His thumb softly grazes my bottom lip. “My friends call me John sometimes, but only my family calls me Johnny.” His gaze burns with intensity. “I liked it.”
My pulse accelerates as his mouth brushes over mine again. The slightest amount of contact, like a feather tickling my lips. He slides both hands down my bare arms, leaving goose bumps in his wake, then rests them on my hip, casual almost, except there’s nothing casual about the way his touch makes me feel.
“Will you go out with me again?”
He’s so tall, I have to tilt my head to look at him. A part of me is tempted to make him sweat, but there’s no stopping the swift, unequivocal answer that escapes my mouth.
“Absolutely.”
26
Grace
On our second date, Logan and I go to a party, which under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t be nervous about. Ramona dragged me to a shit ton of off-campus parties last year, so if anything, I should be an old pro by now. But this party happens to be at Beau Maxwell’s house. The frickin’ quarterback of Briar’s football team.
The football crowd freaks me out. Their parties are rowdy and tend to get shut down by the cops more often than not. And most of the players are loud and cocky and walk around like they’re God’s gift to the world. Which is ironic, because last year the team put up the worst record Briar has seen in twenty-five years.
The last time I encountered the football crowd, it was at a frat party Ramona and I went to, where I had to break up a fight between my best friend and the football groupie who tried to gouge Ramona’s eyes out for making out with one of the offensive linemen. And I had to do it on my own, because the players were no fucking help. They’d just formed a circle around the girls and wailed out “Meow!” the entire time. Dickheads.
“Beau’s a nice guy,” Logan assures me as we hop out the backseat of the taxi after he pays the driver. “Seriously, babe. He’s good people.”
“How is he even still at Briar? Wasn’t he a senior last year?”
“Technically he’s a fifth-year senior. He red-shirted freshman year.”
“Good, then that gives him another year to get his shit together,” I grumble. “His performance last year was disappointing. Were you there for the game where he threw five interceptions and zero TDs? What the hell was that?”
Logan wags his finger at me. “Shame on you, Ms. Football Critic. Ripping on a guy for having an off day? That’s harsh.”
I sigh. “Fine. I guess I can cut him some slack. I mean, not everyone can be as good as Drew Baylor, right?”
Heat flares in his eyes. “Your knowledge of college quarterbacks is strangely a turn-on.”
“I think everything is a turn-on for you,” I answer, rolling my eyes.
“Yup. Pretty much.”
We reach the front door, and the deafening music vibrating behind it brings a pang of uneasiness. I grab his arm. “If it gets too crazy, promise we can leave?”
“But these are your people, remember? Why would you ever want to leave the sweet bosom of your precious football family?”
His smug grin makes me snicker. “Hey. Just because I like watching them play doesn’t mean I want them to play me.”
Logan dips down and plants a kiss on my temple. “Don’t worry. Whenever you want to go, say the word and we’re gone.”
“Thank you.”
A moment later, he opens the door without knocking, and we step into the lion’s den, where I’m immediately blasted with a wave of body heat. God, there are so many people inside the house that the air is on fire. The scent of beer, perfume, cologne and sweat is so strong it makes my head spin, but Logan doesn’t seem bothered by it. He takes my hand and leads me deeper into the mob.
In the corner of the living room, a high-spirited game of beer pong is in progress, and the girls standing on one end of the table are in various states of undress. Okay, make that a high-spirited game of strip beer pong. On the other side of the room, the makeshift dance floor is packed with gyrating bodies and surrounded by furniture topped with tipsy, half-naked girls getting their dirty dancing on.
We showed up late because Logan had hockey practice, but still, it’s only ten o’clock, which seems way too early for everyone to already be this wasted.
“I’ll give you twenty bucks if you get up on one of those tables,” Logan rasps in my ear.
I punch him in the arm.
He flashes his crooked grin and pretends to rub his sore biceps. “Want a drink?” He raises his voice to be heard over the music.
“Sure,” I call back.
We wander into the kitchen, which is equally crowded and equally loud. Logan swipes a rum bottle from the counter, pours two plastic cups, then dumps some Coke in them to sweeten the deal. I sip the drink and make a face. God, his rum-and-Coke recipe needs some work. It’s pretty much just rum.
The alcohol burns down my throat and heats my belly, spiking my body temperature even more. I’m wearing a short halter dress, which means I can’t even shed any items of clothing to battle the sheen of sweat rising on my skin.
“How are you friends with this crowd?” I ask as we leave the kitchen. “My dad told me that the hockey and football players at this university have an age-old rivalry.”
“Not anymore. It ended three years ago when the savior arrived at Briar.”
“Uh-huh. And who was the savior?”
“Dean,” he answers with a snort. “I’m sure you already know this, but he chases anything in a skirt—”
I feign a gasp. “Oh my God. Are you serious?”
He chuckles. “Anyway, once he ran out of puck bunnies to screw in freshman year, he had no choice but to dip into the football groupie pool. He wound up at one of Beau’s parties, the two of them recognized the man-slut in each other, and they’ve been friends ever since.” Logan slings one arm around me as we walk down a hallway littered with people. “Dean dragged me and the guys to a few parties and we hit it off with the meatheads too. And yeah, the blood feud was put to rest.”
I have no clue where we’re going, but Logan seems to know the house like the back of his hand. He bypasses several closed doors before leading me through a doorway that opens onto a spacious den. Two massive leather sofas set in an L-shape take up the center of the room, facing an entertainment center that’s flashing ESPN highlights. There’s a pool table behind the larger couch, and a cue-wielding guy with a bushy beard studies the green felt intently, while his opponent taunts him about how he’s going to miss the shot.
I’m surprised by how empty the den is. Only a handful of guys near the pool table, a few couples by the back wall, and two people making out on the couch—Dean and a redhead with huge boobs. Beau Maxwell, who’s sprawled in an armchair, watches them with an almost bored expression.