I chuckle and lean in. "You know what that means, right?"
Tiffany nods and hums back. “Baby, you can have me any way you want me.”
I nod and give her a smile, but as I do, suddenly, Carrie's face flashes in front of my eyes. I shake my head and step back, confused. Tiffany doesn't understand and tilts her head. "What's wrong?"
"Just had a hard rehab workout today," I semi-lie. I did have a hard workout, but it isn’t what’s giving me pause. "Guess I need a drink to cool the nerves. What do you all have?"
"Open bar, same as always," Tiffany says. "Go on, relax and enjoy yourself, and we'll talk later."
PKT isn't as stuck up a sorority as some of the places on campus, where they all think their pussy is gold and that they deserve their places in the upper-crust of society, but it's also not a straight-up dog house, so the party is quiet but still enjoyable. Still, as I'm sitting back and sipping at my beer, chatting with the people who approach me, I can't get Carrie out of my mind.
The way her body looked in those workout clothes. Her ass stretching the fabric of her shorts when she was bent over to do her hex bar lifts, and oh my God, the way her tits looked against that t-shirt.
And best of all, she's a real woman, none of that fake shit I see surrounding me far too often. That body of hers—I could go to town on it for days and still not wear it out. The way that she challenged me makes me want her even more.
Most girls I would’ve had eating out of my hand in under five minutes, but Carrie went ninety minutes with me without my shirt on and still didn’t want to jump on my cock to play cowgirl. I could tell she liked what she saw, but she's strong enough to resist me. I’ll wear her down. It’s just a matter of time.
"Hey, stud," Tiffany says, interrupting my thoughts. She has a drink in her hand, something fruity looking, but she's not too buzzed yet that she's slurring her words. "How are you enjoying the party?"
"PKT knows what to do," I say, smirking and finishing my drink. "Looking forward to the Greek Week throw-downs already."
"Mmm, I'm looking forward to about five minutes from now, if you're into it. I even decided to spice things up a bit. I've got Gemma heading upstairs too."
Tempting. Gemma Falcone is a French-Italian international student who has always given off that innocent vibe with a hidden inner slut. She's like the epitome of lady in the streets, freak in the sheets. For some reason, though, even though this should be like a dream come true, my mind is on Carrie, and I'm just not into it at all. "Sorry, Tiff, but I think tonight, I'm going to pass. New ink, and my back is already tightening up from earlier. You and Gemma have some fun though."
She pouts, and I'll admit that it probably often works. She can wrap most men around her little finger with that pout, and some day, some poor bastard is going to get taken to the cleaners by her because of it. "Aww, come on, stud. You know you want to.”
Tiffany is such a nympho. I'm surprised she isn't fucking her way through the basketball team. Oh, wait—she probably has. "Not tonight. And if you keep pushing it, maybe never. You know I've got plenty of other options."
No woman likes to be told she's just one in a long line, even if she is one, and Tiffany is no different.
"Fine." She stews, then looks around. "If anything, Martin's here, and I know he likes Gemma. Hell, from what I hear, he's freakier than you anyway. See you, Duncan."
"See you," I say, and I soon make my exit, going out to my bike and getting on. I've only had two beers, and I make it back to my apartment without getting pulled over by the cops. I take a long, hot shower and sit down on my couch, wondering what the hell is wrong with me. Seriously, I just turned down a threesome with some pretty hot chicks over a woman who got twelve gallons of ice water dumped on my head.
What the fuck am I thinking?
Chapter 4
Carrie
"Hey, Carrie, got a minute?"
"Of course, Coach. What's up?" I ask, sticking my head into his office. It's the first week of classes, and I'm settling in well to my new schedule, but I'm still busy. I hope Coach doesn't have a lot to talk about. I'd like to get back to my dorm room and crack the books on my Organic Chemistry class. It's a requirement, but I'm not looking forward to it. My professor is known as a total bitch and cuts no slack at all.
"Hey, I got a request from Coach Bainridge just now—thought I'd run it by you. How'd you like to work the sidelines for the football game tomorrow?"
I'm stunned. Getting a slot for working the sidelines of a football game is considered a privilege that only best training students get. Almost all of them are seniors or grad students, and for me, a junior, to be asked is surprising. "Uh, you got the right person, Coach? I'm just a junior."