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“It’s Laurie’s master key.”
“They give out master keys to the art building? That’s not smart. That’s just basically asking students to fuck on the roof.”
“I know, right? Open season. I’m surprised there aren’t twenty people up here right now.” He turns and grins at me, and then we round a corner and he says, “There we go.”
“What is this?”
“Grass.”
“Right, but …”
I’m looking at a patch of lawn, about fifteen feet square. Like, just … Grass. On the roof of the art building. “Is this somebody’s project?”
“It was some kind of prairie restoration experiment thing, I think,” he says. “But that was a long time ago, and now it’s just this rooftop lawn that Rikki mows.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s Rikki. Strip.”
“Out here?”
“I want you naked in that grass in thirty seconds. I’ll make it worth your while.”
“But what if there’s ticks?”
“How could there possibly be ticks?”
“How should I know?”
“It’s not like there’s deer up here, Caro. Or foxes, or any other kind of host animal.”
“We’re a host animal.”
“I don’t think there’s that many people fucking on this rooftop that they could be passing ticks back and forth.”
“But—”
“Quit.”
“But—”
He blows out an exasperated breath and whips his shirt off. The moonlight spills over his shoulders and chest, turning his skin a milky white-blue, gooseflesh and hard muscle. Naked West chest and those jeans. Those fucking jeans. When his hands go to his zipper I reach for it, because I want in on this. So much.
West pushes my hands away. “Strip.”
“All right.”
He finishes before I do, which means I push my skirt down with his gaze on me. I’m standing in my bra and panties, a little chilly, a lot turned on. “Come over here,” I beg.
“Lie down.”
“By myself?”
“On the grass.”
“This is strange.”
“Humor me.”
