Tori wasn’t kidding—he’s the ultimate bad boy. A shiver dances up my spine, and I don’t think it’s revulsion.
According to the internet, he’s majoring in gender, women, and sexuality studies with a social justice minor. And that surprises the hell out of me.
It seems to contradict his disdain for smart girls. Why would he put himself in that situation? I figured he’d be studying something easy, something he wouldn’t have to work hard at. Something jocks study so they can spend their time playing sportsball. Yet here he is, studying something profound and important. Something that speaks to my feminist heart and makes me want to get to know him better.
“I can see your screen.”
I snap my phone against my chest, my cheeks now sizzling. I don’t know why I’m so curious about this guy, but his entire life is on the internet, impossible not to get sucked into. It’s like reading a soap opera script.
“You should totally shoot your shot with him.”
This time I can’t help but snort, dropping my phone on my lap so I can throw my hands over my face at the awful sound that escapes from me. “But he’s gay.”
She shakes her head. “I can see why you’d think that, but click the photos tab. You’ll see him with both men and women. He’s bi.”
She sure knows a lot about him. I take another look at her. Has she been with him? Does she want to be with him? Have some of her friends been with him? Shit. Is she related to him? Ohhhh crap.
She wags her finger. “Don’t look at me like that. I have a kid at home. I don’t want any part of your nasty boy. I mean, he’s a fantasy come to life. Athlete who moonlights as a stripper. Bad boy who takes gender studies. He’s a walking contradiction.”
Wait. A… stripper?
I’m not sure if I want to see what pictures of him live in the photos tab, but after that declaration, my mouth has gone bone dry. It’s bad enough that he’s what my dad would call a ruffian. Add in the stripper thing, and Dad would lock me in the basement if he ever got wind of me so much as even talking to that boy.
He’s bad news.
Trouble.
No good.
And no amount of adorable cheek dimples, Colgate smile, or chocolate brown eyes can distract from the fact he’s not the boy for me.
My thumb hovers over the photos tab as I sip on my now lukewarm hot chocolate. I can look, right? Once I see him with a myriad of lovers, I can put the final nail in the “heck no” coffin and not give him another iota of space in my brain.
Except the first three photos are of him in various stages of undress, and instead of a dry mouth, I’m drooling.
The first picture is him upside down on a stripper pole. He’s still wearing that stupid back to front ball cap, clinging to the pole with his thighs, and beaming at the camera. Oh… my… those thighs.
I’ve seen videos on social media of guys crushing watermelons with their thighs, but always wondered if they were legit. Sitting here, staring at Ares de la Peña’s thighs, 100% convinced he could crush… anything… with those thighs.
I’ve never seen such muscle definition in someone’s legs before. I also can’t bring myself to look away. They’re so… sculpted.
I manage to pull my gaze away from the thighs for long enough to scroll down the other pages in the web browser’s photo library. There are a lot. He very clearly loves having his picture taken and being the center of attention.
He doesn’t seem to have a specific type, other than perfect, flawless, and breathtakingly beautiful.
I close the browser, lock my phone, and put it face down on the table before silently drinking the rest of my hot chocolate. Victoria doesn’t say anything for a long time either, but her attention flits between her notebook and my face.
My body springs to life every time his melodic voice meets my ears, and I’m growing more and more frustrated with myself. When I heard him speaking Spanish at the gym, I almost needed an ice bath, but my lady parts have decided that they don’t care what comes out of his mouth. It all sounds delicious. In fact, the filthier the better.
Ugh. Is this what Adam and Eve felt like? The lure of the forbidden fruit?
I’m starting to think this guy is a siren, and he’s working his merman voodoo on my vagina. Tori is smirking at me again, like she’s inside my brain listening to the thoughts ricocheting around.
“No.” I cross my arms. His siren voodoo can go bother someone else’s vagina. It’s not like he’s short of willing volunteers.
Victoria rolls her lips. “If you say so.” In her defense, she’s clearly trying hard to keep her amusement under wraps.
We go back to studying. For how long, I have no idea, but the jock ruckus has died down when we both come up for air. I risk a glance over at their vacated table, not expecting to find chocolate brown eyes staring right back at me.
