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Patrick shrugged on a T-shirt and a fresh pair of boxers. There was something about the way he dressed. It wasn’t flashy, and he didn’t give off a rich-boy vibe, but his clothes were just a little different than your typical Kappa Sig dude. Subtle differences, like the cut of his dark T-shirt, hugging his massive torso, the v-neck nuzzling the base of his throat, and his boxers, which looked…tailored.
“What do you like to eat for breakfast?” He leaned his hand against the dresser.
“Oh, right. That.” I patted back a yawn. My stomach had been rumbling since I woke up. Skipping dinner last night was catching up to me. “Eggs. Or oatmeal. But really, cold cereal’s fine. I know what frat house kitchens are like.”
He nodded and left. His eyes flicked to my half-covered body on the way out.
When the door clicked shut, I rolled out of bed, wincing at the tenderness between my legs, and began investigating. Patrick got a prize for having the cleanest frat house bedroom I’d ever seen. The open closet caught my eye, and I wandered over.
No dirty secrets here. Just a few quietly expensive shirts, sweaters, and pants. A sketch pad by the wall, a box of pencils on the shelf. In back of the shelf, a black-and-white silk scarf was balled-up and crumpled. Shoved out of sight, forgotten. It was obviously a woman’s scarf. I was curious, but when I felt around next to the box, I hit the jackpot — a family photo.
I held the picture carefully by the edges. A teenage Patrick in a tux smiled up at me. Four people in formal wear stood in a group around him. Behind them was an outdoor bar and a big tent. Probably a family wedding.
Quickly, I inspected the two younger brothers — one brash and cocky, one slender and shy — and the broad, tense-looking dad who could be Patrick’s thirty-years-older twin. But I looked the longest at his mom, pretty and slight, one hand protecting her updo from the wind, who smiled for the camera like an afterthought while her pale eyes gazed off to the side.
I guessed Patrick was around sixteen here. Already tall, but lankier, his jaw softer. His face was open, his blue eyes eager to please. Nothing like the wolf who’d lured me in and gotten off on my humiliation. But at his side, one hand was clenched in a fist.
I heard voices in the hall and quickly replaced the picture on the shelf.
Backing away from the closet, I took in the rest of the room. The desk was disappointingly neat. Other than the rumpled bed, everything was in place. His walls were like a travel ad for Italy, specifically Rome: posters of the Colosseum, a stone fountain with a worn Latin inscription, a cobbled alleyway. The top half of his bookcase bulged with art books, and the bottom overflowed with more economics textbooks than a sane person would ever read.
I found my panties and bra on the floor and wriggled into them as I inspected the last picture — a small painting opposite his bed.
A naked woman sat on a ledge, her back to the viewer, curled in on herself.A hint of breast peeked out from the side. A curtain of hair hid most of her face as she looked over her shoulder, her dark eyes lifted.
Exposed. Submissive. Defiant.
It’s not like we were twins or anything, but that long, wavy dark hair could be mine. The body wasn’t too far off, either.
I finger-combed my hair savagely, bending to pull out the tangles. So Patrick had a type. And whatever his kinks were, he looked at this painting every day. I would have preferred a smiling, fake-boobed centerfold that I could roll my eyes over.
The door opened suddenly behind me. “Nice ass.”
I froze, flushing. The words were crude. Delivered in that deep, quiet voice, they went from a catcall to a barb. Stuck in my skin, tugging between my legs.
I pivoted to face him in my underwear. He was holding a loaded cookie sheet, doubling as a tray.
““Nice mouth,” I retorted. “You talk to your mom with that mouth?”
A strange look came over his face. Then it was gone. He strolled over to the bed, set down the tray in the middle, and made himself comfortable.
“Eat up.” He gestured to the cookie sheet.
Cautiously, I settled in next to him. Plumping the pillows behind my back, I pulled the covers up and reached for the tray.
There was oatmeal. Eggs. A bigger plate of eggs for Patrick. There were raisins on the oatmeal. There were two mugs of coffee — oh sweet Jesus,coffee.I grabbed one and slurped.
“You made all this?” I said around a mouthful of oatmeal. Patrick’s lips twitched. “Excuse me, I’m hungry.”
“I can see that.” He started in on his eggs.
“I’m impressed that you found something in the kitchen to use as a tray.”
Patrick took a measured sip of coffee. “Mm.”
“I’ve been in that kitchen. It’s not the worst, but it’s not exactly well-stocked. I was baking cookies for James last spring,” I rushed on, “and I did it here so he could have them straight out of the oven. I had to bring everything in. The ingredients, the supplies.” I pointed at the cookie sheet. “I think I bought that. You’re using my donation to this house.”
“Mm,” Patrick said again, like he was humoring me.
