I raise my brows in surprise. “Oh, you like this?”
She bites down on her bottom lip before nodding.
I bend down and kiss her languidly.
“I like it too,” I admit. “Reminds me of the first time I ate you out and your mom nearly walked in on us. Remember that?”
“Which time?” she giggles, and I drop a kiss on her lips. “You smell like sex,” she hums as I move away from her and look for my underwear and jeans.
“Something I could’ve fixed if you picked a dorm with a shower. Now I’ve gotta walk across campus with the smell of you all over me.” I look up, thinking about it for a secondbefore licking my lips. “Actually, that doesn't sound so bad. Lets everyone know you're mine.”
“Stop,” she groans.
“What? If you won't let me put a ring on your finger, then your juices all over my dick and face is the best I got.” I pull my boxers and jeans on.
“What about the jersey?” She plucks at the fabric covering her delectable body.
“That's temporary. I want something a little more permanent… like a name change.”
She pushes me off and laughs.
“Come back to me when we're at least twenty-five. I've got things to do before I become 'Mrs. Zach Evans.’”
Well. That wasn’t a no. And yeah, I’m coming in hot, considering we just hit our first anniversary, but I’ve seen how easy it is for couples to break up in college.
I don’t want any chance of that.
I want to lock things down now.
“Next time, I’m hiding in your closet,” I grumble.
She smirks. “They’ll find you.”
“And I’ll scare the shit out of them with the giant boner I’ll be rocking.”
She rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t attempt to move from the floor. Good. I screwed her so thoroughly that she’ll be thinking about me all night.
“What are you up to tonight?” she asks as I finish pulling my underwear back on.
Good question.
One I can’t answer without giving a few things away.
“Just watching some plays with Coach. I’ll probably call Mike, too. The guy texted me today saying he missed me.”
I turn back to her when I’ve got my jeans on, and yeah, I don’t think she’s moving from that spot for a while.
“What about you, Honeycomb? What are you doing?”
“I’ve got some work to do for my creative writing class.”
“Oh, yeah? What are you writing?”
“Nothing dramatic,” she says, shrugging. “Just a personal essay. I’m realizing I’m not great at putting real feelings on the page.”
I stop what I’m doing and really look at her. “You don’t give yourself enough credit,” I say quietly. “You feel everything deeply, Honeycomb. That’s why your writing’s going to hit.”
She curls deeper into the pillows, tugging my jersey further down her thighs.