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I’m strangely content.
Maybe for the first time in my life.
28
BROOKE
I wake with a stretch, unable to remember the last time I slept this deeply. It takes a couple of seconds for everything from last night to slam into me like a ton of bricks.
The fundraiser.
Crosby unexpectedly showing up with his parents.
Us leaving the event together.
My eyelids spring open as my head twists, only to find the bed empty and the sheets already cool to the touch. It’s almost enough to make me wonder if it was all a dream. One shift against the cotton is all it takes for the dull ache between my thighs to flare to life.
Plus—
I peek cautiously under the covers, only to reconfirm my bare state. I usually sleep in panties and a tank top, not full-on naked.
So yeah…it happened.
I slept with Crosby Rhodes.
Out of all the guys on Western’s campus I could have hooked up with, I never expected it to be him. Even though he apologized and explained the reasons for his behavior…
I’m still blown away.
Did I fantasize about it?
Guilty.
What red blooded female with a beating pulse at this university hasn’t?
Even when I hated the guy, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
Everything happened so fast. I have no idea if us sleeping together meant anything. I know what he told me, but men will say a lot of things when they’re trying to sweettalk a girl into sex.
I release a steady breath as memories of what his lip ring felt like against my clit tumble through my head. That’s all it takes for a shiver of desire to dance down my spine and heat to rush to my core. If I were wearing panties, they’d already be soaked.
All right, enough of that. I need to get my head on straight where Crosby is concerned. It’s probably for the best that he took off. His nearness clouds my better judgment.
Shaking away all thoughts of the sexy football player, I reach for my phone on the nightstand before scrolling through some messages and firing off a few quick responses. My gaze falls on the text convo from Chris, and I wince as a wave of guilt crashes over me, threatening to suck me under. My fingers fly over the miniature keyboard, tapping out a message.
Hey. Sorry I didn’t get back to you last night.
I stare at the cell and will him to respond. There aren’t even those three little dots to tell me he’s typing out a reply. Last evening was the first time we’ve skipped talking or texting. It’s only been a few weeks, but I look forward to our nightly conversations. Chris isn’t like any of the other guys I’ve met at school, and we’ve become close fast. What I love most is that I can be myself and tell him anything.
Well…just about anything.
Even though I’m confused about the guy I just slept with, I don’t want to lose my friendship with Chris. At the end of the day, I have no idea what to expect from Crosby.
He sleeps around and doesn’t date.
Like a lot of the athletes on this campus, he seems to enjoy the perks of being a high-profile football player at Western. People treat him like a god.
Am I really willing to take a chance with another jock who’s known for fucking around with groupies?
The question circles viciously in my head until my temples begin to throb.
Unable to sit still for another moment, I toss off the covers, ready to head to the bathroom for a long, hot shower. Last night was enjoyable and I refuse to regret it, but his scent is all around me, permeating the air. It clings to my skin and sheets, making it impossible to focus on anything else. As much as I hate to admit it—even privately to myself—it does strange things to my insides. What I need to do is wash it away and get a little perspective.
As I rise to my feet, a text pops up on my phone. I fall back to the mattress and drag the covers over my naked breasts before settling against the pillows.
No worries. Did you have a good time?
My teeth nibble at my lower lip as guilt and shame scald my cheeks.
How am I supposed to answer that?
It was a fundraising event at my parents’ house. What do you think?
I tack on a laughing emoji and pray he doesn’t dig deeper. The last thing I want to do is start off our relationship with deceit. Although technically, omissions of the truth are still considered lies. You don’t have to watch reruns of Law and Order to understand that.
I’m knocked from those thoughts by his next question.
Sounds boring. Meet anyone interesting?
My fingers hesitate, hovering over the screen as another wave of remorse washes over me. If not for Crosby, the party would have been excruciating. And if that isn’t one of the most bizarre thoughts that’s ever popped into my brain, I don't know what is. If you’d asked a month ago if I’d be grateful for his presence, the answer would have been an unequivocal no.
