Fool Me Twice Page 3

  She has these full, cherry-red lips that are almost too big for her face. Dick sucking lips, if I’ve ever seen them. Light brown eyes, the color of the sweetest kind of tea on a hot summer afternoon. A beauty mark just above her upper lip on the left side. And that hair. Fucking hell, that hair. Thick and falling in ropes of unruly blond curls down her back. Most of the girls in here have tamed their hairs with hours of those dildo looking tools they store in their bathroom, but you can tell this one kept it all natural. I want this mass of curls around my fist. I want it falling over my chest as she rides me.

  Then it clicks.

  “You’re the girl from the quad. The one who snorts at buttery nipples.”

  This description makes her crack a smile. “I can’t say it’s the worst moniker ever, but it will be sure to turn some heads if I introduce myself like that in my classes.”

  Wit. I like wit. My dick stirs even more, because if this girl can actually hold her own against my ego, the sex might be that much more incredible.

  “You could just tell me your name, Jimmy.” I quirk an eyebrow, giving her my best cocky smile.

  Her caramel eyes twinkle as we spar with words. “A lady never introduces herself first.”

  Someone behind her clears their throat, clearly anxious to make it to the keg, and I take the opportunity to touch her. With my hand on her back, I gently nudge us to the side. We stand in a mostly empty party of the kitchen, some of the noise filtered out by the ancient wood paneling on the walls.

  The football house has seen better days, and someone could have said that same thing twenty years ago. In all honesty, the house is disgusting. It’s a party shack filled with amenities to host better parties. A two-story beer bong that snakes through the front hallway from the balcony above. Giant speakers in the living room, connected to a DJ booth that stays up all hours of the day and days of the week. Mattresses in the basement for … guests. I don’t even want to know what’s on those, but there are people desperate enough for a bone that will go down there and use them.

  “That was bold.” My new curly girl smirks.

  “Huh?” I say, lost in her eyes and lips now that we’re so close.

  “Touching a girl without permission. In this day and age, I could probably have you tarred and feathered for that.”

  “Tarred and feathered.” I can’t help but let a laugh boom out of my throat. “Who even says that?”

  She crosses her arms over her chest, which only serves to draw my attention to her chest more than it already was. “I do.”

  “I think I deserve to know the name of a girl who speaks like a nineteen hundreds southern belle.” I wink, knowing that my charm is dialed all the way up.

  Now she smirks, unable to contain her smile, although I can tell she doesn’t want to let it slip. “And I didn’t know hulking jocks even knew what southern belles spoke like in the nineteen hundreds. I’m a woman by the way, and my name is Henley.”

  Ah, I got her. Determined now, from her answer, I push forward. “So, you know I’m a jock?”

  “We’re at a football party, and you cut the line for the keg. Either you have a death wish, or you’re one of the chosen ones here.” Henley scowls, and I think idly that her name is far too pretty for a girl with such a saucy mouth.

  Henley sounds like the name of a woodland fairy, or a princess in one of those paranormal movies. This blond bombshell looks like she could fight an entire kingdom of douchy jocks, and it makes her that much more tempting.

  “Lincoln Kolb, quarterback.” I extend a hand with a shit-eating grin on my face.

  Henley eyes it as if I might have had that hand up another girl’s skirt tonight, but then finally shakes it. The moment our palms touch, a sizzle runs from my fingers up my arm and vibrates out to my entire body.

  “Henley Rowan, hater of buttery nipples.” Her gorgeous round eyes crinkle with sarcastic laughter.

  “Play pong with me,” I offer, not letting her hand go but mentally kicking myself.

  I promised Janssen we’d run the table, and it’s always a bad move to try to seduce the chick you’re trying to bang by offering up a pity game of beer pong. Chicks were never as good as me, especially me, and we’d most certainly lose.

  But I know that if I walk away from Henley right now, I won’t find her again.

  “Can’t. I’m here with my roommate.” She shrugs as if she has no problem saying no to me.

  That doesn’t happen often. “Tell her to join us.”

  The innuendo isn’t lost on Henley, and she narrows her eyes. “I’m not sure where …”

  She trails off and swings her gaze in the direction of the DJ booth as the song changes. A slamming rap beat powers through my chest, and when I follow her line of sight, I see a sexy as fuck pink-haired girl all but pushing Kenny, our designated beat master, out of the booth.

  “That your roommate? Looks occupied to me,” I whisper smugly in her ear.

  I don’t miss the shiver that moves down her back at my proximity.

  Swatting me like an annoying fly, she capitulates. “Fine. But no one is taking any clothes off. It’s not that kind of game. And try to keep up. I don’t want to make the new quarterback look like his arm is weak as shit.”

  I lag behind her for a second, a laugh caught in my throat, as I watch what just might be the feistiest creature on two long tan legs stalk toward the pong table.

  Oh, hell yes. This night just started getting good.

  * * *

  Two hours later, after we’ve dominated five games of beer pong, danced until my cock couldn’t take the friction any longer, and downed a secret bottle of Johnny Walker I’d stashed in the fridge, I finally convince Henley to leave the party with me.

  I’m halfway to desperate that I consider bringing her to the basement, but this is the kind of girl that, once I get her naked, I plan to have my way with a number of times. I want her in my bed; I want privacy and space to taste every inch of her, multiple times.

  That’s what I feel like doing with this mystery of a woman who beat every opponent in pong and scored more shots per game than even I did. She wasn’t lying when she said I should keep up. I’m almost contemplating whether she shouldn’t be playing for our university team.

  Henley is magnetic, with her flirty eye contact, slim curves, cool-girl persona and overall badassness. I couldn’t have picked a better chick to end my celibate streak with.

  She lets me grasp her waist as we walk, the drinks in us making us sway and giggle. Her skin smells like freshly squeezed oranges, maybe the blood red kind because Henley has this sort of spice or zest about her. I can’t get close enough to her, yet she’s an enigma. Either shrugging me off or coming so close that her lips all but brush my jaw.

  I can tell she’s baiting me, but I don’t fucking care. I could have taken any girl at that party home, but this is the one I know will be … well, fucking orgasmic. Since she told me off at the keg, even in the quad yesterday, I could tell there was a chemistry that would make sex between us one of the funnest things I’ve done in a while. Getting off is great, but having a rowdy, sweaty time while doing it makes it all that much more satisfying.

  The two towers that flank either side of the quad we cross into stand like gleaming beams in the night. They’re made up of twelve floors each, filled with horny and drunk students at this hour. Certain rooms are lit up as we stare into the night, others are dark. Whether that’s due to hooking up going on inside, or the roomies still being at various parties throughout town, your guess has a fifty-fifty chance of being correct.

  “I’m in East tower,” she says, her unruly curls flashing in the glints of moonlight.

  “I’m in West. I think you should come to West tonight.” Wrapping my arms around her waist, I finally pin her into place.

  My tongue darts out, licking my own lips, as I gaze at hers. Shit, I’m really into this. I want to know what she tastes like.

  “And yet, I think I should go into East. Alone. Seeing
as how I just met you. I don’t even know your middle name.” Henley gives me a sardonic grin and wiggles out of my embrace.

  My hand trails down her arm, lacing my fingers through hers when it reaches them as I refuse to let her go easily. “It’s Stallion,” I joke. “Come to East tower and I’ll show you why.”

  Henley cringes as she laughs. “God, that was cheesy. Does that usually work for you?”

  I shrug. “Usually, I don’t have to work at all.”

  She’s silent for a moment, our eyes locking in a battle of wills and something … bigger.

  “Good night, Stallion.” Breaking our interlaced hands, she brushes her nail over my bicep, and the sensation causes all the hairs on my neck to stand up.

  As she struts away, a slow, swaggering thrust of her hips to each side, I can’t help but thrust a fist in my mouth. Fuck, that ass beneath me would have been the best kind of reward tonight. She thinks she won this round, and maybe she did. Henley has the upper hand, but I don’t admit defeat for very long. If ever.

  “See you soon, Jimmy,” I call after her.

  The nickname causes her to stutter, and it’s such a small movement that she thinks I don’t notice. I do.

  As I walk away, backward so I can make sure she gets inside—and also watch her ass shimmy—I like to think that she’s wearing a goofy grin because of me.

  5

  Henley

  The bright openness of Warchester’s communications building mesmerizes me as I push through the doors.

  Even though it isn’t my top choice, I have to admit, the draw of the communications school is a strong one. Warchester’s Parc School of Communications is top rated in the state, not to mention the country. It has a ton of grants for student projects, a TV/radio program that feeds directly into two of the highest rated cable stations in the world, and a photography studio that I could live in if it wasn’t frowned upon.

  My schedule is chock-full of photography classes, both theory and mechanics as well as live subject courses. And for the first time in the last few months, I can immerse myself in my favorite thing on earth. When I’m behind the lens of a camera, the rest of the world falls away. Whether I’m capturing human subjects, landscapes, or just wandering while capturing life in motion, it all lights my soul on fire. I get to take a snapshot in time, give life to a moment or a feeling that could impact those that view it for decades to come.

  I know a lot of students avoid the eight a.m. courses, but I’m a morning person. And being in this building during a slow time of day is pretty darn peaceful. Sunlight spills through the wall of windows that makes up the front of the communications school, while art deco chairs are grouped into clusters around solid wood coffee tables. Classroom doors flank the hallways farther in, and flat-screens hang on every wall, displaying student video, journalism, or photography work.

  Checking the schedule written in my planner, I locate room 423 and enter. I’m one of the first students to arrive in Photography Through the Ages, so I pull out my phone to check my messages. I threw it in the front pocket of my cognac leather backpack this morning, along with the bucket list Catherine wrote. It might sound dumb, me carrying it around, but I wanted to have a piece of her with me on my first day of college classes. After all, this would have been the place she attended college.

  Typing in my passcode, my cell comes to life, the photo of the white deer I took in my parent’s backyard the background on my phone. I have no messages, no missed calls, and one notification on Facebook. Opening the app, I see that Rhiannon has tagged me in yet another photo she’s posted to social media. My roommate has a curated feed, along with her flawless Instagram, and she makes me look good in even the earliest of morning selfies. This morning, she insisted we snap a pic together before heading off to our first classes at Warchester. Her bubble gum locks are smooshed up against my unruly curls, and I look happy but plain next to her.

  Other than that, I don’t have any new activity on my feed. I half expected Lincoln Kolb to stalk me, friend request me, or get my number from someone who does those kinds of things for the jocks on this campus.

  I have him right where I want him. Well, not entirely, but it was a damn good start. I had him eating out of the palm of my hand, there is no doubt that when I agreed to leave the party with him, he thought I’d be on my back, in his bed, underneath him. God, part of me had wanted to do it. To catch him hook, line, and sinker, because I’m great in bed. Sure, I’ve only had two partners, but I enjoyed myself, tried some sexy things and only had shouts of satisfaction at the end.

  Another part of me wanted to know what it would be like, sex with Lincoln. I know what I’m on this mission for, but having sex with one of the most gorgeous male specimens I’ve ever encountered isn’t a terrible side perk. He’s got to be fantastic, I can tell by the shit-eating, cocky grin he had on his face most of the night.

  But it’s too soon. Give the milk away for free, without strings attached, and he’ll never buy the cow. And by the time I’m done with him, Lincoln will be paying for this woman like I’m Kobe beef.

  “This seat taken?” someone asks, and I pull my bag off the table space in front of the empty chair.

  “Nope,” I say hastily, scooting to let them into the seat.

  The room is not unlike any of my high school classrooms, save for the smart board and the community table. It’s shaped like a half-moon, with about twenty chairs pushed in around it. Aside from me and my new neighbor, there has to be maybe a dozen other students who’ve filed in.

  “I’m Jamie.” The girl who sits down next to me smiles.

  She’s got this gorgeous auburn bob and sparkling green eyes. Part of me wants to get her in the sunlight and photograph the glint on her irises. That’s how my brain works, which I guess is kind of weird. Jamie has freckles across her cheeks and nose, and she’s pulling a leather-bound notebook from her black satchel.

  “Henley.” I nod. “You’re a photography major?”

  I can’t assume everyone in here is, because this is just an intro class and I’m sure people think it will be easy when they see it in the course catalog.

  She shakes her head. “No, I’m undecided. But I’ve always liked the idea of photography, and so I thought I’d give this class a shot. How about you?”

  Part of me bristles. It sours my mood to hear that people just want to give photography a shot when it’s the thing I’ve strived to do since my parents bought me my first DSLR. But I guess I can’t fault her, and I actively choose to shoo the thought from my brain. Catherine always did say I was too negative.

  “Sounds like a good plan. I’m a photographer, through and through. If my parents didn’t insist on me earning a college degree, I would have just started my own business and begun shooting weddings or something.”

  Jamie smiles. “Well, then we’ll have to partner up when we study. That or I’ll just copy off your test. But I make a mean cookie, so you may want to consider the teammate offer.”

  I’m usually a lone wolf, hence why photography is my chosen passion. I operate in a solitary manner, not answering to anyone or having to go by another’s schedule. But something in me, or maybe because Catherine’s list is in my bag, makes me bend.

  “Cookies are a form of payment in my book. You’ve got a deal.”

  Just then, the room goes from a dull roar of conversation to almost silent, and the professor walks to the front of the room.

  “Please, don’t stop on my account. Seriously, guys, this is college. Not high school. I’m not your overlord, and I don’t care what you call me as long as it isn’t Professor or Mr. Mullins. Kyle, please. So I guess, just call me Kyle.”

  Kyle, as I shall now refer to him, looks like he was plucked out of a Brooklyn coffee shop. He’s probably in his mid-thirties, with tight black skinny jeans, a white T-shirt that probably cost a hundred dollars, and a ratty beanie cap even though it’s almost ninety degrees outside. He’s trying to give off this relaxed, easy guy vibe and I hope to G
od that it’s actually real. And that he actually knows his shit when it comes to photography.

  “I know we have some specified photography majors in this class, and some who are considering declaring. This course is going to be a comprehensive lesson in this mode of art through the ages. Just so we all get to know each other, and you assume I know what I’m doing, I was a travel photographer for over a decade before going into teaching. I was the resident photographer at an elephant sanctuary in Thailand, traveled the Alps over a six-month period for a BBC project, and visited Barbados during Carnival to do a piece for Travel & Leisure.”

  Well, shit, this guy just proved that he knows his stuff in about twelve seconds flat. And with the publications he’s tied to, he probably has some great internship connections.

  The Warchester photography program just got a whole lot more intriguing.

  6

  Lincoln

  “Second team, you’re up!”

  Coach Daniels’s voice booms across the practice field and I jog hastily out, head angled down as if I’m about to fully charge an impending army.

  I may be second team today, but with the aggression and determination in my muscles and bones, that won’t last for long. We’ve been out here for almost two hours already, watching the first team run through drills. It’s true what they say, that everything gets bigger as you move up. The playbooks are thicker; the linemen are scarier, the wide receivers seem to jump all the way to the moon.

  Good thing football is my lifeblood. It’s the thing I care most about in this world. Since the second I picked up the oblong, brown leather ball with its white stitches when I was five years old, this has been it for me. The smell of the turf sprinkled with morning dew. The way it burns off in the heat so that the wavy lines look like a mirage in the desert when you look across it. Each thud of a practice pad, or clink of a helmet as the strap is popped in. The intricate, almost dance-like routine of each play, of each option to that play.