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Cris started to pound on the door again when I thrust it open.
His eyes widened, his hand in mid-knock, and he blinked at me. “Hi.”
I scowled, brushing past him.
“Uh—what? Hey!”
I couldn’t be here.
I could not be here.
That was on repeat in my head as I rushed around his room, looking for my things. My clothes. My purse. My phone?
“Hey!”
There was nothing here. I rounded on him. “Where’s my shit?”
Cris looked at me for a second before anger flared and he scowled at me. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Where’s my stuff, Chavez?” I huffed again, my hands on my hips. “You can’t take my things and keep them from me. Where are they?”
There was a tick of silence, and I looked away.
I couldn’t stare at him, not when he was getting pissed right back at me.
I’d forgotten how hot Cris was. He was six five. Wide shoulders. Lean frame, but he had some bulk on him. It’s why they made him a power forward. He was good at shoving his way around under the basket. Brown skin that sometimes was so sleek and smooth when he was sweating that he made me want to lick every inch of him. Black hair that he was letting grow out a little this year. It’d been kept short last year, almost a crew cut. This year, he had enough where it was messily rumpled, and I got one look and my vagina was remembering the last time we fucked.
What was wrong with me?
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he growled, those eyes heated and smoldering.
My clit twitched.
Fuck.
“I said—”
“I know what the fuck you said,” he unloaded. “I don’t have your shit because you didn't have any shit with you.”
I frowned.
He took a step toward me. “Want to know the state we found you in?”
We?
“You were on the ground. You were so fucking drunk that you couldn't sit in the chair.” Another step. He was still seething. “And your buddies with you, what a couple of great friends you have. They did nothing. Goddamn fucking nothing. You're on your ass and they're watching the band. And they kept doing nothing when I came over, picked you up off your ass, and carried you out of there.”
I winced hearing that. I wasn’t altogether surprised, but it was a little hard to hear at the same time.
“Want to know who else saw me throw you over my shoulder and did nothing about it?”
I frowned, my mouth drying up.
Another step and now he was breathing down his nose at me. His hands were in fists at his side. “Your fucking boyfriend.”
Another grimace.
“Yeah,” he bit out. “He saw the whole thing. You falling. You not getting back up. Your friends not helping. And a guy coming over and hauling you out of there.”
