I don’t know what he wants from me. At least six girls stood ready to commit an entire slew of indecent acts with him right here in the commons room with total disregard to the bodies crammed into this place. I’m still in the awkward glances phase when it comes to guys. For sure I haven’t graduated to one-night stands at frat parties.
I grind my heel into the floor. Perhaps it was my sexy stilettos that inspired him to slither on over.
“You go to Garrison?” He takes a swig from his soda. Odd that it’s not a beer but a refreshing change of pace. On second thought, he’s probably got it locked and loaded with an eighty-proof fuel enhancer.
“Just transferred in.” I turn in an effort to shut down the prospect of evoking an erection out of him, but he’s quick to jump back in my line of vision. “Look…” I sigh. “I’m actually engaged to Pennington.” Sadly, I’ve resorted to playing fast and loose with the truth in hopes he’ll find someone else to sexually assault for the evening.
He nearly chokes on his drink. “Really?” His face ignites in an ear-to-ear grin like he knows I’m lying.
“Really. Our mother’s arranged the whole thing when we were like twelve.” I leave out the part about meeting Pen for the first time last week in cyberspace. “He’s pretty nice.” Nice as a donkey’s ass but that’s none of Cruise Elton’s freaking business. Besides, I don’t like the smug look on his face, like I’m fresh meat ready for the sexual slaughter.
“That’s too bad about the betrothal,” he says, moving in close as an entire stream of bodies push in behind him. His soft cologne wraps around me like a pair of strong arms, and I feel the heat radiating from his body, covering me like a coat.
A linebacker carrying a keg in his arms, barrels through the center of the room, parting the crowd like a Red Sea miracle. The swell of humanity forces Cruise into me and we land flattened against the wall, with his iron abs pressed against me so tight you couldn’t squeeze a quarter between us. His hips adhere to mine with a noticeable protrusion pressed against my thigh.
Cruise runs his heavy gaze over my features. His lips part involuntarily. We lock eyes, and neither of us moves from this compromising position.
The music dies down and a familiar Christmas carol belts over the speakers, inspiring a bunch of girls in the corner to sing along.
He grazes his bottom lip with his perfect straight teeth, so unearthly white they glow. “Do you believe in love at first sight, Kenny?”
Everything in me freezes. If I did believe in love at first sight, I would hope it would be with someone as godlike as Cruise Elton who saw fit to back me in a corner and bless me with his rock hard body—but, alas, the answer is no.
“After my mom’s fifth marriage ended, I stopped believing in love and Santa.” It comes out much cheerier than the sad news it really is.
He pulls his cheek to the side and gives a sexy smile that sears me with heat in places I’ve never felt before.
“I don’t believe in it, either. But you can’t tell me Santa isn’t real.” His grin widens. “I knew I liked you.” He cups the side of my face and swallows hard. Gone is the playful flirt as his features take a turn for the serious. His eyes close as he comes in for the kill. My heart gives a few wild thumps, alerting me to the fact that Cruise Cock on Fire Elton has the power to induce a cardiac episode in me if he wanted.
“Whoa.” I slap my hands over his chest and give a good shove. “Sorry, cowboy, I’m not into one-night stands either. I get it. I really do,” I say, trying to maneuver my way from under him. “You’re on a road show with your penis, and trust me, I’m the last person who wants to get in your way. But I’m telling you, operation occupy-my-vagina is a no-go for the evening.”
“Road show?” He mouths the words, perplexed by my penile analogy, just long enough for me to twist myself free and speed over to a couple of girls as if I knew them. They’re standing in front of a vast display of beverages, all of which guarantee a hangover with the exception of Coke or Pepsi.
I dart a glance back to Cruise only to find he’s once again surrounded by his hormone happy harem.
A brunette digs her hand into the back of his jeans while a gorgeous blonde whispers in his ear, inspiring a laugh out of him. My stomach cinches at the sight of all those bimbos pawing at him. An unexpected pang of jealousy spreads through my chest, and I force myself to look away.
“Nice,” I whisper.
“Ally Monroe.” A chipper blonde with bright red lipstick takes up my hand. She’s wrapped in a black-and-white-checkered coat, paired with patent leather boots that inch past her knees. I have on my less-than-warm jean jacket and spiked knock-off Manolos. Having lived in L.A. all my life, I’m pretty sure I’m ill-prepared for a brutal Massachusetts winter.