“Hey,” I greet her.
She smiles, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She’s in a tight sweater, black yoga pants, and an unzipped blue windbreaker, looking like she stepped off the pages of an Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue. I kind of like the whole comfy-but-hot look she has going on.
I hear a soft ahem and notice there’s someone standing beside her. A curvy, raven-haired girl in a brown leather skirt and fuzzy red top. And she’s gaping at me. Like, jaw-scraping-the-floor gaping.
Someone pokes me from behind. “Dude,” Dean says irritably. “Stick to the plan. You, tickets. Me, popcorn.”
I thrust out the twenty-dollar bill in my hand. “Change of plans. I’ll grab the snacks.”
He rolls his eyes, then spares an admiring glance at Grace’s friend’s tits before ambling off to grab the tickets.
“What are you guys here to see?” I ask Grace.
She grins. “What do you think?” She holds up two tickets and I chuckle when I glimpse the title of the Statham movie.
Of course. I forgot what an action nut she is.
“That’s what we’re watching too. We should all sit together.”
Her friend makes another squeaky noise. Actually, it’s more of a gasp, with a bit of a wheeze thrown in there. There’s a lot going on in that one little sound.
Grace gestures to her friend. “This is Ramona. Ramona, this is Logan.”
The friend looks me up and down. “I know who he is.”
Aw, hell. I’ve seen that look before. Many, many times, on the faces of many, many women. As if she’s picturing me naked and inside her.
Too bad I’m not interested in fulfilling that fantasy. I’m wholly focused on Grace, and the parade of wicked images flashing through my mind. Like the way her eyes glazed over when my tongue first touched her clit. And the breathy noises she made when she came. And—
“It’s Grace’s birthday,” the friend announces.
Grace’s features crease in discomfort. “Ramona.”
“Shit, it is?” I grin at her. “Happy birthday, gorgeous.”
I don’t miss the way her friend’s jaw slackens again, or how Grace shifts in visible embarrassment.
“Thanks.” Her bottom lip juts out glumly. “I’m nineteen today. Go me.”
I snicker. “I take it you’re not a birthday person?”
“Absolutely not. My mother scarred me for life.”
Her friend suddenly snorts. “Hey, remember the year at the spring fair? When your mom crashed the stage during that folk band’s set and performed a birthday rap for you?”
“You mean do I remember the day I researched how to emancipate myself from my parents?” Grace replies in a dry voice. “Vividly.”
Ramona shoots me a conspiratorial look. “I wanted to invite some people over to the dorm to celebrate, but she threatened to cut off both my arms and feed them to me if I did. So we compromised by going to the movies.”
We’re interrupted by Dean, who frowns when he sees my empty hands. “For fuck’s sake, do I have to do everything?” Then, as if remembering he’s in the presence of two very pretty girls, he breaks out in a grin. “Also, are you gonna introduce me or what?”
“This is Grace and—” Shit, I’ve already forgotten the friend’s name.
“Ramona,” she supplies, and that hungry gaze fixates on Dean now.
She can ogle him as much as she wants, but I can pretty much guarantee that the moment he finds out she’s a freshman, Dean won’t be ogling her back.
For all his manwhoring, the guy has a strict rule about not doing freshmen. I’m not sure I blame him, considering our little stalker incident at the start of the year. Dean had hooked up with a freshman, who, after one night of exquisite passion, decided they were madly in love. She then proceeded to show up at our house at all hours of the day and night, sometimes wearing clothes, other times not wearing clothes, usually armed with flowers and love letters and—my personal favorite—a framed photo of herself wearing Dean’s hockey jersey.
Sometimes when I’m falling asleep, I can still hear her wailing Deeeeeeeeean outside my window.
Needless to say, Dean’s avoided the young ones ever since. He calls them level ten clingers.
The four of us stop at the concessions counter so Dean can get his popcorn, and a few minutes later, we enter the dark theater, where the previews have just started. The auditorium is packed. There’s a better chance of Jason Statham himself showing up to offer commentary on the movie than of us finding four seats together. But from where I stand, I spot several available two-seat blocks.
The girls are walking ahead of us, so I lean closer to Dean and murmur, “Mind if we split up? I want to sit with Grace. It’s her birthday.”
His gaze rests on Ramona’s undeniably great ass. “I can live with that.”
Both Grace and Ramona nod in agreement when I suggest sitting separately. Ramona instantly links her arm through Dean’s and whispers something in his ear that makes him chuckle, and then they shuffle forward in the dark to look for seats.
Grace and I do the same. We find two empty spots halfway up the auditorium, right on the aisle, and once we’re settled, she slides closer to whisper, “Are you sure your friend is okay sitting with Ramona? Because she’s absolutely going to hit on him the whole time.”
Her lips are practically on my ear, and she smells incredible. I can’t name flowery scents to save my life, but hers is sweet and girly, and when she runs a hand through her hair, a whiff of it floats into my nostrils.
“Don’t worry. Dean can handle himself,” I whisper back with a grin.
We turn to the screen, which is showing a preview that instantly captivates Grace. It’s some shoot-em-up explosion porn with big stars and even bigger guns, and her excited expression makes me want to kiss her so fucking bad. Her love for action movies is a major turn-on.
Before I can stop myself, I reach out and take her hand.
She jerks in surprise, then relaxes and looks over with a smile before refocusing her attention on the screen.
I still can’t figure her out. She’s sweet, but she doesn’t come off as naive. She gives off an innocent vibe, but she also seems incredibly secure with herself. She doesn’t barrage me with questions or flirt up a storm. Hell, she hasn’t even brought up the fact that I play hockey, which is usually the first thing chicks do when I’m around.
It’s crazy how I hardly know a thing about her, yet I had my face between her legs a couple days ago and—oh shit, now I’m thinking about her *.
Wonderful. And now I have a boner of monstrous proportions.