve it.
“Fuck it. I’ll call a cab,” I finally
decide. Luckily, I know the number for

the campus taxi service, so I dial that
instead, only to be placed on hold
immediately. As elevator music chirps
in my ear, I smother a groan.
“You’re on hold, huh?”
“Yup.” I glance over at her again.
“I’m Logan, by the way. Thanks for
letting me use your phone.”
“No problem.” She pauses. “I’m
A click sounds in my ear, but instead
of the dispatcher’s voice coming on the
line, there’s another click followed by
another swell of music. I’m not
surprised, though. It’s Friday night, the
busiest night for the campus taxis. Who
knows how long I’ll have to wait.

I sink down on the edge of one of the
beds—the one that’s perfectly made—
and try to remember the number for the
cab service in Hastings, the town where
most of the off-campus housing is,
including my townhouse. But I’m
drawing a blank, so I sigh and endure
some more elevator music. My gaze
drifts to the open laptop on the other side
of the bed, and when I notice what’s on
the screen, I look at Grace in surprise.
“Are you watching Die Hard?”
“Die Hard Two, actually.” She looks
embarrassed. “I’m having a Die Hard
night. I just finished the first one.”
“Do you have a thing for Bruce
Willis or something?”

That makes her laugh. “Nope. I just
like old action movies. Last weekend I
watched the Lethal Weapon franchise.”
The music in my ear stops again,
then starts over, bringing a curse to my
lips. I hang up and turn to Grace. “Do
you mind if I use your computer to get
the number for the taxi service in
Hastings? Maybe I’ll have better luck
“Sure.” After a beat of hesitation,
she sits next to me and reaches for the
laptop. “Let me pull up a browser for
When she goes to minimize the
video, the movie unpauses, and sound
blasts out of the speakers. As the

opening fight scene in the airport fills the
computer screen, I immediately lean
closer to watch it. “Oh shit, this is such a
great fight sequence.”
“I know, right?” Grace exclaims. “I
love it. Actually, I love this whole
movie. I don’t care what anyone says—
it’s awesome. Obviously not as good as
the first one, but it’s really not as bad as
people think.”
She’s about to pause the movie, but I
intercept her hand. “Can we finish
watching this scene first?”
Her expression fills with surprise.
swallows, adding, “If you want, you can
stay and watch the whole movie.” Her
cheeks flush the moment she voices the

invitation. “Unless you have somewhere
you need to be.”
I think it over for a second before
shaking my head. “Naah, I have nowhere
else to be. I can hang out for a while.”
Really, what’s the alternative? Go
home to watch Hannah and Garrett handfeed pizza to each other and sneak kisses
during the movie?
“Oh. Okay,” Grace says warily.
I chuckle. “Were you expecting me
to say no?”
“Kind of,” she admits.
“Why would I? Seriously, what guy
turns down Die Hard? The only thing
that could sweeten this deal is if you

offered me some booze.”
“I don’t have any.” She stops to
think. “But I’ve got a whole bag of
gummy bears hidden in my desk
“Marry me,” I say instantly.
Laughing, she wanders over to the
desk, opens the bottom drawer, and, sure
enough, pulls out a huge bag of candy.
As I slide up the bed and lean back on
the stack of pillows at the head of it,
Grace kneels in front of the mini-fridge
next to the desk and asks, “Water or
“Pepsi, please.”
She hands me the massive bag of
gummy bears and a can of soda, then
settles on the bed beside me and

positions the laptop on the mattress
between us.
I shove a gummy bear in my mouth
and focus my gaze on the screen. Okay,
then. This definitely wasn’t the way I
expected this evening to go, but hell,
might as well roll with it.


LOGAN IS in my dorm room.
No, John Logan is on my bed.
I am so not prepared for this. In fact,
I’m tempted to secretly text Ramona with
an SOS and beg for advice, because I
have no idea what to do or say. On the
plus side, we’re watching a movie,
which means I don’t have to do or say
anything except stare at the laptop, laugh
at the appropriate one-liners, and
pretend that the hottest guy at Briar isn’t
sitting on my bed.

And he’s not just physically hot.
He’s also temperature hot. Seriously, his
body heat is like a blast from a furnace,
and since I’m already hot and tingly from
his mere presence, the warmth he’s
radiating is starting to make me sweat.
Trying to be inconspicuous, I wiggle
out of my sweatshirt and tuck it beside
me, but the movement causes Logan to
turn his head toward me. Those deep
blue eyes focus on my tight tank top,
resting briefly on my chest.
Oh God. He’s checking out my
boobs. And even though I’m only
rocking a B-cup, the way his expression
smolders, you’d think I had a porn star

When he realizes I’ve caught him
staring, he just winks and turns back to
the screen.
It’s official: I’ve actually met a guy
who can pull off a wink.
Paying attention to the movie is
impossible. My eyes are on the screen,
but my mind is somewhere else. Focused
wholly on the guy beside me. He’s a lot
bigger than I thought. Impossibly broad
shoulders, muscular chest, long legs
stretching out in front of him. I’ve seen
him play hockey so I know he’s
aggressively physical on the ice, and
having that powerful body inches from
mine shoots a thrill up my spine. He
looks so much older and more masculine

than the freshmen guys I’ve hung out with
all year.
Well, duh. He’s a junior.
Right. But…he seems older than that
too. He’s got this whole manly thing
going on that makes me want to rip his
clothes off and lick him like an ice
cream cone.
I pop a gummy bear in my mouth,
hoping the act of chewing will bring
some much-needed moisture to my dry
throat. On the screen, McClane’s wife is
on the plane arguing with the pesky news
reporter who caused trouble for the
McClanes in the first movie, and
suddenly Logan glances over at me,
curiosity flickering in his expression.
“Hey, do you think you could land a

plane if you had no other choice?”
I laugh. “I thought you said you’ve
seen this movie. You know she doesn’t
have to land the plane, right?”
“No, I know that. But it made me
wonder what I’d do if I was on a plane
and I was the only one who could land
it.” He sighs. “I don’t think I’d be able to
do it.”
I’m surprised he’s so quick to admit
that. Other guys might try to act all
macho and scoff about how they could
land that thing in their sleep or
“Me neither,” I confess. “If anything,
I see myself making it worse. I’d
probably accidently depressurize the

cabin by touching the wrong control.
Actually, no. I’m scared of heights, so
I’m pretty sure I’d pass out the second I
stepped into the cockpit and looked out
the windshield.”
He chuckles, and the husky sound
sets off another round of tingles. “I might
be able to fly a helicopter,” he muses.
“That’s probably easier than a jet,
“Maybe? Honestly, I know nothing
about aviation.” It’s my turn to sigh.
“Don’t tell anyone, but sometimes I’m
not sure I understand how planes even
stay in the air.”
He laughs, and then we both focus on
the movie again, and I give myself a
mental pat on the back. I just had an

entire conversation with a cute guy
without babbling incoherently. I deserve
a frickin’ gold star for that.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m still
nervous as all get out. But something
about Logan puts me at ease. He’s so
laidback, and besides, it’s hard to feel
intimidated by a guy when he’s
chomping away on gummy bears.
As we watch the movie, my gaze
darts toward him every few seconds to
admire his chiseled profile. His nose is
slightly crooked, as if it’s been broken
once or twice before. And the sexy
curve of his lips is…pure temptation. I
want to kiss him so badly I can’t think

God, and I’m such a loser, because
kissing me is probably the last thing on
his mind. He stuck around to watch Die
Hard, not to fool around with a freshman
who compared him to Ted frickin’
Bundy an hour ago.
I force myself to concentrate on the
film, but I’m already dreading the
moment it ends, because then Logan will
have to leave.
But when the credits scroll up on the
screen, he doesn’t make a single move to
get up. Instead, he looks over and asks,
“So what’s your deal?”
I furrow my brow. “What do you
“It’s Friday night—how come you’re

sitting around watching action movies?”
The question makes me bristle.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing.” He shrugs. “I’m just
wondering why you’re not out partying
or something.”
“I was at a party last night.” Don’t
remind him you saw him, don’t remind
him you saw him—“I saw you there, by
the way.”
He seems startled. “You did?”
“Yeah. At the Omega Phi house.”
“Huh. I don’t remember seeing you.”
He gives me a sheepish look. “I don’t
remember much, actually. I got pretty
It stings a little that he doesn’t
remember our encounter outside the

bathroom, but I quickly chastise myself
for feeling insulted. He was drunk, and
he’d just hooked up with someone else.
Of course I hadn’t made an impression
on him.
“Did you have fun at the party?” For
the first time since he walked into my
dorm room, his tone contains an
awkward note, as if he’s trying to make
small talk and isn’t comfortable with it.
“Sure, I guess.” I pause. “Actually, I
take that back. It was fun until I totally
humiliated myself in front of this guy.”
The discomfort on his face dissolves
as he chuckles. “Yeah? What’d you do?”
“I babbled. A lot.” I offer a little
shrug. “I have a really bad habit of doing

that around guys.”
“You’re not babbling right now,” he
points out.
“Yeah, now. Do you not remember
the serial killer rant I gave you two
hours ago?”
“Trust me, I remember.” His
answering grin speeds up my pulse.
God, he’s got a sexy smile. Slightly
crooked, and every time he flashes it, his
eyes twinkle playfully. “I don’t make
you nervous anymore, do I?”
“No.” I’m lying. He absolutely
makes me nervous. He’s John fucking
Logan, one of the most popular guys at
Briar. And I’m Grace fucking Ivers, one
of thousands of girls who are crushing
on him.

His gaze travels over me again, a
hot, lingering perusal that crackles along
my skin like an electric current. This
time there’s no mistaking the interest in
his eyes.
Should I make a move?
I should make a move, right?
Lean closer or something. Kiss him.
Or maybe ask him to kiss me? My brain
races back to my high school days, trying
to pinpoint how all those kisses
happened, if the guys I locked lips with
made the first move, or if it was a mutual
thing. Except none of those kisses were
with guys even half as gorgeous as this

“Do you want me to go now?”
His gruff voice startles me, and I
realize I’ve been staring at him for
almost a full minute without saying a
single word.
My mouth is so dry I have to
swallow a few times before answering.
“No. I mean, you can stay if you want.
We can watch something else, or—”
I don’t get to finish that sentence,
because he slides closer and touches my
cheek, and my vocal cords freeze as my
heart rate skyrockets.
John Logan is touching my cheek.
The pads of his fingers are
calloused, a rough scrape against my
skin, and he smells so good I feel light-

headed when I inhale the faint scent of
his aftershave.
He lightly strokes my cheekbone and
I have to stop myself from purring like
an affection-starved cat. “What are you
doing?” I whisper.
“Well, you were looking at me like
you wanted me to kiss you.” His blue
eyes become heavy-lidded. “So I was
thinking I might do that.”


out of control. A fast
drumbeat in my ears, a frantic
hammering against my ribs.
Oh my God.
He wants to kiss me?
“Unless I misread the moment?” he
I gulp, desperately trying to control
my careening pulse. Talking is not an
option. My throat has clamped shut.
Despite the fact that my motor skills
aren’t operating at full capacity, I

manage to shake my head.
His laughter heats the air between
us. “Is that a no to misreading the
moment, or a no to me kissing you?”
I’m miraculously able to produce an
entire sentence in response. “I want you
to kiss me.”
He’s still chuckling as he moves
closer, stretching on his side beside me
and gently nudging me onto my back.
Every muscle in my body tenses with
anticipation as he hovers over me, and
when he rests one hand on my hip, I
tremble hard enough for him to notice.
A smile curves his lips. Lips that are
getting closer and closer to my lips.
Inches away. Millimeters away.
And then his mouth brushes mine,

and holy shit, I’m kissing John Logan.
Almost immediately, my mind is
flooded with so many thoughts it’s hard
to focus on just one. I hear my father’s
endless lectures about respecting myself
and behaving properly and not going
wild in college. And then there’s my
mother’s cheery voice, ordering me to
have fun and live life to the fullest. And
somewhere in between an excited voice
is shouting, You’re kissing John Logan!
You’re kissing John Logan!
His mouth is warm, his lips firm as
he kisses me. Gently at first. A soft,
sensual tease that makes me whimper.
He licks my bottom lip, nips lightly at it
before the tip of his tongue touches the

seam of my lips. He tastes like candy,
and for some reason that makes me
whimper again. When his tongue finally
slides inside my mouth, he lets out a
raspy groan that vibrates through me and
settles in my core.
Kissing Logan is the single most
incredible thing I’ve ever experienced.
Forget that family vacation to Egypt
when I was nine. The glory of the
pyramids and temples and the frickin’
Sphinx is nothing compared to the feel of
this guy’s lips on mine.
Our tongues meet, and he makes
another low, husky sound, gliding one
hand up my body to cup my left breast.
Oh shit. Boob groping alert. I thought we
were just going to make out, but now

we’re fooling around.
I’m not wearing a bra under my tank
top, so when his thumb brushes the very
thin fabric and presses down on my
nipple, it sends a bolt of heat from the
tips of my breasts right down to my clit.
My entire body is hot and achy, tight
with excitement. Logan’s tongue
explores my mouth as he rubs my
distended nipple, his hips moving
slightly against my hip. His erection is
like a hot brand on the side of my thigh,
and I’m unbelievably turned on by the
knowledge that I’m turning him on.
Breathing heavily, he wrenches our
mouths apart. “Should I be worried that
your roommate is going to walk in on

“No, she’s not coming home tonight.
She went to some bar in town, and then
she’s planning on crashing with this girl
Caitlin from Kappa Beta. Which I think
is a really bad idea because the last time
she went out with Caitlin, they almost
got arrested for public drunkenness, but
then Ramona flirted with the cop and—”
Logan shuts me up with another kiss.
“No would have sufficed,” he murmurs
against my lips. Then he reaches for my
hand and places it directly on the hard
bulge in his pants. In the same breath, he
cups my sex over my PJs.
Oh crap. Downstairs action alert.
I’m not worried about my response
to his hand—one slow glide of his palm

is all it takes for a burst of pleasure to
erupt inside me. Nope, it’s my hand that
triggers the rush of nervousness. The
hand that’s currently stroking the
erection straining behind Logan’s zipper.
I’ve given handjobs before, plus a
few blowjobs that I know were a huge
success because…well, semen and all
that. But I don’t have enough experience
to consider myself an expert peniswrangler or anything. And all those past
penis encounters involved one guy, my
high school boyfriend Brandon, who
was equally inexperienced.
If the rumors I’ve heard about Logan
are true, then this guy has slept with half
the girls at Briar. Sounds like an

insanely high statistic, so I’m sure it’s
not accurate, but he’s definitely hooked
up with more people than I have.
“Is this okay?” he asks as he strokes
between my legs.
I nod and stroke him again, and a
tortured moan slips out of his mouth.
“Fuck, hold on.” He shifts on the
mattress, and my heart stops when he
unzips his pants. He eases them down
just low enough to free his erection from
his boxers, then tugs on the waistbands
of my PJs and underwear.
A second later, his hand grazes my
bare sex, and my hips lift involuntarily,
seeking closer contact.
Logan teases the tip of his index
finger over my clit. “Better?” he says,

his voice thick and raspy.
So much better. And so good it
makes my head spin, limiting my
response to a breathy mumble of
Smiling at my incoherent answer, he
leans in and kisses me again. With his
free hand, he grasps my right hand and
brings it to his erection, gently wrapping
my trembling fingers around the shaft.
He’s long and hard, his smooth, hot flesh
sliding easily inside my closed fist.
My body is on fire. Waves of
arousal swell in my core, and when he
pushes his middle finger inside me, my
inner muscles clamp around it, the
pressure so intense I forget how to

We don’t stop kissing. Not even to
come up for air. We’re both panting, our
tongues tangling and our hands hard at
work. His thumb presses on my clit as
his finger moves inside me, and the
pleasure spiraling through me gathers in
strength, a tight knot of anticipation that
causes the movement of my hips to
become even more erratic.
Minutes pass. Or maybe hours. I
have no idea, because I’m too caught up
in the incredible sensations. I stroke his
erection, squeezing the blunt head on
each upstroke, until his hips start moving
too, and a rough command leaves his

I quicken the pace and he thrusts into
my fist with a low groan, his breath
tickling my lips as he breaks the kiss.
His eyes are closed, his features taut and
his teeth digging into his bottom lip.
“I’m gonna come,” he mumbles.
Excitement ripples between my legs,
and I know he can feel how wet I am
because he groans again and his finger
plunges deeper, faster. A few seconds
later, he sags into me, his forehead
resting on my shoulder as his hips flex
forward one last time before going still.
As wetness spurts onto my hand, his
eyes slowly open and the sleepy
pleasure swimming in them takes my
breath away. Holy shit. I don’t think I’ve

ever seen anything sexier than the sight
of John Logan right after he’s had an
His breathing is still labored as he
meets my gaze. “Did you come?”
Crap. Right. His finger is still
lodged inside me. No longer moving, but
a reminder of the orgasm I’d been about
to reach before I got distracted by the
way he looked when he was coming, the
restless grind of his hips and the sexy
sounds he made.
But I’m too embarrassed to admit I
didn’t finish, and since he already did, I
feel awkward asking him to keep going.
So I nod and say, “Uh-huh. Of
A shadow of doubt passes through

his eyes, but before I can blink, he sits
up abruptly and says, “I should go.”
I ignore the equal doses of
disappointment and irritation that tighten
my belly. Seriously? He can’t even stick
around for a few minutes of post-hookup small talk? What a prince.
It’s even more awkward now. He
grabs a tissue from the box on the end
table and cleans up. I pretend to be cool
and composed as I pull up my pants and
watch him do the same. I even manage a
casual smile as he uses my phone to call
a cab. Fortunately, he gets through right
away this time, which means the
awkwardness doesn’t last long.
I walk him to the door, where he

hesitates for a beat. “Thanks for having
me over,” he says gruffly. “I had fun.”
“Uh, yeah, sure. Me too.”
A moment later, he’s gone.


my bedroom after my
morning shower to hear my phone
ringing. And since everyone my age texts
instead of calls, I know exactly who it is
without having to check the screen.
“Hey, Mom,” I greet her, gripping
the edge of my towel as I head for the
“Mom? Holy shish kebob. So it’s
true? I mean, I thought I gave birth to a
beautiful baby boy twenty-one years ago,
but that seems like a distant memory.


Because if I did have a son, he’d
probably call me more than once a
month, right?”
I laugh, despite the needle of guilt
pricking my chest. She’s right. I’ve been
a crappy son lately, too busy with the
post-season and term papers to call her
as often as I should.
“I’m sorry,” I say with genuine
remorse. “It always gets crazy busy at
the end of the semester.”
“I know. That’s why I haven’t been
bugging you. Are you studying hard for
your exams?”
“Sure.” Yeah, right. I haven’t even
cracked open a book yet.
Mom sees right through the
noncommittal response. “Don’t BS your

mother, Johnny.”
“Fine, I haven’t started yet,” I admit.
“But you know I work better under
pressure. Can you hold on a sec?”
I set the phone down and drop my
towel, then yank a pair of sweatpants up
my hips. My hair is still wet, sprinkling
droplets down my bare chest, so I rub
the towel over my head before picking
up the phone again.
“Back,” I tell her. “So how’s work
going? How’s David?”
“Good, and great.”
For the next ten minutes she chats
about her job—she’s a manager at a
restaurant in Boston—then tells me what

my stepfather has been up to. David is an
accountant, and he’s so boring that
sometimes it’s painful to be around him.
But he also loves my mother with all his
heart and treats her like the queen she is,
so I can’t exactly hate the guy.
Eventually she gets around to my
summer plans, taking on that guarded
tone she always uses when she brings up
the subject of my father.
“So I take it you’re working with
your dad again?”
“Yup.” I make an effort to sound
relaxed. My brother and I agreed a long
time ago to keep the truth from Mom.
She doesn’t need to know that Dad is
drinking again, and I refuse to dredge up
that old bullshit for her. She got out, and

she needs to stay out. She deserves to be
happy now, and boring as he is, David
makes her happy.
Ward Logan, on the other hand, made
her miserable. He didn’t hit her or abuse
her verbally, but she was the one who
had to clean up his messes. She was the
one who had to deal with his drunken
tantrums and constant visits to rehab.
The one who dragged him off the floor
when he came home wasted and passed
out in the front hall.
Fuck, I’ll never forget the time when
I was eight or nine, and Dad called the
house at two in the morning. He’d been
slurring like a maniac and freaking out
because he’d drunk himself stupid at a

bar, gotten in the car, and had no idea
where he was. It had been the dead of
winter, and Mom hadn’t wanted to leave
my brother and me at home alone, so
she’d bundled us up, and the three of us
drove for hours searching for him. With
only half a street name to go on because
the sign had been covered in snow and
Dad was too drunk to walk over and
wipe it away.
After we’d found him and hauled
him into the car, I remember sitting in the
backseat feeling something I’d never felt
before—pity. I felt sorry for my father.
And I can’t deny I was relieved when
Mom shipped him back to rehab the next
“I hope he’s paying you accordingly,

sweetie,” Mom says, sounding upset.
“You and Jeffrey work such long hours
at the garage.”
“Of course he’s paying us.” But
accordingly? Fuck no. I make enough to
pay for rent and expenses during the
school year, but definitely not what I
should be making for full-time work.
“Good.” She pauses. “Can you still
take a week off to come visit us?”
“I’m planning on it,” I assure her.
Jeff and I have already worked out a
schedule so that each of us can head to
Boston to spend some time with Mom.
We talk for a few more minutes, and
then I hang up and wander downstairs to
find something to eat. I prepare a bowl

of cereal, the no-sugar, all-bran borefest that Tuck forces us to eat because
for some reason he’s against sugar. As I
settle at the eat-in counter, my mind
instantly travels back to what happened
last night.
Leaving Grace’s room five seconds
after she’d jerked me off had been such
an asshole move. I know that. But I had
to get out of there. The second I’d
recovered from that orgasm, my first
thought had been, what the hell am I
doing here? Seriously. I mean, yeah,
Grace was awesome, and sexy, and
funny, but have I sunk so low that I’m
now randomly finger-banging chicks I
don’t even know? And I can’t even use
alcohol as an excuse this time because I

was stone-cold sober.
And the worst part? She didn’t even
fucking come.
I clench my teeth at the reminder.
There’d been a lot of moaning, sure, but
I’m ninety-nine percent certain that she
didn’t have an orgasm despite her telling
me that she had. Or rather, lying to me
that she had. Because when a woman
drops a noncommittal “Uh-huh” after you
ask if she had an orgasm, then that’s
called lying.
And that half-assed “yeah, sure, me
too” she gave me about whether she had
fun? Talk about bruising a guy’s ego.
Not only did she not come, but my
company didn’t do it for her, either?

I don’t know how I feel about that. I
mean, I’m not an idiot. I don’t live in a
magical bubble where orgasms fall from
the sky and land in a woman’s bed every
time she has sex. I know they fake it
But I’m fairly confident I speak for
most guys when I say that I like to think
they don’t fake it with me.
Damn it. I should’ve gotten her
number. Why the hell didn’t I get her
I know the answer to that, though.
This past month, I haven’t cared enough
to ask for a girl’s number after a hookup. Or rather, I’ve been too wasted
before, during and after the hook-up to

remember to ask.
The thud of footsteps from the
corridor snaps me out of my thoughts,
and I glance up in time to see Garrett
stride into the kitchen.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning.” I shove a spoonful of
cereal into my mouth and do my best to
ignore the instant jolt of discomfort,
while at the same time hating myself for
even feeling it.
Garrett Graham is my best friend.
For chrissake, I’m not supposed to feel
uncomfortable around him.
“So what’d you end up doing last
night?” He grabs a bowl from the
cupboard, a spoon from the drawer, and
joins me at the counter.

I chew before answering. “I hung out
with this girl. Watched a movie.”
“Cool. Anyone I know?”
“Naah, I just met her yesterday.” And
will probably never see her again
because I’m a selfish lover and bad
company, apparently.
Garrett dumps some cereal into his
bowl and reaches for the milk carton I
left out. “Hey, so did you call that agent
“No, not yet.”
“Why not?”
Because there’s no point.
“Because I haven’t gotten around to
it.” My tone is harsher than I mean for it
to be, and Garrett’s gray eyes flicker

with hurt.
“You don’t have to bite my head off.
It was just a question.”
“Sorry. I…sorry.” Real articulate.
Stifling a sigh, I take another bite of
A short silence settles between us,
until Garrett finally clears his throat.
“Look, I get it, okay? You didn’t get
drafted and it sucks. But it’s not like
you’re out of options. You’re a free
agent now, and you’re not locked in with
a team, which means you can sign with
anyone if they want you. And they’re
totally going to want you.”
He’s right. I’m sure there are lots of
teams that would want me to play for
them. I’m sure one of them would’ve

even drafted me—if I’d entered the
But Garrett doesn’t know that. He
thinks I’ve been passed over these past
two years, and—have I mentioned what
an asshole friend I am?—I’ve been
letting him think it. Because fucked up as
it sounds, having my best friend believe
I didn’t get picked bums me out a
helluva lot less than admitting that I’m
never going to play for the pros.
See, Garrett had a choice about not
opting in. He wanted to earn his degree
without the temptation that comes with
being drafted. A lot of college players
choose to ditch school the moment a
team holds the rights to them—it’s hard

not to when you’ve got a pro team
pulling out all the stops to coax you into
leaving college early. But Garrett’s a
smart guy. He knows he’d lose his
NCAA eligibility if he did that, and he
also knows that signing a contract with a
team doesn’t guarantee instant success,
or even playing time.
Hell, we both saw what happened to
Chris Little, our teammate in freshman
year. Dude gets drafted, goes pro, plays
for half a season, and then? A careerending injury takes him out. Permanently.
Not only will Little never step foot on
the ice again, but he spent every dime of
his signing contract on his medical
expenses, and last I heard, he went back
to school to learn a trade. Welding, or

some shit.
So yup, Garrett’s playing it smart.
Me? I knew from the start I wouldn’t be
going pro.
“I mean, Gretzky went undrafted, and
look at everything he accomplished. The
guy’s a legend. Arguably the best player
in hockey history.”
Garrett is still talking, still trying to
“reassure” me, and I’m torn between
snapping at him to shut up, and hugging
the living shit out of the guy for being
such an amazing friend.
I do neither, choosing to placate him
instead. “I’ll call the agent on Monday,”
I lie.
He offers a pleased nod. “Good.”

The silence returns. We cart our
empty bowls over to the dishwasher.
“Hey, we’re going to Malone’s
tonight,” Garrett says. “Me, Wellsy,
Tuck and maybe Danny. You in?”
“Can’t. I’ve gotta start studying for
It’s sad, but I’m starting to lose count
of all the things I’m lying to my best
friend about.



you repeat that?” Ramona
stares at me in utter disbelief, her eyes
so wide they look like two dark saucers.

I shrug as if what I’ve just told her is
no biggie. “John Logan came over last
“John Logan came over last night,”
she echoes.
“He came to our dorm.”
“You were in this room, and he
walked in, and then both of you were
here. In this room.”
“So John Logan showed up at our
door, and walked inside, and was here.
With you. Here.”
Laughter bubbles in my throat. “Yes,
Ramona. We’ve established that he was

here. In this room.”
Her mouth falls open. Then slams
shut. Then opens again to release a
shriek that’s so earsplitting I’m
surprised the water in my glass doesn’t
jiggle Jurassic Park-style.
“Oh my God!” She runs over to my
bed and flops down. “Tell me
She’s still wearing her party clothes
from last night, a teeny minidress that
rides up her thighs when she sits, and
silver stilettos that she kicks away in an
excited blur of legs.
When Ramona had walked into our
room, I’d lasted all of three seconds
before spilling the news, but now, with
her staring excitedly at me, reluctance

jams in my throat. I’m suddenly
embarrassed to tell her what happened
last night, because…well…I’m just
going to say it: because it was
I had fun watching the movie with
him. And I loved fooling around with
him—at least until those final moments
—but the guy got off and then left. Who
does that?
No wonder all his hook-ups take
place at frat parties. The girls are
probably too drunk to notice whether
they have an orgasm or not. Too drunk to
realize that John Logan is selling nothing
but false advertising.
But I already opened my big mouth,

so now I have to follow through and give
Ramona something. As she gawks at me,
I explain how Logan showed up at the
wrong door and ended up staying to
watch a movie.
“You watched a movie? That’s it?”
I feel my cheeks warm up. “Well…”
Another screech flies out of her
mouth. “Oh my God! Did you fuck him?”
“No,” I’m quick to answer. “Of
course not. I hardly even know him.
But…well, we did make out.”
I’m hesitant to disclose any more
than that, but the revelation is enough to
light up Ramona’s eyes. She looks like a
kid who’s just gotten her first bicycle.
Or a pony.
“ Yo u made out with John Logan!

Eeeeeh! That is so awesome! Is he good
a kisser? Did he take off his shirt? Did
he take off his pants?”
“Nope,” I lie.
My best friend can’t sit still
anymore. She hops off the bed and
bounces around on the balls of her feet.
“I can’t believe this. I can’t believe I
wasn’t here to witness it.”
“You’re into voyeurism now?” I ask
“If I’m voyeur’ing John Logan? Um,
yeah. I’d watch the two of you make out
for hours.” She gasps suddenly. “Oh my
God, text him right now and ask him to
send you a dick pic!”
“What? No!”

“Aw, come on, he’ll probably be
really flattered and—” Another gasp.
“No, text him to invite him over tonight!
And tell him to bring Dean.”
I hate to rain on her parade, but
considering the way Logan rushed off
last night, I have no choice but to dump a
bucket of cold water on Ramona’s joy.
“I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” I
confess. “I didn’t get his number.”
“What?” She looks devastated.
“What is wrong with you? Did you at
least give him yours?”
I shake my head. “He didn’t have his
phone on him, and there wasn’t an
opportunity for me to give him my

Ramona goes quiet for a moment.
Sharp brown eyes focus on my face,
narrowing, probing, as if she’s trying to
telepathically tunnel into my brain.
I fidget self-consciously. “What?”
“Be honest,” she says. “Was he
actually here?”
Shock slams into me. “Are you
kidding?” When she offers a tiny shrug,
my shock turns to horror. “Why would I
make that up?”
“I don’t know…” She tucks a strand
of dark hair behind her ear, her
discomfort obvious. “It’s just…you
know, he’s older, and hot, and you
didn’t exchange numbers…”
“So that means I’m lying?” I shoot to

my feet, beyond insulted.
“No, of course not.” She starts to
backpedal, but it’s too late. I’m already
pissed off and heading for the door.
“Where are you going?” she wails from
behind me. “Aw, come on, Gracie. I
believe you. You don’t have to storm
“I’m not storming out.” I toss her a
cool look over my shoulder, then grab
my purse. “I’m meeting my dad in fifteen
minutes. I really do have to go.”
“Really?” she says skeptically.
“Yes.” I have to force myself not to
scowl at her. “But that doesn’t mean I’m
not super mad at you right now.”
She darts over and throws her arms
around me before I can stop her,

squeezing tight enough to impede the
airflow to my lungs. It’s one of her
trademark Forgive Me hugs, which I’ve
been on the receiving end of more times
than I can count.
“Please don’t be mad at me,” she
begs. “I’m sorry I asked that. I know you
wouldn’t make it up, and when you get
back, I want to hear all the details,
“Yeah…okay,” I mutter, not because
I mean it, but because I want to get out of
here before I smack her in the face.
She pulls back, relief etched into her
features. “Awesome. Then I’ll see you
I’m out the door before she can

finish that sentence.


arrived yet when I walk
into the Coffee Hut, so I order a green
tea at the counter and find us two comfy
chairs in the corner of the room. It’s
Saturday morning, and the coffeehouse is
deserted. I have a feeling most people
are probably nursing hangovers from
Friday night.
As I settle on the plush armchair, the
bell over the door chimes and my father
enters the room. He’s wearing his
trademark brown blazer and starched

khaki pants, an outfit my mom refers to
as his “serious professor” look.
“Hi, honey,” he greets me. “Let me
grab a coffee.”
A minute later, he joins me in the
corner, looking more harried than usual.
“I’m sorry I’m late. I stopped by the
office to pick up some papers and got
cornered by a student. She wanted to
discuss her term paper.”
“It’s okay. I just got here.” I pop
open the lid of my cup and steam rises
up to my face. I blow on the hot liquid
for a moment, then take a quick sip.
“How was your week?”
“Chaotic. I was concerned with the
quality of the papers that were being
turned in, so I extended office hours for

the students who had questions about the
exam. I’ve been on campus until ten
o’clock every night.”
I frown. “You know you have a TA,
right? Can’t he help out?”
“He does, but you know I enjoy
interacting with my students.”
Yep, I do know that, and I’m sure
that’s why all his students love him so
much. Dad teaches graduate-level
molecular biology at Briar, a course you
wouldn’t think would be all that popular,
and yet there’s actually a waiting list to
get into his class. I’ve sat in on a few of
his lectures over the years, and I have to
admit, he does have a way of making the
ridiculously boring material seem

Dad sips his coffee, eyeing me over
the rim. “So, I made reservations at
Ferro’s for Friday at six-thirty. Does that
work for the birthday girl?”
I roll my eyes. I am so not a birthday
person. I prefer low-key celebrations, or
—in a perfect world—no celebrations at
all, but my mom is a birthday fiend.
Surprise parties, gag gifts, forcing
waiters to sing in restaurants…she’s all
about inflicting the greatest amount of
torture possible. I think she gets a kick
out of embarrassing her only daughter.
But since she moved to Paris three years
ago, I haven’t been able to spend my
birthday with her, so she’s recruited my
dad into taking over humiliation duties.

“The birthday girl will only agree to
go if you can promise nobody will sing
to her.”
He blanches. “Lord, do you think I
want to sit through that? No way, honey.
We’ll have a nice, quiet dinner, and
when you talk to your mom about it
afterward, you can tell her a mariachi
band came over to the table and sang for
“Are you sure you’re okay that we’re
not having dinner on your actual
birthday? If you want to celebrate on
Wednesday night, I can cancel office
“Friday is fine,” I assure him.

“All right, then it’s a date. Oh, and I
spoke to your mom again last night,” he
adds. “She asked if you’ve reconsidered
changing your flight to May. She’d love
to see you for three months instead of
I hesitate. I’m excited to visit Mom
this summer, but for three months? Even
two is pushing it—that’s why I insisted
on coming back the first week of August,
even though the semester doesn’t start
until the end of the month. Don’t get me
wrong, I adore my mother. She’s fun and
spontaneous, and so bubbly and
encouraging it’s like having your own
personal cheerleader following you
around waving her pom-poms. But she’s

also…exhausting. She’s a little girl in a
grown woman’s body, acting on her
every whim without stopping to consider
the consequences.
“Let me think about it,” I answer. “I
need to decide if I have the energy to
keep up with her.”
Dad chuckles. “Well, we both know
the answer to that is no. Nobody has the
energy to keep up with your mom,
He certainly hadn’t, but luckily, their
divorce had been one hundred percent
amicable. I think when Mom told him
she wanted out, Dad was more relieved
than upset. And when she decided to
move to Paris in order to “find herself”
and “reconnect with her art”, he’d been

nothing but supportive.
“I’ll let you know this weekend,
okay?” I reach for my tea, but my hand
freezes when the bell rings again.
A dark-haired guy in a Briar hockey
jacket strolls in, and for one heartstopping moment, I think it’s Logan.
But nope. It’s someone else. Shorter,
bulkier, and not as devastatingly
Disappointment flutters through me,
but I force it away. Even if Logan had
walked through that door, what would I
really expect to happen? He’d come
over and kiss me? Ask me out?
Riiiight. I made the guy come last
night and he didn’t even stick around

long enough to kiss me goodbye. So
yeah, I have to face the facts: I’m just
another girl on a long list of John
Logan’s conquests.
And honestly? I’m totally cool with
that. As underwhelming as it may have
been, getting, um…conquered by Logan
is hands-down the highlight of my
freshman year.



ever faked an orgasm with
you?” I blurt out. It’s eight o’clock on
Monday morning, and I nervously tap my
fingers on the kitchen counter as I look at

my roommate.
Dean, who was on his way to the
fridge, stops in his tracks so abruptly
that if he’d been on skates, I would be
wiping ice shavings off my face right
“I’m sorry, didn’t hear you. What
was that?”
His expression is the epitome of
innocence, so it’s not until after I repeat
myself that I realize I’m being played.
Dean doubles over, honest-to-God tears
streaming down his cheeks as he
shudders with laughter.
“I totally heard you the first time,” he
croaks. “I just wanted to hear you ask it
again…oh shit…I think I might piss
myself…” Another howl rips out of his

throat. “You tapped a girl and she faked
I clench my teeth so hard my molars
hurt. What on earth had made me think
confiding in Dean was a good idea?
“No,” I mutter.
He’s still laughing like a maniac.
“How do you know she faked it? Did
she tell you afterward? Oh God, please
say yes!”
I stare into my coffee cup. “She
didn’t tell me anything. I just got a
feeling, okay?”
Dean opens the fridge and grabs a
carton of OJ, still chuckling to himself.
“This is priceless. Big stud on campus
couldn’t make a girl come. You’ve

officially given me enough ammo to rag
on you for years.”
Yup, I sure did. Nobody ever said I
was smart.
And why the hell am I even still
obsessing about this? All weekend I’ve
fought the temptation to see Grace. I
forced myself to study for exams. I
played a six-hour Ice Pro marathon with
Tuck. I even cleaned my room and did
And then I opened my eyes this
morning and couldn’t take it anymore.
I’ve got moves, damn it. Women
know that when they hook up with John
Logan, they’re going to leave with a
satisfied smile on their faces, and it
drives me crazy thinking that Grace

might’ve been unsatisfied. It’s been
gnawing at me for days. Days, damn it.
You know what? Screw it. I might
not have her number, but I know where
she lives, and there’s no way I’ll be able
to concentrate on a damn thing today
until I’ve rectified this unholy situation.
Leaving a girl wanting isn’t just
embarrassing. It’s unacceptable.
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, I’m standing in front
of Grace’s door.
Showing up at a girl’s dorm at eightthirty in the morning might not be the
best way to score points, but since my
stupid ego refuses to let me walk away, I
take a breath and tap my fist on the door.

Grace opens it a second later.
Wearing nothing but a bathrobe.
Her eyes widen when she sees me,
her voice coming out in a squeak. “Hi.”
Swallowing, I do my best not to
dwell on the fact that she’s probably
naked under that robe. The white
terrycloth hangs to her knees, the belt
secured tightly around her waist, but the
top parts slightly, giving me a candid
view of her cleavage.
“Hi.” My voice sounds gravelly, so I
clear my throat. “Can I come in?”
“Um. Sure.”
She closes the door behind me, then
turns around, an uneasy smile playing on
her lips. “I don’t have much time. My

last psych seminar is in an hour, so I
need to get dressed and hike all the way
across campus.”
“That’s okay. I don’t have a lot of
time either. Study group in thirty
minutes.” I shove my hands in my
pockets to stop from fidgeting. I’m
nervous and I have no idea why. I’ve
never had a problem talking to chicks
“What’s up?” She nonchalantly
grasps the front of her robe, as if she’s
realized it’s dangerously close to gaping
“You didn’t finish, did you?” The
question flies out before I can stop it.
“Finish what—” She halts, a flush
rising in her cheeks as understanding

dawns. “Oh. You mean…?”
I grit my teeth and nod.
“Well…no,” she confesses. “I
I struggle to keep my mouth in a
neutral, non-frown position. “Why’d you
tell me you did?”
“I don’t know.” She sighs. “You
were already done. And I guess I didn’t
want to damage your ego or anything. I
was reading this article the other day
about how men are sensitive about that
kind of stuff. How it triggers feelings of
inadequacy if a woman doesn’t reach
orgasm. But did you know that something
like ten percent of women don’t have an
orgasm during sexual activity? So going

by that statistic, men really shouldn’t
feel like—”
“You’re doing that babbling thing
Her expression is sheepish. “Sorry.”
“I don’t mind it. I’m glad you’re
worried about my ego.” I grin at her.
“You should be.”
She looks startled. “Why?”
“Because I’ve been thinking nonstop about how I didn’t make you come
last time.” I shrug. “And how badly I
want to change that.”


from lily-white to
pale-pink in a matter of seconds. She’s
got the most expressive face I’ve ever
seen, so quick to display everything
she’s feeling. I appreciate how easy it is
to read her, otherwise her prolonged
silence to my last remark might’ve
worried me. But the glimmer of intrigue
in her eyes confirms I haven’t scared her

“Yeah.” My lips curve in a small
smile as I take a step toward her. “So
are you gonna let me or what?”
Alarm flits across her face. “Let you
do what?”
“Make you come.”
I’m gratified to see the unease in her
expression melt into molten hot
excitement. Oh yeah, I’m not scaring her
at all. She’s turned on.
“Um…” She lets out a strangled
laugh. “This is the first time a guy has
ever shown up at my door asking me
that. You realize how frickin’ crazy that
sounds, right?”
“You want to talk crazy? I’ve spent
the whole fucking weekend fantasizing

about doing this.” Frustration rises in my
chest. “I’m not usually such an asshole,
okay? I might fuck around, but I always
make sure the women I’m with have a
good time.”
She sighs. “I did have a good time.”
“You would’ve had a better time if I
didn’t blow my load and take off.”
Now she laughs again, which makes
me sigh. “You’re killing me here,
gorgeous. I’m talking about how much I
want to give you a screaming orgasm,
and you’re laughing at me?” I grin. “Did
we not just establish that my ego is
Her lips continue to twitch. “I
thought you had to go,” she reminds me.
“It takes ten minutes to get to the

library from here. Which means I have
twenty minutes.” My smile becomes
downright devilish. “If I can’t make you
come in twenty minutes, then I’m
definitely doing something wrong.”
Grace toys with a strand of wet, dark
hair, visibly nervous. My gaze lowers to
her lips, which glisten as her tongue
darts out to moisten them. The urge to
kiss her hums in my blood, and the
anticipation hanging in the air is thick
enough to tighten my throat.
I take another step. “So?”
“Um…” Her breath shudders out in a
rush. “Sure. If you want to.”
A laugh pops out. “Fuck yeah I want
to. But do you want it?”

“Y-yes.” She clears her throat.
I move closer and her eyes flare
again. She wants me. I want her too, but
I order my rapidly hardening cock to
behave. This ain’t about us, bro. Only
My dick twitches in response, but
there’s no way it’s getting any action
right now. If this was any other girl, I
might suggest a quickie, but unless my Vdar is on the fritz, then Grace is most
definitely a virgin. Not only do I not
have that kind of time on my hands right
now, but I’m also not particularly eager
to take on the responsibility of being her

But this…I reach for the sash of her
robe and give it a slow tug…this I’m
more than capable of doing.
And I plan on doing it right this time.
I don’t part the robe fully. I just slip
one hand through the gap in the terrycloth
and gently stroke the bare flesh of her
hip. She shivers the moment I touch her.
Her light brown eyes fix intently on my
face, and when my palm conducts
another featherlight sweep, she moans
softly and moves in closer.
“Get on the bed,” I rasp, gently
nudging her backward.
She sits on the edge of the mattress,
but doesn’t lie back. Her gaze stays
focused on me, as if she’s waiting for me

to issue another order.
Exhaling a breath, I kneel in front of
her and give the robe one final tug,
pushing it off her shoulders. The oxygen
I’d just released sucks right back into my
lungs. Holy fuck. Her naked body makes
my cock ache. She’s slender, with tiny
hips, long, smooth legs, and small-ish
tits with the prettiest pink nipples.
Saliva floods my mouth as I lean in to
flick my tongue over one nipple. I can’t
help myself. I need to taste her.
“Oh fuck,” I groan against the
distended bud, before sucking it between
my lips.
Grace whimpers, arching her back
and pushing her breast deeper into my
mouth. Jesus, I want to suck and play

with her tits all day long. I’ve always
been a boob man, and the thought of
staying right here in this position for all
of eternity sends a sizzle of heat to the
tip of my cock. But the reckless rocking
of Grace’s hips reminds me that time is
of the essence. And goddamn, I’m not
leaving until I make her come.
I release her nipple with a wet sound
and place my hands on her thighs. They
tremble beneath my fingers, making me
chuckle. “You okay?”
She nods wordlessly.
Satisfied that she’s still on board, I
spread her legs wider, slide lower to the
floor, and bring my mouth to her pussy.
Instant hard-on.

Fuck, I love going down on a girl.
The first time I did it I was fifteen, and it
turned me on so frickin’ much I came in
my pants. I’m not so quick on the trigger
anymore, but I can’t deny that the feel of
Grace’s slick, warm pussy beneath my
tongue gets my dick harder than
nobody’s business.
I lick her clit in a slow, teasing
stroke that makes her moan. She falls
back on her elbows, and I peer up to find
that she’s closed her eyes. Her lips are
parted, her pulse visibly throbbing at the
center of her throat, and that’s all the
encouragement I need to keep going.
My tongue travels down her slit to
her opening. She’s soaking wet. Hell.

Maybe I should be worried about
repeating the old coming-in-my-pants
fiasco, because my balls draw up so
tight they damn near disappear.
I clench my ass cheeks to control the
wild tingling at the base of my spine and
focus on making her feel good. I lick my
way back to the swollen bud that’s
begging for my attention, gently flicking
my tongue against it, kissing and sucking
and gauging her every response to find
out what she likes. Slow and soft, I
determine. Her moans are more
desperate and her hips rock harder when
I tease her.
Except teasing her is teasing me, and
now my dick is pressed up painfully
against my fly. Damn thing will probably

bear the impression of my zipper by the
time we’re through.
I ease the tip of my index finger
inside her, and I’m immediately
rewarded by a throaty cry.
“Good?” I murmur, gazing up at her.
Her eyelids are droopy. “Mmmhmmm.”
Satisfaction streaks through me,
egging me on, making me even more
determined to send her toppling over the
edge. I resume my task. Sweet, languid
strokes to her clit while my finger inches
deeper and deeper, until it’s finally
lodged inside her. She’s tight. Really
tight. And wet. God. Really wet.
And if she doesn’t come soon, my

pants are about to get wet too, because
I’m so close to exploding that—
“I’m coming,” she moans.
And hell yes, she is. Her clit pulses
against my tongue as her pussy squeezes
my finger like a steel glove. She’s not a
screamer. Not much of a moaner either,
but the breathy sounds that leave her
mouth are hotter than any porn star
noises I’ve ever heard.
I ride out the orgasm with her,
stroking her inner channel and sucking
on her clit as she shudders quietly on the
bed. Several seconds later, she starts to
laugh, squirming as she tries to move out
of my grasp.
“Too sensitive,” she chokes out.
I lift my head with a grin. “Sorry.”

“Oh my God, you are not allowed to
say that right now. Not after…” She
sucks in a breath. “That was…amazing.”
She’s slow to sit up, her eyes hazy with
pleasure. “I have no idea what else to
say. Thank you?”
Laughter bubbles in my throat.
“You’re welcome?”
My legs feel unusually weak as I
stand up. I’m still ridiculously hard, but
the alarm clock on the night table reveals
I have exactly eleven minutes to trek
over to the library. Under any other
circumstances, I wouldn’t care about
being late, but this is the last study group
before tomorrow’s marketing final, and I
can’t afford to miss it. I’m already going

into the exam with a D in the course, so
failing the class is both a scary
possibility and an outcome I refuse to let
happen. The course is a prerequisite for
my degree, and I have no desire to retake
it next year.
“I need to go or I’ll be late for study
group.” I meet her eyes. “Can I get your
“Oh. Um…”
Her hesitation sparks a pang of
anxiety. One of the rare times I ask for a
girl’s number and she’s uncertain about
doling it out? After I rocked her world?
Jesus. Is my game slipping?
I raise a brow, my voice taking on a
note of challenge. “Unless you don’t
want to give it to me?”

“No. I mean, yes, I do.” She bites her
bottom lip. “Do you want it now?”
I force a laugh that I hope sounds
flirty rather than nervous. “Now would
be good.” I grab my phone from my back
pocket and open a new contact page.
“Hit me.”
She rattles off a series of numbers.
So fast I have to make her stop and
repeat it. I type in her name and press
enter, then tuck the phone away. “Maybe
we can hang out again sometime? We
could watch the next Die Hard in the
“Yeah, sure. That sounds great.”
Seriously? Another “yeah, sure”?
What the hell does it take to get an

“I’D LOVE TO!” from this chick?
“Okay. Cool.” I gulp. “I guess I’ll
call you, then.”
She doesn’t say anything, and in the
ensuing silence, I’m overcome with a
wave of discomfort.
Then I dip down and do the stupidest
thing ever. Which says a lot, because
I’ve dabbled in my share of stupidity
over the years.
I kiss her forehead.
Not her lips. Not her cheek. Her
fucking forehead.
Real smooth, bro.
She looks up at me in amusement, but
I don’t give her the chance to comment
on my dumbass move.
“I’ll call you,” I mumble.

And for the second time in three
days, I leave Grace’s dorm feeling like a


long, and I can honestly say I didn’t hear
a word the professor said. Not one
single word.
For one hundred and eighty minutes,
all I did was run through every
incredible second of every incredible
thing Logan did to me this morning.
Can you nominate anyone for
sainthood, or are there eligibility

Can you nominate someone’s tongue
for sainthood? Or maybe there’s an
Department of Sexuality hands out?
If so, Logan deserves to win it.
I’m still flummoxed that he showed
up at my door and pretty much
demanded I let him give me an orgasm. I
guess his ego is as sensitive as that
Cosmo article said it would be, but you
know what? I found it kind of charming.
And oddly satisfying that someone as
confident as John Logan was actually
doubting his sexual prowess.
It’s funny. Less than a week ago I
was bemoaning the lack of excitement in

my life, and now look at me—sexy
hockey players showing up at my door to
excite the hell out of me.
Fuck it. I’m giving myself the award.
Logan continues to dominate my
thoughts as I meet Ramona and the girls
for lunch, joining them at our usual table
against the back wall of the cavernous
dining hall.
Carver Hall is my favorite place on
campus. Whoever constructed it must not
have paid attention to the rest of the
buildings on campus, though, because
Carver has a rustic chalet-style feel to it.
High ceilings, wood paneled walls, and
ornate light fixtures that cast a soft
yellow glow over the room instead of
the fluorescent lighting you find in the

other meal halls. And it’s only two
minutes from my dorm, which means I
get to bask in its splendor on a daily
I set my tray on the table and pop
open the tab of my root beer as I sit in an
empty chair. “Hey,” I greet everyone.
“What are we talking about?”
Ramona, Jess, and Maya instantly
clam up, their expressions taking on
secretive gleams that tell me precisely
what they were talking about.
I narrow my eyes. “What’s going
Ramona glances over sheepishly.
“Okay, so don’t be mad…but I told them

about Logan.”
Annoyance spirals through me, but
it’s mostly directed at myself. I don’t
know why I bother telling Ramona
private things anymore. Asking her to
keep a secret is like throwing a ball and
asking a dog not to chase it. Well, I
threw the damn ball, and now Ramona’s
scampering back with it. And this year
she happened to meet and become BFFs
with two girls who gossip even more
than she does. Jess and Maya spend so
much time dissecting other people’s
lives they should create a website and
give Perez Hilton some competition.
“So is it true?” Jess demands. “Did
you seriously hook up with him?”
I feel uncomfortable discussing

Logan with them, but I know these girls,
and they won’t let up until I give them
something. Trying to appear casual, I
twirl some fettuccine around my fork and
take a bite. Then I glance at Jess and say,
“That’s it? Yep?” She looks aghast.
“That’s all you’re going to say?”
“I told you guys, she’s being super
hush-hush about it.” Ramona grins.
“Obviously we need to remind Grace
about the number one rule of friendship.
AKA not skimping on details when you
made out with the hottest guy on
I chew my pasta. “I don’t kiss and

Maya speaks up, a mocking note in
her voice. “You know, considering the
complete lack of details, one might think
it didn’t even happen at all.”
One might think?
My head swivels toward Ramona.
Unbelievable. Is she spreading that
around now? Letting people believe I’m
some crazy pathological liar?
Ramona is quick to defend herself
against my unspoken accusation. “Hey,
we cleared that up, remember? I totally
believe that you fooled around with him,
“Twice.” The confession slips out
before I can stop it. Damn it.
Ramona’s jaw falls open. “What you

mean twice?”
I shrug. “He came over again this
That gets me two gasps, followed by
two high-pitched squeals—from Jess
and Maya. Ramona remains strangely
quiet, but when I study her expression,
it’s impossible to decipher.
“Oh my God. He did?” Jess
“When was this?” Ramona asks.
Her tone is way too polite to not
raise my hackles. “Right after you left
for class. He didn’t stay long, though.”
Her dark eyes stay shuttered. “Did
you at least get his number this time?”
“No,” I admit. “But he has mine

“So you still have no way of
reaching him.” It’s not a question. It’s
not even a particularly pleasant
statement. There’s an edge to her voice,
and when I glance across the table,
there’s no missing the smirk on Maya’s
They don’t believe me.
Ramona can deny it until she’s blue
in the face and backpedal until she’s in
another state, but my best friend still
thinks I’m making it up. And now she’s
recruiting our friends into doubting me
Our friends?
The scornful voice raises a good
point, and as I think it over, I suddenly

can’t think of a single person I’ve hung
out with this year that Ramona didn’t
introduce me to. The one time I invited a
few girls from my English Lit class to
come over, Ramona laughed and chatted
with them all night, told them what a
fabulous time she had, and then, after
they left, informed me they were boring
and that I wasn’t allowed to bring them
over when she was around.
Damn it, why do I let her dictate my
life like that? I tolerated it in high school
because…hell, I don’t even know why I
tolerated it. But we’re not in high school
anymore. This is college, and I should
be able to spend time with whoever I
want without worrying about what
Ramona will think about them.

“No,” I answer through clenched
teeth. “I have no way of reaching him.
But don’t worry, I’m sure my imaginary
hook-up partner will get in touch with
me sooner or later.”
She frowns. “Grace—”
“I’m heading back to the dorm to
work on my paper.” My appetite has
disappeared. I pick up my half-eaten
dinner tray and rise to my feet. “I’ll see
you later.”
Maybe I’m naive, but I thought
college would be different. I thought all
the gossiping and backstabbing and
bullshit ceased to exist once you left
high school, but I guess mean girls can
be found at any level of the education

system. It’s like visiting a farm—if you
go there not expecting to see piles of
cow shit everywhere, then you’re in for
a rude awakening. And there’s a good
SAT question for you. SCHOOL is to
Shit. The answer to that is shit.
Ramona catches up to me the moment
I burst outside, her heels clicking on the
limestone entrance as she hurries toward
“Grace, wait.”
My jaw tenses as I turn around.
“What now?”
Panic lights her eyes. “Please don’t
be pissed at me. I hate it when you’re
pissed at me.”

“Gee, I’m so sorry you’re upset,
Ramona. What can I do to make you feel
Her bottom lip quivers. “You don’t
have to be sarcastic. I came out here to
For fuck’s sake, if she launches into
her whole crocodile-tears act, I might
actually lose my shit.
“I’m not having this conversation
with you again,” I say in a cold voice. “I
don’t care if you think I’m lying. I know
I’m not, and that’s all that matters to me,
okay? Just know that I find it incredibly
insulting that my best friend since I was
six years old believes I—”
“I’m jealous,” she blurts out.

I stop talking. “What?”
Her face collapses as our gazes lock.
She lowers her voice, then repeats
herself. “I’m jealous, all right?”
Hell must have frozen over. There’s
no other explanation for what I’m
hearing. Because in thirteen years of
friendship, Ramona has never admitted
to being jealous of me.
“I’ve been trying to get with Dean all
year,” she laments. “All fucking year and
he doesn’t know I exist, and you just
hook up with his best friend without
even trying.” An oddly vulnerable look
softens her features. “I’ve been acting
like a total bitch and I’m so sorry. I was
insecure and I took it out on you and that

wasn’t fair, but please don’t be angry
with me. It’s your birthday on
Wednesday. I want to celebrate with
you, and I want us to be good again, and
I interrupt with a sigh. “We’re good,
“We are?”
The anger that had been flowing so
freely through my veins dissipates as I
glimpse her hopeful expression. This is
the Ramona I invested thirteen years of
my life for. The girl who listened to me
babble for hours about my high school
crushes, who brought my assignments
home whenever I was sick, who taught
me how to put on makeup, and
threatened to kick the ass of anyone who

so much as looked at me the wrong way.
She might be self-absorbed and shallow
at times, but she’s also fiercely loyal and
unbelievably kind when she drops that
bad girl bitch act.
All the bullshit with Jess and Maya
back there still stings, but I can’t bring
myself to throw away years’ worth of
friendship over something so trivial.
“We’re good,” I assure her. “I
A brilliant smile fills her face.
“Good.” She flings her arms around my
waist and bear-hugs the hell out of me.
“Now let’s go home so you can tell me
every dirty thing John Logan did to you
this morning. In explicit detail.”


Munsen on Wednesday
morning, my enthusiasm level sitting
firmly on its usual spot on the superhappy-fun-time scale: zero.
It’s rare that I’m forced go home
during the school year, but sometimes I
have no choice. Usually it happens if the
part-time mechanic at my dad’s shop
can’t cover for Jeff when he takes Dad
to his doctor’s appointments. Today is
one of those instances, but I assure
myself that I can handle a couple hours


of oil changes and tune-ups without
losing my mind.
Besides, it’ll be a good warm-up for
the summer. I tend to forget how much I
hate working in the garage, so on that
first day back, it’s like being sent to the
front lines of a war zone. My stomach
drops and fear pummels into me, as I
realize that this will be my life for the
next three months. At least if I dip my
toes in today, I can get some of the panic
out of the way.
Jeff’s van is already gone when I
park my pickup in front of Logan and
Sons Auto Repair. The name is kind of
ironic, seeing as the shop was already
called that long before my parents ever
had kids. My granddad ran the place

before my dad took over, and I guess
he’d been hoping to sire a lot of
strapping male offspring. He only sired
one, though, so technically the place
should be called Logan and Son.
The shop consists of one small, brick
building, the interior of which only has
room for two lifts. But the meager
square footage doesn’t really impact the
business since it’s not exactly booming.
L&S does well enough to cover
expenses, my dad’s bills, and the
mortgage on our bungalow, which sits at
the back of the property. Growing up, I
hated that our house was so close to the
shop. We used to get woken up in the
middle of the night by customers

pounding on our door because their car
broke down nearby, or by phone calls
from the tow tru