I replace that image with one of Cassandra behind a desk in the library, those glasses perched on the tip of her nose, scowling from behind a pile of books. Except she'd be wearing a white button-down shirt with nothing underneath.
The way she was bare under that tank top in her apartment.
My cock jumps at that image.
Focus, Colton. Get your mind off the librarian.
The virgin librarian.
Your virgin tutor.
The one with the full tits, perky underneath the thin cotton top, her hair stuck up in a ponytail on the top of her head, jutting out in every direction like she just stuck her finger in a light socket.
Shit. That's not helping either.
It also doesn't help matters that when I walk into the room at the student center where I'm supposed to meet her the next day, she's wearing a white button-down shirt and a skirt, like she just stepped right out of my daydream. When she stands up on the other side of the table, I can see the way the fabric of the skirt skims the curves of her hips, accentuating her body so much that I have a hard time looking anywhere else.
This time, her hair is pulled up, but neatly. I think I preferred it when it was a mess. I have to resist the urge to reach up there and undo it.
"Colton," she says, and I blink.
"What's up?"
"You're just staring at me."
Shit. "Oh, yeah."
There's a table and two chairs facing each other. She's standing on the other side of the table, which means I’m supposed to sit here across from her. And I’m supposed to focus on school bullshit when she sits across from me looking like that.
"I realized you don't even know my name," she says. "Or you do, because you found my address, so you probably have my name too, I guess."
"Cassandra," I say, flopping into the seat facing her. "Coach gave me your name."
Her cheeks turn pink again. God, she blushes easily.
I wonder what she looks like after sex.
The image flashes into my head – her hair spilled against a pillow, looking up at me, her lips plump, her cheeks flushed. "Colton," she'd say, her voice breathy.
"Colton," she says, and I look up.
"Right." I shake the image out of my head. Focus.
"It's Cassie," she says. "No one calls me Cassandra. Except my grandmother, and she's eighty. I'm named after her, though, and everyone calls her Cassandra and not Cassie, so it's Cassie to differentiate between us. Not that it's hard to tell the difference between me and my grandmother, but …"
She exhales heavily. "I'm babbling."
"I'm used to it," I say, shrugging. "A lot of women lose their shit around me."
Cassie rolls her eyes. "They probably lose their lunches."
"They didn't tell me I would get the funny tutor. Do I pay extra for that?"
"You get billed extra for the nudity," she says, pulling out her laptop and a notepad.
I lean back in the chair. "Well, then. I'm ready whenever you are, Cassie," I say. "Start with the button down shirt. The first two buttons, just to give me a little taste. Then slide that skirt up around your thighs and –"
She glares at me. Glares. But her cheeks are pink-tinged again and her lips are open, just a little bit. She licks her bottom lip, which tells me she likes it. Miss Goody Two Shoes just might be a dirty little nerd. "I meant the nudity on your part."
"I thought we were back to the whole stripping thing again."
"I can find another job, you know," she says, straightening her glasses as they slip to the tip of her nose. She looks over the edge of them at me as she reaches into her bag for a pen.
Shit. When she looks at me like that – and in that outfit — how the hell am I supposed to focus on anything but running my hands over her curves?
"No more dirty comments," I say, mock-buttoning my lips. "Promise. I'll be a saint."
The biggest lie I've ever told.
She narrows her eyes. "Should we get started?" she asks, straight to business. "Your coach said you're on academic probation and you need to pull at least a 2.0 grade point average to maintain academic eligibility. Did I get that right?"
"It's bullshit," I say, already irritated even talking about this. Especially with the hot nerd girl who thinks I'm a dumb jock.
"Okay," she says, ignoring my comment. "I pulled up the syllabi for both of your classes and took a look. Your coach said something about getting you a history tutor specifically if you need one, but really, I'm pretty comfortable with liberal arts courses."
Another tutor. No way another tutor is going to be as hot as the woman sitting across from me. Her tutoring is going to be much more effective than anyone else's … at getting a rise out of me. Literally. If she keeps wearing outfits like this, I'm going to have more spank bank material than I know what to do with.