All Lined Up

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

She arches an eyebrow in a challenge because she knows I’m lying. I arch one back because I don’t think our agreement of honesty extends to this weird four-way conversation where both Ryan and Stella are watching us with barely concealed expressions of interest. Besides, the conversation I want to have is unlikely to be something she wants to have in public.

Her eyes soften, and I think she gets it.

“Ugh. Dallas, just take him up to our room already and make out or something. These soulful, searching looks are going to give me hives.”

I would not want to be on the receiving end of Dallas’s glare, but Stella must be used to it.

“I have a solution!” Ryan says. “You guys don’t want to be seen in public together in case someone gets the wrong idea. Or really, the right idea, but you don’t want them to know it’s the right idea.”

Stella leans her elbows on the table. “Get to the point, 007.”

“Go out with me,” he says.

Stella looks at Dallas, but when Ryan keeps his eyes on her she says, “Wait . . . me?”

“Yeah. If we’re dating, then Carson and Dallas can just tag along with us, pressure-free.”

“One problem there, bud. I don’t date.”

“Not yet. I could be the one to sweep you off your feet.”

Her snort of laughter could have taken any guy to his knees, but not Ryan. He just continues grinning, completely unfazed.

“It’s a good idea,” he says.

She laughs even harder, and I think there might actually be tears in her eyes when she finally settles down.

“Yeah, well, listen.” She turns to Dallas. “I have to get to class. Sorry I can’t continue to be your buffer.” She slips her purse over her shoulder, and before she picks up her tray, she leans across the table toward Ryan. “If you want to ask me out, you’re going to have to man up and do it for real.”

As she walks away, he calls out, “I thought you don’t date.”

“I thought you were going to sweep me off my feet.”

Dallas stays picking at her food for a minute longer, then she says abruptly, “I need to go, too.” I sigh, and she adds, “I’ll text you.”

I don’t let myself watch her leave because that would just be the torture cherry on top of an already shitty day.

When Dallas said she’d text me, I didn’t think she meant immediately.

Third floor. Room 43. Take the stairs.

I take one look at the two plates of food that I barely touched, then switch my gaze to Ryan. He waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll finish my lunch alone.”

“I forgive you for all your bastard moments.”

“Good. Means I get to rack up some more.”

I’m in such a hurry to leave that I almost forget my tray.

“Don’t forget, you’re working with Speedy and Blocks in an hour!”

Almost forgot about that, too. I roll my eyes because he’s been trying to make those nicknames for Torres and Brookes stick for weeks now, and he just can’t accept that it’s not happening. “I’ll be there.”

I’m glad he’s not there to see how quickly I take the stairs to the third floor, otherwise he might start calling me Speedy.

I try not to look too impatient as I knock on the door to Dallas’s dorm room.

She opens the door just a crack at first, then when she sees it’s me, she opens it wide.

“I’m sorry about downstairs. Now tell me what’s wrong. Did something happen with—”

As soon as she closes the door, I push her against it and crash my mouth to hers. Her fingers thread through my hair, gripping it tight, and we’re on the same page in seconds.

These are no soft kisses.

We touch lips and tongue and teeth. When she pulls on my hair and moans, I take that as my permission to be a little rough. I lift her up by the hips, and she wraps her impossibly long legs around me, squeezing me between them. I slide my hands around to cup her backside, and she arches out from the door. Her hands leave my hair to wrap around my shoulders, fingertips kneading and pushing at my muscles in a way that releases all the stressful tension and replaces it with the want barreling down my spine.

She is the most intoxicating mix of hard and soft—lean, strong muscles covered in silken skin. That’s her personality, too: combative and shy, bold and insecure.

She pushes off the wall in favor of leaning on me completely. I stand there, completely wrapped up in her, and she clings to me so fiercely that she wrings every bit of frustration out of me.

Gradually, our kiss slows from punishing to exploratory. Her breath is sweet against my mouth, and I relish every slow slide of our tongues together. I loosen my arms. Now that she’s not locked against me, the rise and fall of her breath morphs into a sensual push and pull as she rocks against me.

Every other kiss I’ve ever had is wiped away because this . . . her rubbing herself against me, trusting me completely and abandoning every thought but how to get closer—it’s the hottest f**king moment of my life.

I slip my hand under her shirt and up her spine in what is quickly becoming my favorite way to touch her. She makes a mewling sound, and her back straightens, pulled tight like she’s stretching. Then she melts against me, completely mine.

“That’s what was wrong,” I whisper against her lips.

“Oh.” Her eyes are lazy and hooded, and they remind me of waking up to her lying against me. “Better now?”

“Should tide me over for a few hours at least.”