“Get your eyes checked,” I sass. “You might be blind.” The jab is weak at best, but it’s all I have in this moment.
“Saw that passage perfectly fine. And I shut that cute little mouth of yours.”
I think my cheeks are turning as red as my hair.
C’mon, Norma, he probably drops lines like that with all the girls. And this is not real.
“You didn’t shut anything,” I growl, but sheesh, the growl makes it sound like a dare.
He hears it too, his grin growing wider, cockier, as if he knows what his playful alpha attitude is doing to me. “Come on, you’re all attitude and a big mouth, but you’re not that bad. And you’re enjoying this, just like I am.”
I need to get out of here before I transform into some weak, mewling kitten lapping at his feet. Puffing out my chest, I gather myself up. “Truth? You’re maybe not so bad. But we do need to work. Two days, remember?”
The light, teasing mood that had surrounded us evaporates and I’m sorry I said anything. But it’s the reality of what’s going on between us. He may be fun to spar with, and he might enjoy getting under my skin, but at the end of the day, this is about one thing only—his grades.
He sighs. “Yeah, two days. Let’s get to work.”
Neither of us seem particularly driven to study, but he pulls out his copy of Paradise Lost and a spiral filled with more chicken scratches than notes. I glance through it, trying to gauge where he’s at in the story and what level of comprehension he’s getting from the old poem that’s decidedly complex. But the more I try to read through his notes, the less I know where he’s at. “Okay, how about this. Explain what you’ve gotten from the story so far and what the assignment is supposed to include.”
His eyes go wide and then roll. “Fuck if I know. Something about idols and God not wanting churches?”
I hum. “Uhm, okay, not exactly, but that gets a start on what to focus on for this paper, at least.”
He sighs in relief. “Thanks, Norma. I appreciate your help.”
It sounds real, maybe the first totally real thing he’s said to me since he walked up on me bitching about him. No game, no agenda, no teasing, just honestly grateful for the assistance.
We spend the next hour going through Spark Notes and his professor’s PowerPoint presentation about the poem, making some good headway in Zach’s understanding and writing the outline for his paper. He’s doing better than I would’ve expected, considering the intricacies of this piece. Surprisingly, without the snark and bites, we make a pretty good team as we work our way through the story.
When he answers a particularly complex question correctly, he celebrates by scooting closer and throwing his hand up for a high-five.
I laughingly smack his palm with mine. “Good job. Now, what about Eve?” Though I’m continuing my lesson with him, it’s on auto-pilot as my brain focuses on the length of his thigh touching mine, his hip next to my hip. I remind myself, grades, tutoring, fake relationship, nothing more.
But his voice is huskier, too, as he speaks. “She’s temptation.” He moves his finger to my thigh, just the one fingertip tracing through the denim of my jeans. “Fiery temptation that leads Adam astray,” he says, and I don’t think we’re analyzing literature anymore. His touch gets higher, the brush of the back of his hand a breath away from the heat of my center. It’s all I can do not to buck my hips to get that contact.
I take a steadying breath. “But before she was Adam’s temptation, Eve was tempted herself by the snake.” The words are filthier than I intended them to be, but when Zach leans in close to whisper hotly in my ear, I don’t regret them.
“And are you, Norma? Are you tempted?” he growls.
My mind is saying run. My body is saying don’t move a muscle. “You’re incorrigible,” I finally relent, trying to fight the tidal wave of desire rolling up from my stomach as I sag against the couch, tilting my hips ever so slightly closer to his hand.
“Oh, yeah?” he asks, leaning against my side a bit harder, trapping me between him and the arm of the couch. His full lips are barely an inch away from my ear and his words send warm tingles down my body. “Well, you’re not moving, and I think you’re a smart-mouthed little brat who needs to be taught a thing or two about temptation and what happens when you tempt a cocky bastard like me.”
I’m shocked at the way he’s talking to me. I should smack him, or at the very least stand up and stomp my way right out of the library. But I’m frozen. I’m turned on. I’m putty in his hands, and he fucking knows it.
Hell, maybe I am just as weak as those groupies. But I can understand it when he’s playing me like a fucking violin.
Good God, I want him to take me, right here and right now. It’s a scary thought. I never thought I’d find someone to challenge my mouthiness, and I certainly never considered it’d be with some football player jock type. But even if he wasn’t a decent verbal sparring partner, which he shockingly is, he’s doing something to my body I’ve never experienced. And it’s real, so very fucking real.
And I want it. I want more. Who cares if that makes me weak? Right now, sure as fuck not me.
“You think you could teach me?” If I’d said it sweetly, he’d have probably smiled. As it is, I say it with disdain, like I somehow doubt his abilities. To be clear, I don’t, but I’m not going to let him in on that little fact just yet.
His smirk flashes and I hear the unspoken ‘challenge accepted.’ “Yeah, Norma, I think I could teach you all sorts of things about temptation. You think I don’t know how badly you want me to bend you over this couch and fill you full of cock? You’re tempted to let me, and better yet, I’m tempted to do it.”
His fingers flatten against my center, stopping my argument as he grinds against me. My breath hitches, and he keeps talking. “I want to hear your bratty mouth moaning my name against my palm because I have to muffle your cries so no one hears us.”
I whimper weakly, offering the barest of objections. “We shouldn’t. You should stop.”
“But you’re practically begging me not to stop,” he says, his fingers moving faster, and even through the fabric separating us, I know he can feel how hot and wet I am. “This is what you want, isn’t it?” I can’t deny the truth.
It’s torture. I want to say no just to show him that I’m stronger than he is. But my lips won’t form the word. Instead, I clutch at his iron-hard arm, gasping and on the edge of coming.
“Yes.” The word comes out without permission and he knows it.
Zach pulls away, leaving me weak as my body screams for release. “What? Keep going,” I groan.
He looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to realize that he’s not going to give in. “Fucking bastard,” I say, sitting up straight on the couch from where I’d slouched into his touch.
The corners of his mouth lift in amusement, but he reaches down and adjusts himself in his jeans. He looks huge and hard, and uncomfortably contained in their confines, as affected by this whole thing as I am. Even though I’m furious, there’s a horny bitch inside me that begs him to unzip and let his snake free. “Every day, after practice, we can meet. Five is too early. Eight would be better. I won’t be late.”
“What makes you think—” I gasp, my body still crying out. I shut up, realizing that my protests sound hollow even to my own ears. They must sound pathetic to him. “Fuck you,” I sneer. I might be so horny I can’t see straight, but I’ve still got some pride.
But Zach smiles that panty-melting grin, leaning in to tease me one last time. “Keep saying that and maybe you’ll get to. Honestly, I’m really hoping you do.”
He stands up and adjusts himself once more, knowing that my eyes will follow the movement. “See you tomorrow, Brat. It’s a date.”
I watch him walk away, glaring holes in his back. Inside, I want to scream and call him a bastard who doesn’t deserve to touch me, much less deserve my help. But deeper inside, I know I’m going to be here tomorrow at eight. On the d
ot.
Chapter 4
Norma
Dear Diary,
Remember when I said I’d wear my virgin badge proudly? Wait until I found someone worthy enough, that lit not just my body aflame, but my mind too?
I fucking found him.
In the worst package ever. Oh, it’s a pretty package, for sure, but I always figured I’d be repulsed by his “type”, the cocky jock. But something about him set me on fire in a way I’d never known.
I spent the night replaying his dirty words, my fingers replacing his remembered ones. I didn’t stop like he did though. I’m pretty sure my loud neighbor thinks I had a guy over because I damn sure said his name when I came.
But this morning, in the light of day, I’m humiliated that an assignment that should be relatively straightforward has turned into something so foundationally stupid. I know better than to think a guy is going to hang with me through my . . . brattiness. I’ve never actually been called a brat, and in fact, I rather take offense to it since I know the ‘spoiled rich girl’ assumptions people make when they find out my last name. But when Zach called me that, it almost sounded like he appreciated my mouthiness, like he was daring me to say more, anticipating what smart remark I’d come up with next.
But a guy like him? He’s not a forever type, barely a fuck-em-and-leave-em type, and then there’s this whole blade hanging over my head that is our fake relationship. Definitely not who my body should be responding to, not who I should want to spar with, not who I should be thinking about in anything other than a professional tutoring way.
Fuck. I wish he would just show up tonight and let me tutor him, start over, and forget yesterday ever happened.
Fat chance of that though.
Because if I can’t forget, he probably can’t either.
No matter how hard I try, I haven’t been able to get Zach out of my mind. What else do you call it when you sit through two morning classes and don’t remember a damn thing about either of them? Hell, I’m not even sure if I sat in the right rooms today. I might have been in another class and not even noticed. Now I’ve got work at The Chronicle to do, and I’m still not sure what the fuck is going on.
I try to keep my head down and my focus sharp, but I’m broken out of my reverie when Erica interrupts. “Hey, how did your tutoring session go?” I’m in the editing office because I can’t imagine being out in the main room right now, supposedly working on a column about unprotected sex on campus. Sometimes, when the universe wants to send you a message, it whispers. Right now though, it’s screaming at me with blinking neon LED lights.
I check my screen, looking at the last thing I typed. Sex, of course. Great, I’ve been at a complete standstill for the last ten minutes. Talk about something screaming at me. My cursor’s doing it with its incessant blinking, and I’m spacing out because of it.
I quickly minimize my window and look up, formulating my response. Do I tell her what an ass Zach started off as? Or what about how he was still walking that line as he drove me wild in a totally different way before walking away as I asked him to make me come? Or about how I want him to fuck me every which way from Sunday and handle me like he handles a football? Fast and hard, with that light touch that makes sure he scores constantly?
“I . . . uh . . . it was productive,” I finally lie, a flush coming to my cheeks. “We covered a few basic rules. That kinda stuff. Didn’t get too deep into Milton, but you know how it is.”
Erica quirks an eyebrow. “That kinda stuff? What is that kind of stuff?”
I don’t how to reply to Erica, mainly because I know we covered jack and shit. “Uh, you know, he was late, so we only had time to cover schedules and ground rules. Stuff like that. But he has a paper due tomorrow. We did the outline last night, and he’ll write it tonight so it’s ready to go. A good grade there should help his overall grade quite a bit.”
It’s the truth but barely touches the surface of the whole truth. It seems to satisfy Erica though. “Thank goodness. I was scared he’d no-show on you, but Coach Jefferson said he really stressed how important this is to Zach. Was he okay with the tutoring, at least?”
I look at her incredulously. “Seriously? You thought he’d get forced into tutoring, begrudgingly show up late, and then be happy as a lark to admit to needing help? No, he wasn’t okay. He was a cocky bastard who fought me tooth and nail at every turn to establish dominance. Honestly, he’s an arrogant son of a bitch who thinks he’s God’s gift to women.” I realize that I’m painting an accurate, albeit not very savory, image of Zach and belatedly try to temper my harsh words. “But once we sat down and got to work, it was fine.”
Erica cringes at my assault of Zach’s character. “I’m so sorry, Norma. But can you stick with it? It’d be good for both of you, I think. Him, because he needs someone strong enough to bust his balls and make him work. You, because the athletic department will owe you. I’m sure you could parlay this into a one-on-one interview with the star quarterback, and maybe the head coach too, after we win the conference championship.”
Sports reporting, also known as the sweat sock circuit, isn’t my dream gig. But a featured interview with Zach and Coach Jefferson would be a dream come true assignment for most, definitely a byline highlight for my portfolio.
I nod. “Of course. Like I said, we already made plans to meet tonight. I knew this would be a hard assignment, but I can handle it.” I hope that speaking the words will put it out in the universe to make it true because while I know I can keep my mouth shut and I can be a stellar tutor, I seriously doubt my ability to handle Zach in any real way. He’s got me in the palm of his hand. Or he did last night . . . literally.
Cutting my time short at the newspaper, I run back to my apartment to change clothes. I need something conservative, something that will armor me against Zach’s attack.
First to go is my slim-fitting tank top which is just a school spirit shirt, but it does hug what boobs I have pretty well, and I want Zach’s attention focused on learning, not my assets. I switch out my pretty bra for a sturdy, plain one and then pull on a loose-fitting graphic T-shirt from the mall. I knot it tightly at my waist, knowing that it won’t let a roving hand wander underneath. I ditch my jeans in favor of a long, black maxi skirt and boots that have the smallest heel because at five foot four, I don’t own anything without some sort of heel except for gym shoes.
Last but not least, I pull my hair up in a messy bun and wrap a folded scarf around my head, letting the tails of the knot stand out. I slip my glasses on, even though I usually only need them for prolonged computer work, and then look in the mirror.
I look like an urban hippie and a librarian combined their closets and I pulled everything I’m wearing, head to toe, from the crazy mismatch. It’s perfect. If nothing else, any curves I have are hidden and it’ll take Zach longer to get his hands on my skin.
And that’s the problem, because if he does, I’m in trouble. Every time he looked at me last night, I felt like I was about to catch fire. Even now, thinking about what he did to me, it’s making my pulse pound and my heart speed like a drag racer.
I sag against the dresser, my breathing ragged, my body once again flooded with powerful hormones. Jesus. What the fuck is happening to me? I glare at myself in the mirror, talking aloud. “Okay, Norma Jean Blackstone. Get your shit together and be the ball buster you always are. It’s just a tutoring session, and he’s just a regular guy. Nothing is going to happen except studying. You got it?” I point at the mirror, threatening my reflection and hoping the warning sticks when I’m alone with Zach.
With a sigh and two sets of crossed fingers, I grab my bag and head over to the library. It’s early, but I have plenty of work of my own to do, especially since I’ll be spending the bulk of the evening with Zach’s paper on Milton. Sure, I could study at home. It’s probably even quieter and has fewer distractions, but getting there will hopefully make eight o’clock come sooner rather than later.
But as I settle
in at a table on the first floor, I know I misjudged. I’m not getting shit done because I keep glancing up every time the doors open. I see people come and go, none of them Zach because he’s not supposed to be here for almost two hours.
Eventually, I do find my groove and get some work done while I wait.
Chapter 5
Zach
Knowing I’m going to see Norma tonight is putting a little extra pep in my step all day, and folks have noticed. “Jesus, try not to dislocate my wrist next time?” Lenny Smalls, one of my teammates, says as he tosses the ball back to me lightly. We’re running ‘card routes’, just working our grooves for later, and he’s shaking out his left hand. “It was just a ten-yard route, Zach.”
His whining rolls right off my back. “Just feeling it today, man. You need to put some extra padding on your pussy or something?” I ask, teasing him but barely thinking about Lenny.
Since our encounter last night, my thoughts have been filled with Norma, the way the sassy minx looked as she melted for me, but also how she wasn’t putting up with my shit. I was right. A soft Norma was a sight to behold, but I liked the sassy one too.
I can’t imagine dealing with that smart mouth of hers for another tutoring session without giving her the pounding we both want. Hell, maybe she can use that as an incentive to get me to study harder. The dirty thought makes me smirk, and then I reconsider. Maybe I can use dick to get her to help me. I have a feeling she’s gonna be the one dragging me around by the balls more than the reverse.
Coach calls the next play and I grin. My passes have had enough zip that I’m sending frozen ropes to my receivers, Lenny included. But this one is all me, an old high school play we keep just for shits and giggles. I take the snap from the shotgun and immediately pitch the ball to our starting running back, Marcus. The defense doesn’t know if it’s a run or a pass, and in that confusion, I take off upfield.
Silk and Shadows (The Virgin Diaries Book 3) Page 3