Drunk as hell and dirty and chauvinistic.
Self-conscious.
Judged and found lacking.
A minute goes by before Jameson finally spins in her ballet flats and disappears from sight.
I shake my head, disoriented but determined not to give her another thought, and…not going to lie, it’s at that moment I pull Red through the bedroom door. Instead of a blowjob, I fuck the shit out of her against the wall.
Because I don’t want to care.
Because it feels good.
Because I can.
Sebastian
I sense her before I see her.
Don’t ask me how, but when Jameson skirts by my table, determined to avoid me, my bulk sits up straighter.
On high alert.
No greeting, she artfully weaves her way through the tables to the embankment of bookshelves at the far side of the library, firm ass sashaying in tight navy leggings, wearing tall brown boots and a brown leather tote.
Beneath my lashes, I trail her movements—her path direct, marching purposefully to the far recesses of the commons. My hands pause above the keys of my MacBook, pause to watch as she thumps her tote onto the hard table. Eases her laptop out. Plugs it in.
Aligns her pens and pencils, pushing each one into place with the tip of her finger, lining them up as if they each have a rightful spot on the desk. Calculator on the right, computer in the middle.
She takes out a small stack of notebooks, shuffling them. Spreads them out next to the pens.
My brows go up, interested, when she gently peels the rubber band from her dark hair. It shines when she gives it a shake under the dim glow of lamp light on her table then tussles it with her fingers. Black-rimmed glasses get perched on her head.
Fuck if it’s not sexy.
Good choice, Jimbo.
Ten minutes later, I’m still watching her from under the brim of my standard issue Iowa ball cap, as if I don’t have a crap load of studying to do myself. Oblivious to my surveying, she hen pecks at her computer then lowers her head to write. Scribbles something. Drinks from the straw in her water bottle. Pushes loose strands out of her face before reaching back and quickly braiding her hair.
My knee starts to bounce, on edge.
I look down at my laptop, the curser blinking in the same spot it’s been in since Jameson waltzed into the library, flippantly strolling past me like I don’t exist and plopping down nine tables away.
Yes, nine.
I counted.
Dragging the curser around my screen, I tear my gaze away long enough to tap out several sentences of my paper, the small black triangle blinking back at me, waiting for a new command. Instead, the calloused pad of my index finger traces a circle around the center mouse pad, uselessly.
My eyes flick back to Jameson, whose slim shoulders are now hunched over an open textbook, face resting in her palms as she reads, the pair of black glasses now perched on her nose.
Huh. Cute.
I count to four before my knee begins its steady, rhythmic bouncing and firmly place my palm there, pressing down to curtail it.
Fuck.
Fuck it.
I snap my laptop closed, grab the cord and case, and spin my ball cap so it’s backward. Stand up. Weave my way through the labyrinth of desks, tables, and chairs.
Standing at the foot of Jameson’s table, I clear my throat when she barely raises her head to acknowledge me.
“I’m not a tutor, so don’t bother,” she drones.
“Ha ha. Do you use that line on everyone?”
Those damn pearls around her neck glow when she stops writing long enough to cast a glance up at me. A smile tips her lips. “Oh, it’s you. Don Juan.”
Smiling—always a good sign.
“Ouch. Careful—my ego is so fragile you might break it.” I set my books, bag, and other shit on her table, pulling out the seat opposite her.
A pfft escapes her lips. “Fragile? Not likely.”
“Did I say fragile? I meant pompous and windbaggy.”
“Better.” She exaggerates a sigh, fake glaring down at the stack of books I just landed on her desk. “Ugh, what is with you? I didn’t invite you to sit down.”
Disregarding her lighthearted grimace, I unwind my power cord, plug it into the outlet on the base of the lamp, and give her a low chuckle. “You look like you could use some company.”
She volleys back with a low chuckle of her own. “I do not look like I want company. You are such a liar.”
“Maybe. But you have to admit, the library is becoming our special spot.” I pull my lip between my teeth, bite down flirtatiously, and give her a mischievous grin. Instead of blushing like I expect her to—like they all do—she rolls her blue eyes and inclines her neck, resuming her studies.
She quickly peeks at me. “Can you do me a favor and try not to make noise? I have a chem test in the morning that promises to be brutal.”
“Quiet I can do, especially with a gag in my mouth.” I wiggle my brows, even though she’s dead set on ignoring me.
Her pen stops. “Somehow I doubt that.”
“You could gag me and find out for yourself.”
The silence stretches. Then, “No thanks.”
“Suit yourself.”
I open my laptop, connect to the university’s Wi-Fi, and resume research for a business communication logistics paper I’ve busted my left nut over. It’s due on Monday, which gives me four days.
I search a notorious sexual harassment lawsuit from 1997—Johnson v. Olastaire, a case filed by a corporation against one of its own managers—and create notations in the margins of my document.
Opening Excel, I generate a spreadsheet with the compiled information, compare the case with a recent Supreme Court ruling, and set my mouth into a grim line at the article in front of me: sexual assault in a corporate workplace whose PR machine spun the victim into the guilty party.
The whole thing makes me ill and hits a little too close to home, so close it’s the reason I’ve declared human resources as a major.
My older sister Kayla.
Thirty-two, brilliant, and beautiful, Kayla was fresh out of grad school when she became the victim of workplace sexual harassment. A lawyer working her way up in a small boutique firm, she spent countless nights pouring over cases. Endless hours with the paralegals. Never-ending early mornings.
Then, one early evening when she was alone, researching a case, she was assaulted in her office by one of the partners. High powered with clout, he made Kayla the guilty party and human resources turned a blind eye.
The whole thing went public. The media in our hometown painted her as a young, gorgeous corporate climber, censuring her with no ethics and too much ambition.
It ruined the thrill of her first job, future career prospects, earning potential—and her self-worth.
And she was the one getting her ass slapped by her dickhead of a boss. Kayla might have won the court case, but she hasn’t been the same since.
It’s sickening.
The whole thing with my sister makes me ill, so I forge on, diligently copying notes.
Copy, paste. Notation. Copy, paste, notation.
Repeat.
Eventually, I come up for air, lifting my head and reaching for my water bottle. Lift the lid and chug down a thirst-quenching gulp.
Jameson is studying me quizzically. The hands that were furiously pounding away at those laptop keys now hover above her keyboard at a standstill, her pouty mouth twisted thoughtfully.
“What?”
She gives her head a little shake, braided hair swaying. “Nothing.” Biting down on her lower lip, she picks up a highlighter and drags it across her textbook, then chews on the end of it.
“Bullshit. You were giving me a look.”
Her hands splay. “Fine. Yes, I was giving you a look. You’ve managed to surprise me by actually doing homework.”
I scoff. “I told you the other day—I’m carrying a three point seven.”
“Yes, but…” The words hang in the air between us. With a shrug, she grins. “I didn’t actually believe you.”
“I have a scholarship. I can’t afford to piss it away.”
“Is that why you agreed to that stupid bet with your friends the other day? For the money?”
“Yup, that’s why I agreed to that stupid bet. Every little bit helps, yeah?”
Jameson cocks her head to the side and studies me for a second.
“That’s it?” I ask.
“What?”
“Aren’t you going to grill me?”
She shakes her head. “No. If you had something more to say, you’d say it.” Her head dips and she resumes her homework.
“Why do you keep doing that?” I blurt out.
She sighs. “Doing what?”
“Ignoring me.” Shit, I sound like I’m whining.
“Look,” she says, patiently resting her hands on the table to look me in the eye. “I’m sure you’re a real ladies’ man and everyone finds you very charming.” Her lips purse.
A smile cracks my lips. “But you don’t?”
“Sorry.” Her head shakes back and forth. “I don’t.”
I lean against the wooden chair, tipping it to balance on the back legs. Rocking it back and forth, I ask, “And you don’t think a guy like me is going to consider that a challenge?”
“A ‘guy like you’?”
“Yeah, you know: stubborn, competitive…handsome.”
With a laugh, she gives her head another shake. “I can’t help not finding you charming—you’re way too arrogant—so forgive me for not ripping my clothes off and letting you ravish me.”