The fucker leaves me on read, and I catch Betty … no, Dawn? No … Wendy, maybe? I don’t know. It was an older name anyway. She’s a Delta Gamma sister who’s sweet on me. I’ve been avoiding her all night. I saw Becks with someone earlier, but I’m pretty sure they found a room. Caught sight of McKinnon, too. That guy. He reeks with the stench of parents who fucking adored him. It’s not a real reason to hate him, just jealousy speaking, but resisting the urge to knock his teeth out when I see his bright face is a Mount-Everest-level feat.
Maybe I will during a game. But with my luck, I’ll become the villain. No one will cheer my efforts to teach McKinnon that life isn’t fun.
Ducking around the corner, I just miss her again, only catching the scent of her cherry perfume in the wake of her blonde hair. She’s gorgeous, but the thought of being with anyone stirs overwhelming nausea in my gut.
Except Tate.
Finally, my phone buzzes.
Tate
Meet me outside.
Me
WTF??? You can’t be here.
The asshole doesn’t answer. Clearly, he does whatever the fuck he wants. But my heart beats faster, and I don’t like what that means. It’s a bubbly sort of sensation. Fucking, goddamn butterflies.
No!
I slip out the back door. The noise mutes. Inside was all bass and beer breath, laughter too loud to be real, and frat boys making inappropriate jokes. I used to be a member of that club, but I don’t relate anymore. How can I? Every day is survival. Running from the next monster. I could fake my way through it, sure, chest out, peacocking like the rest of them—I do a good job acting as if I belong. I have to.
But the second I cross that threshold, the frat noise fades.
Nothing else exists except for moonlight, crisp grass, and Tate wearing soft sweatpants and an oversized Scorpions hoodie. I’m not used to seeing him like this. Even on the ice, he’s in a suit and tie, but this is likely his daily wear. The casual attire doesn’t steal his presence. It somehow makes him larger. And fuck if I don’t want to wrap myself up in him—not a feeling I’m used to having.
He’s so handsome, my chest aches. It’s not fucking fair. And I know he’s in his late thirties, but he doesn’t look it at all. He could easily pass for someone in their late twenties.
The cool air bites, as if it knows what’s about to happen. Tate stands in the shadows, and if I weren’t looking for him, I wouldn’t see him. He doesn’t move when he sets eyes on me, juststands there, hands stuffed in the front pocket of his hoodie like he has all the time in the world to decide whether or not he’ll touch me.
My lungs forget how to work, but then I remind myself to breathe.
“We can go around the?—”
He shakes his head, pointing up. An open window on a balcony two floors up. He doesn’t hesitate, lacing his fingers together, crouching low, offering me a silent boost to the low roof over the back porch. It’s gentlemanly, other than the fact that we’re sneaking in.
Though, does it count as sneaking in when I was invited?
My hands cling to the edge, and I pull myself up, about to reach to help him, but the man’s already performing an elaborate parkour move off a brick wall, jumping to catch the ledge on his own. It’s probably the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. I have a thing for competence. Tate’s proving a man of many talents.
I stumble in through the window, landing awkwardly in front of two standard-issue double beds. Tate follows a second later, slipping in like he’s broken into places before. Right. He probably has, the fucking criminal.
We don’t turn on the light, relying on the moon, but I catch sight of a letterman jacket. McKinnon in block font. This is McKinnon’s room.
Several heartbeats pass. No words exchanged, just an ever-mounting charge. A little intuitive voice whispers,this can only end in bloodshed.
The air thrums between us, a buzzing live wire, waiting to snare us. He steps first, slow, lethal. One hand reaches out, brushing my jaw, fingers grazing just enough to make me flinch. A wave of tingles lights up the side of my face.
My heart’s in my throat and my cock at the same time, skin burning everywhere he’s touched me. His finger lazily drags down my neck, cataloguing, taking stock of what would belong to him.
Hell, to Tate, I already do.
“I thought about you all damn day,” he breathes, voice coming out all croaky. “I want to taste you, dollface.”
He’s affected, too. As much as I am. Relief floods my fucking body, but it also feels like I’m choking, even though he hasn’t put more than a finger on me.
“We can’t fuck in McKinnon’s room,” I whisper, but cave to his wet lips on my neck, opening for him.
