Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
I roll my eyes. “He leans on everyone. I think it’s an athlete thing.”
She giggles, popping a biscotto into her mouth. “You could do worse, MK. Most of the girls on campus would kill to get with Clay Newell. He’s got, like, legendary stamina. You know what I’m saying?”
I blush, but it’s automatic, not real. “I think I’ll pass.”
“Seriously? You’re not even a little bit curious?”
I start to say no, but just then I glance back and see Clay Newell standing with his friends. He’s got his phone out, typing one-handed, and his other hand is holding a cannoli, which he’s chomping like a cigar. I catch sight again of a cluster of angry red acne along his neck, just above the hoodie, and the view makes something inside me wither. He’s objectively attractive, sure. But up close, he looks like every other guy on this campus: a little bit “red pill,” a little bit too self-sure, already aging before his time. Compared to Kent, he’s a Ken doll left out in the sun. Compared to Kent, every guy here is.
“He’s all yours,” I mutter to Emmeline. “I’m not really looking for a boyfriend right now.”
Emmeline gives me a mock salute, then tucks her phone into her bag and scans the crowd. “You do you, girl. But if you change your mind, Clay’s always at the rec center. And I mean always.” She winks, then turns to flirt with a redheaded sophomore hovering by the coffee.
I let out a slow, steadying breath, trying to exhale the stale classroom air and all the feelings that come with it. In my head, I run through the comparison test again: Clay’s sweaty grip versus Kent’s huge, surgical hands that could break a walnut but always touch me like I’m made of glass. Clay’s beer-and-Axe body spray smell versus Kent’s pure, clean warmth—soap, sandalwood, something bitter and expensive. Clay’s smirk versus the way Kent’s mouth goes hard at the corners when he’s about to come, the way he growls my name with his face buried between my legs.
I snap back when Clay returns, the boy chewing. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then gestures at the door with his chin. “Hey, Mary Kate, you wanna come to a party on Friday? My fraternity’s throwing a thing. Sigma Epsilon Chi. It’s gonna be, like, wild. You should bring your friends.”
He says “Sigma Epsilon Chi” like it’s a golden ticket. I can practically hear Emmeline shrieking with delight. I force a smile, trying to look interested. “I’ll see if I can make it.”
He grins, satisfied, and then leans in again. “Just saying, last time we threw a party, the cops came twice. You like to party, right?”
I almost laugh. I want to say, “I’ve done more in a single night than you have in your entire college career, pal,” but I just nod and murmur, “Sure.”
He pats me on the back—a touch too lingering, too familiar—and then drifts off toward the elevators, already talking about supplements and protein intake with his buddies.
I watch him go, then look down at my hands. They’re sticky with cannoli cream. I wipe them on a napkin and pack up my bag, thinking only of Kent. Of his hands, his mouth, the look in his eyes when he made me come with a single, brutal lick on my clit. How he pushed his tongue into my pussy hole, and then pulled out and licked the taut clench of my back button. Of how deliciously dirty the older man is. Of what he’s promised me for tonight. My phone buzzes again, and I know it’s him, probably telling me to be on time, to come straight to the basement sauna without passing go.
I toss my empty paper cup and slide out the door, bracing for the cold. All I can think of is him, the only man who’s ever made me feel wanted and needy and feminine at the same time.
Friday night at the Sigma house doesn’t stand a chance.
11
ILLICIT TIMES IN THE SAUNA
KENT
The sauna is the size of a small guest bedroom, finished in kiln-cured cedar that still leeches resin in the corners. I like to run it at a temperature just shy of tropical, a climate that warps the wood and beads sweat on your skin before you’ve even shut the glass door. Tonight I take it up an extra notch—pure Scandinavian torture, hot enough to haze the air, to make you gasp when you step inside. The recessed lighting throws everything amber, even my own hands as I wipe down the upper bench and set out the little tray of oils. Eucalyptus, orange, and a third bottle that’s unlabeled, but smells faintly of honey and musk. I arrange them with surgical precision on the highest slat, then adjust the folded towels—one navy, one white—on the lower bench.