Page 11 of Best Man on Campus

“The stove is a gift from Claire Majiski. She was my foster mother for a while. You know her as the cook at BMOC House.”

The jaw-dropping look on his face makes me smile in satisfaction. If nothing else, the sight of Ben fucking Weaver totally losing his cool makes this night worthwhile.

“Majik? Is your—What the fuck? Our Majik?”

“How many do you think there are, fuck-head?” Instead of calling me out like he should for mouthing off, he smiles like a goof.

“It’s… quite a coincidence.”

“Yeah. Don’t make a big deal out of it.” Fuck. I’m not going to mention that maybe it’s not such a coincidence that I knew all about him. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned that Majik is my foster mother. I should have made up a story about the stove. Told him it was a gift from a man. What was I thinking?

Damn the tequila loosening my lips. There’s a reason I don’t drink much. Not that it makes me all soft and vulnerable, but it makes me spout off like there’s no tomorrow. And not that I’m a big believer in tomorrows, but I don’t need people feeling sorry for me. I’d sworn Majik to secrecy about our relationship and she gets it. Now I’ve blown my fucking secret all on my own.

I shove the bottle of tequila back in the freezer drawer and go to the couch. May as well get on with the main event, assuming he’s still interested, but the way his eyes follow me I’m afraid he’s interested in all the wrong things.

“I never figured Majiski—Majik—for a foster mother. It’s hard to imagine her raising a little girl.”

“She didn’t. I was fifteen when she got hold of me. She was the only one tough enough to handle me, according to the social worker.” A point of pride, however misplaced it is. Because Majik did succeed in calming me. She’s the only one in my life I’ve met since then who’s out-toughed me. I look Ben up and down and hope to hell I’m not staring at the next person to out-tough me. Maybe that’s why I want him to stay, so I can prove to myself that I’m tougher even than Ben the fucking unicorn.

He nods, sitting next to me, close but not touching except at our knees because his legs are wide open the way men sit. My eyes go to his crotch reflexively, checking out his package. There’s a bulge for sure, but it’s not up to the same proportions that it was earlier in the evening. Of course not. He’s a cool one, as advertised by Majik, all serious and kind and considerate and good and decent and every other impossible-to-live-up-to adjective. She’s made him out to be a saint.

This is my first opportunity to prove her wrong. That’s why I keep him here. I’m a perverse bitch, but so what. I’ve been trying to out-tough Majik since I was a teen and just when I’m ready to accept defeat, I find my opportunity. What will it prove?

Probably that life and the world are as fucking shitty as I always thought, that I need to keep those walls in place and my fists raised until I’m blessedly rescued from this life. Sometimes I wonder how Majik lives without the attitude, yet still stays tough. But she’s not let a lot of people in. Ben doesn’t seem to have a clue who she really is.

“Majik is very cool,” he says. “I suppose it makes sense. She’s somewhat of a mother figure to the guys at the house even though she’s officially only the cook. Every one of the guys would defend her, fight anyone who hurt her.”

“Is that a warning?”

“No.” His answer is confident. More so than I am. I roll my eyes.

“I think I’d like to see you in a fight.” It’s true. The idea gives me a kick of pleasure right between my thighs. Blood lust is strong in me. Another perversion, because I can’t stand the sight of blood.

“I bet you would. You have a disturbing violent streak for a girl who … never mind.”

“What? Say it.” I clench my teeth and hold my breath, my heart starts pounding harder.

“For a girl who can’t stand the sight of blood.”

“You’re wrong.” I lie. The motherfucker is right, but I don’t care. “I only passed out because of the loss of blood. There’s a difference.”

“If you say so.”

My first instinct is to slap the knowing shadow of a smile from his face, but I skip to my second instinct and go for a kiss. Putting both hands on his face, I capture his mouth. I want to make him feel what I feel. Vulnerable. I want to get back control of this night, of this man.

After I ravage his lips and feel his satisfying reaction, I let go. He’s leaning into me now, close, and the scent of his sweat and aftershave and the night air swirl through my senses. I like it, though it makes me anticipate things I have no business anticipating, so I ruthlessly pull myself back into the here and now.

“That was unexpected,” he says.

“I like to keep a guy on his toes. Predictability is death.”

“Then maybe I shouldn’t tell you what you’re going to feel next.” His words are a sexy, spine-tingling warning that goes right to my pussy. I should be jumping to my feet, running away from his hold as he wraps an arm around me and holds my chin in his hand. But I find myself immobilized as we stare into each others’ eyes. Those eyes are close enough for me to see the crystal clearness, the depth of their dark pools.

Moving with heart-palpitating slowness, his lips come close to mine and his hand caresses my back. His breathing, steady and warm, fans me, teasing the fine hairs of my face, his scent tantalizing me, making my mouth water. Making me want to sink my teeth into him, to swallow him whole, to have him. To allow him inside me.

Before this self-admission jolts me into fight-or-flight mode, his lips touch mine, our mouths connect and he overpowers me, strong and confident and passionate. That unexpected passion subdues me with its honesty.

With our mouths sizzling, welded together by some elemental attraction, he lowers me back onto the couch, touching my tits, caressing with tenderness and need, causing desire to swirl through me, heavy and intense, more than I’ve felt in… forever.