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I shouldn’t have done what I did but I can’t bring myself to regret it.
Of course I can’t. Those flaring blue eyes. That ruthless male beauty. That mouth and what he could do with it.
The only regret I feel is the one where I know for a fact that it can’t happen again.
I wish it could. Tonight. Now.
I only hope he hasn’t already ruined me for anyone else.
Too late.
I wish I could call my sister. But it’s three hours earlier on the West coast. And I know what she’ll say if I tell her about this. I’ve broken Rule Number One, which goes against the grain of our entire upbringing. Dad’s already had his heart broken and she’s worried about the state of his health. I can practically hear her scolding me from afar. Run wild and sow your oats, Zee, hell yes—as long as you’re doing it with literally anyone but a football player. You know better than that.
Shoving my phone into the pocket of my sweatshirt, I let myself into my dorm, using my fob to unlock the door, I wave to the night security guy, who’s built like a weight-lifter, then I take the elevator up.
I try to close the door quietly but Isla wakes when I come in. “Zara?”
“Yeah. It’s me. Sorry to wake you. Go back to sleep.”
“Where were you?”
“I fell asleep in my studio. It’s got a window seat that’s almost as big as a bed. It’s a little too comfortable.”
“Have you heard from Elias?”
I freeze for a second. “Um…why?”
“The guys couldn’t get a hold of him. They thought he might be with you, but they sounded worried.”
I don’t want to lie to my new roommate. My brain is busy trying come up with an excuse that doesn’t quite do that. But my hesitation gives me away.
“Holy shit, Zara. You were?”
Damn it. I sit down on my bed and hold my head in my hands. I’m suddenly feeling overwhelmed. But I’m used to that feeling and I manage to shake it off before it comes across as melodramatic, I can only hope.
I need to tell someone before I either burst into tears or spontaneously combust from the sheer overload of what just happened to me. It was more than just intense, it was life-changing.
I just had my first kiss with a hot quarterback, which then quickly devolved into having my first, second and third orgasm—from his mouth, which he knows how to use like some kind of orgasm wizard, which then led to blowing said quarterback like I was a worldly and experienced groupie who knows exactly how to swallow like a pro, and I’m feeling a few things. Like happiness, because I finally understand how lust can connect you to another person in a way you weren’t expecting. Like not-quite-embarrassment because I turned into a raving nymphomaniac as soon as he touched me.
“Zara. Come here. Get in with me. Tell me what happened.”
It’s exactly what I need right now. I’m used to confessing my innermost emotions. It helps.
I climb in with her and she pulls the covers over both of us. “Did you have sex with him?”
“No. I mean…no.”
“But you were together last night?”
Tentatively, I confess. “He came to my studio and we talked for a long time. And then…”
“Did he kiss you?”
And then some. “Yes.”
“Was it…good?” she whispers.
I glance over at her in the low light of dawn and she’s got this dreamy look on her face. “Was what good? The kiss?”
