And there would be serious consequences.
I have to remind myself of that, because the throbbing between my legs is so insistent that it threatens to eclipse every rational part of me. Colton King is off-limits for so many reasons, the least of which is the fraternization thing.
He had to have been coming into the session with the expectation that I'd put out because he got an A. Total pig. He's a player. Sable's right; he's probably slept with half of the girls on campus. Hooking up with him would be a disaster.
The way he kissed me, though...
It wasn't like anyone else who's ever kissed me. It’s not like I have lots of experience in that department for comparison, but still. Colton kissed me fully, passionately, the kind of kiss where you lose your sense of reason and give in to whatever happens. In that moment, I wasn't thinking about consequences. Which is probably why what happened, happened.
Who rips a girl's shirt right off her body, though? No normal guy does that. That kind of thing only happens in the movies or in romance novels.
The way his lips felt against my skin, the way his tongue felt as he ran it over my nipple again and again... Even now it sends a shiver through me.
But this is the same guy who brought over a dick bouquet to my apartment. He's not an appropriate choice. I shouldn't continue tutoring him. I obviously can't trust myself not to cross that line with him.
I should tell the coach it didn't work out. Or trade players with one of the other tutors at the center.
I should stay away from him.
The thoughts ping-pong back and forth in my head, one right after the other, a war between the rational and irrational parts of my brain.
When I'm lying in bed later, it's impossible to get thoughts of him out of my head. It's impossible to forget the way his hands felt on me, the way his lips felt against mine, his tongue practically warring with mine as he kissed me.
And it's impossible to forget how much I wanted him to do what he promised, to bury his face between my legs and lick me until I could only cry out his name.
* * *
I skip the next session with Colton. I tell myself it's a completely reasonable decision, considering what happened. Except I feel like trash for skipping it. Colton shouldn't be punished for my inability to control myself around him. Especially not when he's been doing so well.
To make matters worse, I work on my thesis during our session time. That just makes me feel doubly guilty, like I’m somehow using Colton as a research subject without his knowledge. I’m not writing about Colton, though – I’m just reviewing the literature on sports and masculinity. I tell myself that it has absolutely nothing to do with Colton. If he knew what my thesis was on, he probably wouldn’t even care.
That doesn’t make me feel any better.
When Sable comes home and sees I’m in the apartment writing, instead of tutoring Colton, she gives me the stinkiest of stink eyes ever, her arms crossed over her chest. "You're supposed to be tutoring right now," she says, her voice accusing.
"Thanks, mom, I wasn't aware of my schedule," I snip at her.
"Did you quit?"
I exhale heavily. "I didn't quit. I took a day off."
"Oh?" she asks. "Does Colton know you took a day off?"
"Lay off with the guilt trip already, Sable. I'm a grownup. I think I can manage my own schedule."
Except that even as I protest her nagging me for not being at the tutoring session, I feel guiltier.
"Are you going to tell me what happened with him?" she asks.
"Nothing happened," I lie. "I already told you that."
Sable clucks her tongue and looks at me with narrowed eyes. "Yes," she says. "I heard what you told me. But remember, Cassie, I've lived with you for a year now."
"So?" I hear the question, my abrasive tone, and I know I sound like a petulant child. But I can't stop myself.
"So, I know that something happened with you and Colton, and whatever happened freaked you out. That's why you're sitting here pouting instead of tutoring him."
"First of all, I'm sitting here working. I’m not sitting here pouting because there’s nothing to pout about. There’s nothing to be upset about.”
Certainly not the fact that Colton King made out with me and whispered the filthy things he wanted to do to me, an expression of my unspoken fantasies, because he was trying to get me to put out as a reward for his A.
I don't want to tell Sable that. It's humiliating.
“Right,” she says. “You’re working on a thesis about sports.”
“Masculine identity.”
Sable sighs. “You like him. He likes you. The two of you just need to bone already.”
"He does not like me," I protest.