by Frankie Love
It’s the end of fall and the leaves have already changed color. I inhale a deep breath of the crisp air as I walk through the old buildings. God, I love this place. The old stonework, the mature trees, it’s like you can feel the history surrounding you, like it’s a life force of its own.
To be honest, it’s the first place I ever felt at home.
Growing up in boarding schools, traveling summers around Europe, I never felt like I had roots. Sure, the Becketts owned homes. Many of them. Most scattered along the east coast. Washington. The Hamptons. Hilton Head Island. But they’re just houses.
The first year here, I knew this was where I wanted to be. Didn’t even matter that I was dubbed the Little Prince by my brother’s frat friends. I took the jabs, proved myself with the jocks, the geeks, the Delta Phis, and each of the sororities, eventually getting re-nicknamed Princeton Charming.
“Hi, Spencer.” A pretty blonde waves at me as she walks by, giggling to her friends when I smile back.
I’m a bit of a legend on campus. Sounds cocky, sure, but it’s the truth. And I’d be lying if I said I minded the attention. It’s a flattering ego boost and some days, like today when I’ve talked to my mother on the phone, it feels good to be doing something right. Even if that something is walking around campus with a cocky grin.
I find Charlie’s door and knock, but it’s not big hazel eyes that greet me when it opens, it’s a pair of blue ones that go wide when the girl sees me.
“Spencer Beckett,” she says, brushing her platinum blonde hair down nervously. “I...uh...hi.”
I give her a forced smile and glance over her shoulder, hoping I have the right room.
“I just came to return this.” I pull out the shoe. “Is Char—”
“My shoe?” She takes it from me, frowning. “How did you get it?”
“I kinda borrowed them,” a familiar voice says behind me.
I turn to meet the eyes I came here for, the ones that I’ve been fantasizing about for the past few days. And they were worth the wait. Today, they look more amber than hazel, the sunlight that streams through a window hits her face, and I see the splattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks.
“How did you find me?” Her pouty lips tug down.
“I have my ways.”
Her frown deepens. “So you’re a stalker now?”
“Charlotte.” Her friend sounds almost panicked, like she can’t believe she’d talk to me that way.
And I chuckle, because most people don’t.
“I just came here to return your shoe.”
“My shoe,” her friend reminds me, dangling it on one finger and frowning between me and Charlie, but focusing on me more than I’d like.
“Can you give us a minute?” I ask the blonde, pulling out one of my dimpled smiles, then winking. “I’d appreciate it.”
With a sigh, she steps back into the room and shuts the door.
“Well, that takes the whole fun out of the shoe fitting,” I joke, turning back to Charlie, and meeting the suspicion in her gaze.
“Another innuendo?” she asks, then adds quickly before I can answer, “Thank you for bringing it back. And thank you for...” She grimaces. “For saving me the other night. It doesn’t make up for what you said or for getting me fired, but—”
“I didn’t mean to offend you. I’d had too much to drink and I didn’t mean to imply I was paying you for sex.”
A couple girls walk by when I say the words and start to giggle and whisper as they walk away.
“Great,” Charlie rolls her eyes. “Any other damage you’d like to do while you’re here?”
I’m messing things up, again.
“I talked with Janice, explained to her that it was my fault what happened.”
“You did?” Her arms drop to her sides, and she chews on her bottom lip. “So I have my job back?”
I wince. “Not exactly, my mother found out about it, and—”
Charlie groans. “Great. So I’m probably blacklisted from every job on campus now.”
“Let me help you.”
“I don’t want your help.”
“But you need it. And it would make me feel better.”
“Well, if it’ll make you feel better,” she says, sarcasm dripping from her words. “Then I wouldn’t want to stand in the way of the great Princeton Charming.”
“You’ve got a mouth on you.”
“You’re observant. Most humans do. And last I checked I am one.” Her words are quick, but I’m starting to think they’re a defense mechanism. I know I have enough of them.
I take a step toward her, see her fidget and the small shaky breath she takes in. “Do I make you nervous?”
“Cocky and delusional,” she says, taking another step back when I move forward.
“It’s okay if I do.” I place a palm on the wall beside her head when she’s backed against it.
“You don’t.” She juts her chin up at me, but the small tremble of her bottom lip gives her away.
“Okay.” I lean down so that I’m practically eye to eye with her. It’d be so damn easy to steal a kiss, and I know she wants it, I can feel the pull between us, but I have no doubt I’d end up with a hot, red palm print on my cheek. “So what do I make you, Charlie?”
She shrugs. “Infuriated. Annoyed. Frustrated.” Each word is shaky, and despite the way she’s trying to hide it, I see the need in her eyes. She wants me, she’s just too stubborn to admit it.
“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you,” I say.
“Not used to women turning you down?”
“No. And not used to getting champagne thrown in my face.”
Her cheeks turn red. “I doubt that’s the first time—”
“It was.” I chuckle. “Most people tend to like me.”
“Sorry, I’m not dazzled by your sparkling good looks and money.”
“Sparkling good looks?” I raise a brow at her.
She moans. “Yes, Spencer, you’re hot. But that doesn’t mean every girl on campus wants to...to...” More color returns to her cheeks and she looks away.
“Wants to what?” I’m probably enjoying this way too much. “Fuck me?’
“Nice.” She starts to move away, but I take her hand, and when my skin meets hers, hell if the whole world doesn’t stop spinning.
It’s just me and her and a primal need that I’ve never felt before. A desire that’s so intense it scares the shit out of me. And in a heartbeat, I have her back against the wall, this time my body pressed against hers, my fingers in her hair, thigh budged between hers, my breathing ragged as I try to use every last ounce of my self-control from crushing my mouth against hers, and probably destroying any chance I have with this girl.
“I want to kiss you, Charlie.”
She whimpers. A sound that makes my already aching cock harder than granite.
“Say yes, Charlie. Let me taste your lips.” I’m not past the point of begging with her. I don’t kiss. It’s one of my rules. But I want, no need to possess her mouth. I lean closer. “Just say yes.”
Her bottom lip trembles and she says, “Ye—”
“Charlotte?” a gruff voice says behind me, and I don’t need to turn to hear the jealousy in that one word.
Flustered, she places her palms on my chest and pushes me away.
“You okay, Char?” The guy, who I recognize as Tatum Madden, Princeton’s top wide receiver for three years straight, is glaring at me like he’s ready to use his hands for more than just catching footballs.
“Yeah...yes.” She runs her hands over her torn jeans. “Fine. This is...uh...”
“Spencer Beckett,” I say, holding out a hand to him, and wondering if I didn’t just make an ass of myself by almost kissing the dude’s girlfriend. I have certain rules, no kissing, no stealing another man’s girl. But hell, with Charlie, I’d break both of them.
“Yeah, I know who you are.” Nostrils flare and muscles tense as he continues to
stare daggers at me.
“I should...uh...” Charlie opens her dorm door, not looking at either of us now. “I’ll get your laundry, Tatum.”
Why the hell does she have his laundry?
Tatum’s gaze never falters, he keeps glaring at me. “How do you know Charlotte?”
“We met at a party.”
“She doesn't go to parties unless she’s with me.” There’s the jealousy again. She might not be his girlfriend, but it’s clear he wants her.
I shrug just as Charlie returns with a basket of neatly folded laundry.
“Thanks Charlotte,” Tatum says taking it from her. “I’d be screwed without my special t-shirt for tonight's game.”
She smiles up at him. “I know. I used the fabric softener you like too.”
I watch the exchange, see the warmth in Charlie’s eyes, the lust in Tatum’s.
“You’ll be at the game?” he asks.
“Of course, I even bought face paint. I’m going all out.”
“You’re the best.” Then he reaches in his back pocket and pulls out an envelope. “Oh, this is for you.”
Heat rises to Charlie’s cheeks and I’m dying to know what’s in that letter. God, since when did I let a jock get under my skin? I’m above all that shit, aren’t I?
Tatum squeezes Charlie’s shoulder before walking away. I run a hand over my jaw, wondering when I got so damn jealous. But I saw the way Tatum looked at her and it sends some primal signal to my brain. Make her yours.
4
Charlie
Spencer’s gaze is dark, the blue of his eyes piercing when I turn back toward him. There was some weird vibe going on between him and Tatum when I’d come back out with the laundry. Even now, it’s hard to read what he’s thinking.
You shouldn’t care what he’s thinking, my brain admonishes. This is Spencer Beckett. The man is everything I despise.
But...the almost kiss. The heat still lingers between us.
Unconsciously my fingers lift to my lips. I’d wanted it. Still do. But the guy is a player. Worse, he’s an arrogant, trust fund brat who thinks he can charm his way into my pants.
Daphne pushes the door open, lips pursed when she looks between Spencer and me. She seems annoyed with me, but I have no idea what I did wrong. Usually we’re on good terms. But then her moods fluctuate so quickly that sometimes I wonder if she should be taking meds for it. The girl can break down in tears one second and the next, be ready to take on the world, or at least the varsity rugby team, which was last month’s conquest.
“I’m going to get some food before the game. See you guys later,” she says tightly with a small wave.
As she starts to walk away, I look my roommate over. In her thigh high boots and bodycon dress, she looks ready for a nightclub, not a freezing football game. Knowing her, she’ll end up skipping the game altogether in lieu of some party. Though in truth, everyone on campus will end up at some party after the game. I promised Tatum I’d be his sidekick tonight, even though I should be studying for the English quiz I have Monday morning.
“Have fun,” I say, stepping into my now empty room. Then leaning into the hall, and ignoring the fact that Spencer followed me in, I call after her, “And text me if you need anything, Daph!” I feel like I owe her for something I can’t exactly pinpoint. Maybe she’s pissed that I borrowed, then lost, her shoe.
Still, that isn’t my biggest worry at the moment.
Not when the most notorious man on campus is standing in my bedroom.
This got real, really quickly.
I try to piece together whatever is happening between Spencer Beckett and me. That near-kiss was full of chemistry. I know he felt it. But maybe it’s a normal thing for him.
I turn to face Spencer as I close the door, immediately regretting it. But it would just be weird now if I opened it again.
“So you and Tatum, are you a thing?” Spencer asks as he walks around my room, taking it in, his voice laced with something that sounds almost like jealousy.
I smile at the question.
“No. We’ve never dated,” I clarify, watching him as he picks up one of my textbooks, then sets it back down. “But we have been friends since freshman year.” I try to suppress my nerves when Spencer’s gaze turns to me, but I can hear the small shake in my voice when I say quickly, “We’re both scholarship kids, lived on the same floor, and I impressed him with my ability to recite all the lyrics to the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air theme song.”
“That is impressive,” Spencer says with that arrogant grin of his. “But so is this record collection.” His eyes have fallen on my bookshelves filled with the seven-inch records I’ve been scouring music shops and thrift stores for since I was twelve-years-old.
“My mom was a piano teacher, she tried to teach me, but failed miserably,” I explain. “So she taught me the next best thing. How to listen to music. How to appreciate it. It’s one of the greatest gifts anyone has ever given me.”
Spencer crouches and flips through the albums. “Shit, some of these are collector pieces.”
“You like vinyl?”
“I do,” he quips, standing and walking toward me. His eyes are bright, like he sees something he likes, something he wants. It takes me a moment to realize that thing is me.
His hand cups my cheek. “You are an enigma, Charlie Hayes.”
I draw in a tight breath. “And you are very smooth.”
Wait, how does he know my last name? Or for that matter where I live. This whole thing is unnerving.
“You like smooth?” His mouth is so close. His lips practically on mine.
God, I want him. But warning bells blare in my head. I should tell him to leave. Instead, I stutter over words, “I’ve never had smooth.” It’s the truth. I’ve had boys kiss me who didn’t know what they were doing, sloppy and unremarkable. I’ve had guys kiss me who were desperate and trying way too hard.
But Spencer Beckett is neither a high school boy nor a clingy college guy. He is something else entirely. He knows what to do as he lifts my chin ever so slightly. As he licks his lips, tempting me to lick my own. His eyes search mine and for a moment I feel found -- or at least seen.
“You said yes before,” he rasps, blue eyes searching mine.
I whimper, “I...”
“I’m going to kiss you now, Charlie.” His head lowers, and his lips brush against mine before I have a chance to change my mind.
One kiss and I know I’m in trouble.
One taste and I know my resolve is gone.
His tongue presses against mine, my toes curling and my core tightening. My fingers working on their own accord as I drag them through his thick head of hair. His hand is on the small of my back, his palms strong and steady, keeping me in place.
I forget that I’m a girl who never kisses on the first date. I forget that this isn’t even a date. I forget that he’s all wrong for me. That he propositioned me. That I walked away.
Because right now there is no refusal, no snarky comments, no playing hard to get. Right now I am jelly in this man’s hands.
His phone buzzes. Loudly. Insistent and annoying as hell and we pull apart -- short of breath. Me, panting, noticing the tight strain across his dark denim jeans and I press my knuckles to my mouth, catching my breath as he checks his phone.
“Fucking Prescott.” He slides the phone off, pushing it into his pocket, and then reaches for me again, but I’m back in reality.
I just kissed Princeton Charming.
“That was some kiss,” he says, looking past me. His eyes are on my bed.
I swallow. Hard. A kiss is one thing. Sex? That’s a whole different story and one I’m not ready for. Especially not with Spencer Beckett.
“I have to get ready for the football game.”
He lifts his brows. “Really? Because we could stay here and—”
I cut him off. “It’s Tatum’s final game, senior year. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
He gives me that smi
le again, tucking a strand of hair behind my ears. “You’re only saying that because you’ve never seen my cock.”
I drop my jaw, genuinely shocked. Guessing that line must typically work for Princeton Charming.
He must register my response because his mouth is now on my ear. “Sorry, Charlie,” he says. Hot air, soft lips -- my body melts under him. “I don’t mean to shock you,” he whispers. “I just want to give you the world. Trust me, sweetheart, it’ll be worth missing the game for.”
“Spencer.” I press a hand to his chest, needing to create distance between us. I whimper, realizing just how solid his chest is. It’s a rock. A monument of muscle. “I’m not ready...I need...”
He nods, stepping back. “A date?”
“What?” I’m so flustered.
“To the game.” He drags his knuckles across my cheek, then sweeps a strand of hair behind my ear. “Do you need a date to the game?”
I exhale, dropping my head. “Um...” Say, no Charlotte, my head demands. “Sure.” Shit. What am I doing? “That would be...good.”
He grins down at me, triumph shining in those blue eyes. Eyes that I have a feeling will be my undoing.
My body has never stirred quite like this. Like I just might forget myself if he keeps touching me. Which he’s still doing.
“I….need to get ready.”
“You look pretty ready to me.”
I hear the innuendo in his words, but when I look up at him, I see he’s only teasing. His lips twitch with amusement as he looks me over.
Desire. Heat. A look that’s almost primal. And my body aches with the need to give into him.
What harm would it do? What would happen if I gave myself over to him for a few hours? What would it hurt to have a little bit of fun?
I’m strong enough to survive Princeton Charming. But I’m starting to think I’m not strong enough to resist him. Maybe I don’t want to.
I lick my swollen lips, press a palm to my hot cheeks, and chew on my bottom lip as I move to my dresser to find my Princeton hoodie.
“If you’re gonna be my date,” I say, finally calmed down. “Then you need face paint too.”