Page 9 of Best Man on Campus

I shrug. “I’ll cover him for it.”

She studies me. “What’s your problem? You too good for me?”

I laugh. “I’m not too good for anyone, Jazzy. But you’re not really interested in me.”

“Is that right?” She waves her hand in the air. “Not what the hand in the pants says to me.” She comes back to me and pulls her hips into mine with her one hand grabbing my ass in a tight fist meant to hurt. Although all I feel is hot lust kicking up and my cock reaching out to the promised land as she grinds into me. I put my hands on her shoulders and stroke them down her arms, stopping her when she tries to suck at my neck like a sexy vampire to leave a mark.

“You’re all about playing games and that’s not my style.”

She laughs, but the sound is fragile, less sure. “We’re only here for fun, Mr. hockey dick.”

I laugh at her change of tune from unicorn to Dr. Hockey to hockey dick.

“I don’t want to marry you,” she says, reaching for my face, and I stop myself from flinching, expecting a slap or a scratch or a pinch or something violent to come from her broken anger, the demons stirring her to no good.

But she surprises me with a caress of my jaw and an honest look into my eyes, without the glint masking her vision.

“We’re here for fun, to enjoy each other, Jazzy. Not to punish anyone,” I whisper, leaning in, floating my lips over her face, leaving tender kisses around her mouth, small flutters to test her like I’m taming her. Because hell, that’s what it feels like, as if I’m breaking in a wild ride, teaching her about a gentler version of sex, the kind where no one has to get hurt. Then I wonder what her hurt is and who did it to her, but that’s not good. I squash the thoughts, the need to go there as if I can save her. All I should worry about is saving this night.

Fuck.

“You’re seducing me,” she says like it’s a new thing.

“Of course. It’s part of the fun. Go with it.” I move my hands down her sides to her ribs, cupping those lust-inciting breasts. She loosens her grip on my ass, but doesn’t back away.

“What if I do go with it? Where do we end up, unicorn boy?”

I smile as I whisper into her ear, back in her good graces, “We end up in mutual multi-orgasmic heaven if we’re doing it right. How does that sound?”

She laughs. A real belly laugh that shakes her body. It’s the last thing I expect.

Chapter 2

Jazzy

I can’t help myself, but laughing is better than crying. I try pushing away from him but he doesn’t let me go, not completely. His bold cock is too interested in the promise of that nest between my thighs. But that’s not happening. Ever. Not even with the unicorn of men, Ben fucking Weaver. I don’t care how glowingly Majik talks about him.

“Didn’t I mention you need to leave your pipe dreams at the door, Ben?” I pull from his arms and walk around the couch, pushing my unruly hair back, holding it off my hot neck. Man did he get me hot with his stupid little kisses and his talk. All talk. Not real. Not for me.

“Pipe dreams? What the hell are you talking about?” He follows me. Of course, the fucker does.

“I’m talking about the mutual orgasm crap.”

He looks at me like I’m crazy and he’s not wrong. This night is so all out of control and I don’t know where I screwed up. No man has ever gotten the upper hand, turned things around this way. I’m the one who dictates the terms. Always. Must be the blood loss that’s making me weak.

“This is shit. I don’t know what’s wrong with you,” I say, as if he’s the problem. Because the last thing I’m going to do is admit that I’m the problem.

He laughs. At me. I turn and raise my hand to slap him in a reflex action not even thinking, like a threatened tiger. Too late I realize it’s my bad hand. But my hand never connects in that satisfying sting against the skin of his fucking handsome clean-shaven face. Because the fucker is quicker than any man I’ve ever been with and he catches my wrist.

We stand there like that, like we’ve been paused in a freeze-frame. My mind is blank staring into those eyes, knowing the soul behind them is a decent soul, knowing that means he wants nothing to do with the likes of me. That I have no right to play with him. Not even for his night of so-called fun with fairy-tale mutual multi-orgasmic bliss. It never works that way. Not in my universe.

“Do you want me or don’t you, Jazzy?” he asks, quiet and serious so that I feel like it’ll hurt him, wound him somehow if I turn him down. But do I want to hurt him? Ironic question, since I’ve been lashing out at the perfect fucking unicorn boy all night trying to hurt him. Now’s my chance to do it and a deep buried reluctance shows up, slowing me down.

I lick my lips, partly to distract him, taunt him, partly to smash down the vulnerable reluctance and bury it back where it belongs with baby dolls and jump ropes and the guileless sleepovers with the girlfriends of my youth. Gone forever in an explosion of blood and innocence five years ago.

“No.” My voice sounds dead, none of the excitement for toying with this too-good-to-live man is left in me. It’s a shame I can’t scrape some joy or satisfaction from my triumph because he does look hurt. He blinks and heaves a breath, then lets go of my wrist.

“I’ll leave then.” He steps away with a nod and grabs his jacket as he heads for the door, only a few steps away in this mouse hole. He reaches for the knob and turns to me.