We both wince before Iris lifts her pleading eyes to me. “I just didn’t think you’d come if I told you.” She clutches my arm, and her hand is cold. “Forgive me, Banana?”
“You should have taken George.” George is Iris’s twin and my other best friend. He usually goes to these parties with her, watching over his little sister while simultaneously hitting on all available women. It works for them. “Where is he, anyway?” I grumble.
“He says he’s got a headache.” Iris’s mouth flattens in annoyance.
“Suspect.” George never gets sick. He’s practically inhuman that way.
Iris pulls out her lipstick and quickly reapplies while glancing in the review mirror. “That’s what I said.” Her words are muffled as she stretches her lips to get a good coat of glossy red over them. “But what could I do?”
“Not torture me?”
With neat efficiency, she caps the lipstick and plops it into her purse. “Well, where’s the fun in that?” Her eyes sparkle in the low light of the car. “Besides, maybe you’ll see someone you like.”
“Iris…” My warning glare is lost on her because she’s already jumping out of the car with surprising sprightliness, considering her heels. I follow, knowing I’ll regret it.
IT’S FRIDAY NIGHT, and I’m tired. My body hurts from a brutal practice. Not much difference from any other day, only I haven’t been sleeping well and it’s wearing on me. A certain redhead occupies my thoughts to a sleep-depriving degree. When I close my eyes, I picture her. Hell, I picture her with my eyes open too.
Mostly, I think of her in profile because that’s what I see when I watch her in class. The smooth arch of her graceful jaw, the rounded crest of her cheek that plumps when she smiles, the small, delicate shell of her ear. Curves. Anna is endless curves.
In my mind, I map the pale column of her neck down to where it swoops out to one of her best curves: her breasts. Large. Fuller on the bottom so they give the illusion of pointing upward, and more than enough to fill my hands. Soft. I know they will be.
I’m just enough of a shit that I long for the days when our classroom gets chilly and she wears one of those cotton shirts that does nothing to hide the points of her nipples pushing against the fabric. Damn, but that sight never fails to make me hard. I’m fairly dying for the chance to peel off her shirt and expose those nipples that so readily stiffen. I want to know their color, their exact size and texture. She’s fair-skinned, so they might be pale pink, but I’ve seen the shadows those sweet buds make beneath her white shirts, and I suspect they’re a nice tawny rose that will go darker when sucked.
Yeah, I’m a sick bastard. But I doubt any guy would blame me. And I can’t help myself. When I’m not thinking about her breasts, or the narrow dip of her waist and the rounded curve of her fine ass, I’m thinking about her voice, that syrup-thick southern drawl that makes my skin prickle. I’m in the South now. Accents like hers surround me on a daily basis. Why it is that her voice affects me more than others, I don’t know. Nor do I care. She talks and I want to listen. Endlessly.
I’ve got it bad. Bad enough to be sporting semi-wood in the middle of a crowded room. And she’s not even here.
I take a sip of water, not really listening to the chatter around me. What does she do on her nights off? Frequent clubs? Hang out at a coffee house and chastise unsuspecting men on the unfairness of the glass ceiling? That makes me smile. I love the way her pert nose scrunches up when she’s irritated and her wide green eyes narrow into slits. Like she won’t hesitate to kick someone’s ass if she thinks they deserve it. Totally hot.