Chapter Three
This has been the day from hell and has been a battle every step of the way.
It started off with my alarm failing to go off. I can’t even blame my alarm when it was my own fault for turning off my phone last night. I was begged into going to movie night with my friend, Chantel, afterwards stopping at Dickey’s Drive-In for burgers and shakes, even though when I got back home I had to pull an all-nighter for my Chemistry exam.
I was literally working on two-hours of sleep and overslept by forty-five minutes, completely missing my Women’s Studies lecture.
Then my mother called. She grilled me yet again about my choice of studies and major and something about “wasted potential,” none of which I really listened to. I’d heard it all before and it was a never-ending battle of wills. Sometimes she drove me insane and I was glad to be far enough away from New York City that she couldn’t just pop by anytime she felt like it.
Then it started to rain – thanks to the crazy-ass fall weather in the northeast – and it went from drizzle to complete downpour in ten minutes flat. I could’ve handled the rain had I not run out of gas and had to hoof it over to the library to meet my six-o’clock tutoring student.
Preston Dahl.
The name alone sounds like a Class-A Ivy League Asshat.
Shaking my wet hair out before stepping over the threshold of the arched doorway into the pristine hallway of the library, I look down at my clothes to find that I’m soaked through. Great. My blouse is practically see-through and clinging to my breasts. My heavy, round and embarrassingly large boobs that have attracted unwanted attention from men of every age since I was fourteen-years-old.
I sigh and manage to pull the sweater I brought with me out of my bag and wrap it around my shoulders, hoping to hide the telltale signs of the cold that’s swept into my body – i.e., headlights. My nipples are so hard right now and the draft from the library air conditioning isn’t doing me any favors.
I adjust the strap of my book bag and walk up the bank of stairs in the middle of the building, up to the third-floor study carrels where we tutors set up shop. Preston and I had messaged the day before and I’d given him the location of our study session, as well as gotten some information on what he was studying and needed help with.
I was thrilled to know that he was taking a class that I’d already taken last year, English Lit and Sexuality in Literature. It was the most divine course I’d ever taken and the professor, Char Feldman, was a hoot. Studying the works of writers such as Tennyson, Woolf, Nabokov and Tennessee Williams can sometimes cause your eyeballs to roll back in your head, but she drew out comparisons to the world we live in today and how their words shaped our thoughts on sexuality.
Honestly, it was also very hot stuff to read. Studying sex in literature was an erotic feast for my imagination and I didn’t know what to do with my body’s reactions to all the steaminess. It just continued to ratchet up my desire to finally experience what all the fuss was about. But it still hasn’t happened.
I set my bag down with a sigh, picking an open table and scanning the room for anyone that looks like they might be Preston. I’m picturing this stuck-up, polo-shirt-wearing douche with slicked back hair and daddy’s Porsche parked outside.
“Ahem.”
The sound from behind me startles me and I whip my body around and smack right into a wall. Well, not a wall, but a chest. And when I say smack, what I really mean is that my over-sized boobs bounce against this gigantic chest-wall in front of me.
My hands fly up to said chest instinctively and I place my palms against his pecs. I feel them strain and flex under the weight of my fingers, and instead of dropping my hands, I dig my fingertips into the T-shirt. Wobbling slightly, my shoulders tremble – is that from the cold air or this guy’s massiveness? – and the sweater that was hanging over my back falls to the floor.
Leaving me staring up into the amused eyes of the biggest man I’ve ever seen. And he’s staring down at me, the deep hazel gaze drifting over my face and then down to my…
Oh crap.
I drop to my knees, pivoting on my heels to scrounge around the floor for my sweater, and then look up again at the mountain of man in front of me.
He’s glancing around the room with an embarrassed smirk across his mouth, a pinkish blush creeping up and around his neck, his ears turning bright red.
That’s kind of cute.
Yet, all I can think about right now is a quote from D.H. Lawrence fromLady Chatterley’s Lover. “…and the moment you begin to be aware of your body, you are wretched.”
I quickly stand, yanking the material of my blue azure cardigan over my chest as I turn and fumble around at the table with my things. I try to hide my humiliation over being such a klutz and for my appearance, but it doesn’t work so much because he gently touches my shoulder.
His voice is calm and quiet, as if nothing was amiss. “I’m so sorry I scared you. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you like that, but I thought you saw me walking toward you. I assume you’re Brinley?”
My voice, on the other hand, quivers. Like a babbling brook over the smooth rocks of the river bed. “Y-yes. I’m Brin. You’re Preston?”
I nervously turn to the side, sticking out my hand for him to shake, but not fully facing him, for fear my nipples will remain fully erect missiles and he has the launch code.
Slinking into my seat, I do everything I can to avoid looking at him. I shuffle some papers, pull out my notebook and pen, check my phone and then nervously fiddle around with my hair. Which is still damp on the ends, so I must look like a drowned rat. I figured I’d have time to dry out since I’m ten minutes early for our session.
“You’re early,” I blurt out.
His lips quirk up into a half smile and he glances away before his eyes connect with mine again. He has super long lashes that frame his deep inset eyes. They are warm and hold a thousand untold stories in them.
