I pull myself up and out of the pool. Naked. Just because I have the irresistible impulse to see her blush even more.
And she does. Her cheeks turn a deep shade of red, almost burgundy, as she attempts to look cool and collected.
She also tries hard not to look down.
"Are you a stripper?" I ask. "Because you're wearing way too much clothing for a stripper."
"And you're not wearing enough," she says, her voice icy.
"Well, it would be a shame to hide my best feature," I say, giving her my cocky grin. Women totally dig the grin. It gets me into – and out of – so much trouble.
But this girl doesn't. She wrinkles her nose and looks at me like she just tasted something bad. "I'm sorry," she says.
"About what?"
"I'm sorry that's your best feature," she says, nodding pointedly downward at my cock. "How disappointing."
Then she turns around and starts to walk away.
Someone tosses me a beach towel, and I wrap it around my waist, suddenly conscious of the fact that I'm buck naked and Hot Librarian doesn't seem that impressed. What the hell is her deal?
"I get it," I say, falling into step beside her on the lawn. "You're into women."
She stops short. "I see," she says, looking at me accusingly.
"You see what?"
"That you're an arrogant ass who thinks that any girl who doesn't drop her panties at the sight of your dick must be a lesbian."
"At the sight of my enormous dick," I correct her.
She exhales heavily. "You know what? No amount of money is worth this."
Then she turns to walk away.
And fuck me, I follow her. There are twenty girls by the pool in various states of undress who would be perfectly happy to wrap their lips around my cock right now, and instead, I'm chasing after this uptight, high-strung, no-sense-of-humor priss.
Something's wrong with that, that's for damn sure.
"Someone's paying you?" I call out. "So you are a stripper?"
She stops short, turning to look at me. "I am not a stripper," she says, each word punctuated sharply. "I'm your tutor."
3
Cassie
"Say what?" The dumb jock with the enormous cock – his words, not mine, but hell if I wasn't thinking the same thing – stares at me with a confused expression on his face.
"I'm your tutor, you idiot," I repeat. "You were supposed to meet me at the athletic center an hour ago."
"You're a tutor?" he asks.
"Yes," I say. "You remember those things that you go to in college, where you show up and learn things and take tests? They're called classes," I enlighten him. "They're the things that happen in between sliding off the roof and drinking beer. I’m supposed to help you not fail them."
"You sure as shit don't look like a tutor," he says, his eyes trailing up the length of me for about the tenth time. He makes no attempt to hide the fact that he's checking me out, and I can feel the heat rise to my cheeks again. My face must be totally red, which is completely embarrassing when you're trying to appear unruffled.
Like it's every day that a hot guy steps out of a pool and stands right in front of me, totally naked. With droplets of water running over his muscled arms, and across his pecs, down his chiseled abs…
Snap out of it, Cass. What the hell is wrong with you?
I force the image of his naked body out of my head. Especially the image of the lower half of him. Yeah, I snuck a peek at the goods. I mean, he was putting it right out on display.
Focus.
"What's a tutor supposed to look like?" I ask.
"I don't know," he admits. "But it's sure as hell not you."
I bristle at his words, clearing my throat and straightening my back. I get it. He's used to being surrounded by gorgeous big-boobed sorority girls, and I definitely don't fit the bill.
Who cares what he thinks? This is just a job. One I'm not even sure I want anymore.
"Well, that's what I am," I say. "But I'm sure sliding off the roof and chugging beer is more important than passing your classes. I don't know why I'm here. Or why I got hired at all. I don’t know why you even need a tutor. I’m sure the athletic department has an arrangement with your professors to pass you through your classes anyway.”
I turn to leave, and he grabs my arm. Usually I'd hit a guy who grabbed me like that, but the sensation of his hand on my skin sends a jolt of arousal running through my body like electricity.
That's not something I've ever felt before.
I whirl around like I've been shocked, shrugging his hand off as I turn. "Did you just grab me?"
"I didn't – just hang on a sec," he says, stammering. A sheepish expression creeps across his face.
"What?" I ask, exasperated. This was a big mistake. I can get a traditional teaching assistant job and not have to deal with a football player with an over-inflated ego. I'll just have to find one. Sure, teaching assistant positions are hard to come by, but I'll find something. Something other than this.