Fool Me Twice Page 7

  And then I push into her, both of our heads thrown back, and now I could really be at the pearly gates.

  “You’re the fucking sexiest thing I’ve ever seen,” I growl in her ear, her ass jutting up against me.

  Henley’s back is bowed, so arched because of the way she’s pressing against my cock and my hand controls her hair that she’s the picture of ecstasy. The exact Coke bottle shape I’ve fantasized about since I had my first wet dream, I wish I could take a picture of this to revert back to when she inevitably leaves.

  “Fuck me.” She turns her head, those brilliant eyes daring me to drill her to kingdom come.

  So I do. I grip her hips and thrust so hard and so fast that I think I’m going to render myself blind and deaf by the time this is over. If anyone was sleeping on this dorm floor, they surely aren’t now. Between her near screams and my shouted dirty talk, we’re quite a pair.

  It’s as if my cock was made to fit her pussy; we were created to dismantle each other on this fucking twin bed we’re about to break.

  “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop,” Henley mutters helplessly before letting out a careening wail.

  Her head sinks into the pillow, her ass jutting up and changing the angle of my thrusts as she comes and squeezes around my dick. I come with a haggard breath as my vision goes white.

  And by the time the last shutter leaves my body, I am sure I want to do this all over again.

  13

  Henley

  When I finally see him in the dim lamp light, after we finish, it’s as if my breath has been stolen right out of my lungs.

  The system that helps me draw life is failing, simply because this man is so freaking perfect, his gorgeous body requires all the oxygen in the room.

  Lincoln is like a Disney prince, all popping muscle and perfectly flowing hair. He’s a demi-god, on the level of Hercules. This is the type of body you see in that issue of ESPN Magazine, or on display as a statue in the most famous art museums in the world. I want to memorize every chiseled dip, the mussed up sexiness of his mocha-colored hair. The stunning, taunting chromatic twinkle of his eyes.

  And yet, there is one flaw. One long, wide, gashing scar slicing through the left side of his abs. It’s rippled and cuts off the set of eight carved muscles that Lincoln boasts. The skin there is puckered, and a slight pinkish hue as opposed to the golden tan of the rest of his skin. It looks like someone took a machete knife and tried to serve him as the Thanksgiving day bird.

  My fingers go to it without thinking. “How did this happen?”

  Lincoln sucks in a breath as I trace the one blemish of his immaculate form. “Football.”

  There is something strange about his tone, and I realize he’s lying. Wherever he got this, it wasn’t from the sport he loves.

  Lincoln is staring at me, I can feel it, and my cheeks heat. “What?”

  I didn’t mean to sound so insecure, but I almost want to cover my face before meeting his eyes.

  “You’re gorgeous, you know that, right?” He searches my face.

  We already had sex, so why is he saying that? Lincoln doesn’t strike me as the errant compliment kind of guy, and I already let him put his penis inside me, so what is going on?

  And my God, my cheeks heat again just thinking about what we just did. That was, hands down, the best sex I’ve ever had.

  I hadn’t meant to sleep with him this soon. I was going to wait until our third encounter, like the dating rulebook says. Or maybe I could have held off and scored a nice dinner out of it … a rarity for a college girl. But there was something in Lincoln’s body language tonight, some kind of desperation that I could sense.

  If I went back to his room tonight, he wouldn’t be able to not see me again. I’m not sure how I knew this, but from the way he couldn’t keep his eyes off me at that party, to the soberness of his plea, I knew I’m going to hook him tonight.

  I swear, the look in his eyes when we first walked in here was … nervous. I think that for just one second, the brash, confident demeanor I’d been putting on scared the Lincoln Kolb. For one vulnerable second, he wasn’t the big man on campus. It’s how I know I’m breaking him down.

  And just like that, I’ve also crossed off another thing on Catherine’s bucket list. It feels weird, thinking about her while I’m naked and pressed up against Lincoln. I wonder, if she was alive, how she would have gotten revenge on him.

  But I can’t think about her now, or I’ll have a mental breakdown.

  “Thanks.” I shrug, fully aware that we’re snuggling because we can’t not in this bed.

  It’s that awkward point in the night, the thing that happens after all the lust dissipates. You’re stuck lying in a bed with a virtual stranger, who just put his most private body part in your most private body part, wondering how you should leave. Or, if he wants you to stay and if you want that, too.

  I glance over at the clock on his bedside table, and it says one a.m. Not terribly late, there will still be plenty of drunk people stumbling back up to the dorms. Plus, I don’t even have to walk outside, considering the two towers are connected on the second floor by a cafeteria. But this hookup wasn’t just about sleeping with Lincoln, driving him insane.

  It’s about keeping him. Securing his attention, making sure his focus is pinned on me. He usually scoots girls out the door the minute he’s done coming and never thinks about them again. If I sleep here, leave my scent on his pillow and my pussy tattooed on his brain, I’ll be one step closer to my goal.

  Getting him to fall in love with me.

  So that I can then destroy his heart.

  “Should I? I can … um …” I trail off, mostly because I’m as conflicted as he looks.

  If I admit I want to stay, it makes me look attached. Which I want to be, but I want him to be the one to suggest it. If I go, I run the risk of Lincoln thinking this is a casual thing. It also could serve in me playing more hard to get, which might be a good outcome. This whole fucked-up game is like a chess match. One wrong move and he’ll be yelling checkmate.

  “Stay.” He plants a hand on my hip. “I should be ready to go again in another five.”

  This makes me snort in surprise. “I wasn’t aware there would be a second showing tonight.”

  Lincoln slaps a hand to his perfectly sculpted chest. “Offense taken. I’m a quarterback, I throw touchdowns all night long, baby.”

  “You really are a cocky bastard, aren’t you?” I chuckle.

  His roommate must be another football player, because there is nothing in this room other than Warchester football paraphernalia and a ton of food. Lincoln isn’t messy, per se, but this is a typical guy’s room. Sports stuff everywhere, clothes thrown on top of the dresser and not in the drawer. His shower stuff isn’t contained in his caddy and there are protein bar wrappers everywhere.

  “You know it. Let me show you just how cocky I can be.” He rolls over on top of me, his stiffness pressed against my leg before he leans down to kiss me again.

  A flash flood of guilt sloshes around in my stomach. This is horrible, what I’m doing. What kind of person does this? Not only does sleeping with someone I don’t like just to get something make me feel like a whore, but I’m planning to make this guy fall in love with me. So I can break his heart. That’s so fucked up. If I ever read a story like this in the back tell-all section of one of those popular beauty magazines, I’d think the girl was a raging bitch.

  But I can’t think about that. I push it all out of my head, compartmentalize the hell out of my issues that surely would throw a therapist for a loop.

  I made a promise, and I won’t go back on it.

  14

  Henley

  Why the hell am I at a football game?

  I keep asking myself this question over and over again, as if my mind is suddenly going to wake up from its temporary insanity.

  I hate the sport, never liked it even when friends would drag me under those Friday night lights in high school. Me
n banging into each other, breaking their body parts, sweating and grunting, and I just don’t get it, personally.

  Although, I brought my EOS-1D X Mark II, one of my favorite DSLRs to shoot sports in. Not that I shoot them often, but once in a while the newspaper back in Little Port would be looking for someone to shoot a tournament, and I’d swoop in to take that day’s money with ease. I shot all kinds of jobs for local groups, media outlets, and photo studios. I was better than good; they knew it, and would take less money than a professional adult photographer so I could fill my portfolio.

  Why I have it with me now is beyond me? Because apparently, my number one goal is to shoot brain-dead jocks while they fly through the air. I shoot a test shot from my seat, and have to admit, the photo I just captured of one player leaping into the air to catch the ball during warmups is pretty spectacular.

  It only felt like minutes later when the dawn light poured through the half-drawn shades in Lincoln’s room this morning. I guess that’s what I get for staying up and having sex with him two more times. When I woke, it was to him pressing a kiss to my cheek, which is surprisingly intimate. Like something a couple who has been dating for a year or two would do. And then he’d asked if I’d come to his game tonight, and I couldn’t not jump at the chance to get him closer to my spider web.

  So here I am, at a college football game seeming to lust after a guy I secretly loathe more than anything else on earth.

  “I can never figure out what to eat at these things.” Rhiannon looks genuinely frustrated.

  I chuckle, feeling bad I dragged her here. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it’s like, I want to get popcorn. But then I know in the next quarter I’ll want cotton candy, so I have to get that, too. And then by the time the last ten minutes comes around, you feel like a good ice cream, ya know? Sports games are just so tough to attend because there is too much food in too little time.”

  I tap a finger to my chin. “Aren’t there different periods to this thing?”

  She fingers a lock of pink hair. “Um, you don’t even know that there are quarters in football, yet here we are dick chasing? I underestimated you, Henley. You’re a hussy.”

  My roommate has a whip of a tongue that I truly appreciate. “I never said I knew anything about sports. I’m a creative, sue me.”

  “So am I, sort of, but it doesn’t mean I’ve been living under a rock. Okay, I guess that was harsh. My dad represented a lot of football players, he’s a money manager, and being his only kid, a daughter, meant I had to endure countless football Sundays. Do you want me to teach you the rules?”

  I shake my head. “Not one bit. I’m here to watch and be clueless and maybe get a few cool shots.”

  She smiles. “Got it. And here to ogle the dude you went home with last night.”

  “Maybe that, too,” I confess, my heart kicking up a notch.

  “He’s smokin’. Good pick. I did a little cheer when you texted me you were in his room. Is he a freak? Does he have a big dick?” she inquires, completely serious about her questions.

  Two sets of parents in the bleacher row in front of us turn to give Rhiannon stern looks. My God, I hope those aren’t Lincoln’s parents. That would be just my luck.

  My hand covers my mouth as I snicker at my roommate’s loose lips. “Can we maybe talk about this later?”

  “What? As if these people have never had a one-night stand.” She rolls her eyes and cups her hands over her mouth. “Y’all know you banged it out in your dorms back in the day, don’t judge us millennials for getting it in.”

  I wrap an arm around her neck and pull her head down to my shoulder to shut her up. My cheeks flame with embarrassment as Rhiannon chuckles with glee.

  When I let her up, she doesn’t look the least bit remorseful or ashamed. Man, she has an ego made of Teflon. “I’m going to start my pre-game off with a soft pretzel. You want anything?”

  “A Coke, please.” I hand her a few bucks and she walks off.

  I need something to settle my stomach, or at least pretend that soda is the thing making the butterflies flap their wings into its lining.

  Because I refuse to acknowledge that a crush is starting to bloom in my chest for Lincoln Kolb. I knew going in that feelings and emotions would be tricky. Separating those kinds of things is difficult for us girls, no matter how badass we pretend to be. Even though I hate him, I want revenge for my best friend. It’s challenging not to smile when I think of his cliché sex jokes. Being intimate with someone, no matter how much you despise them, changes your demeanor toward them. Especially when they’re as charming as Lincoln Kolb.

  And those freaking pants. Who the hell knew that football came with such scintillating uniforms? I shouldn’t be warming to Lincoln, but I can’t stop staring at his ass and the way his biceps fill out that jersey. It’s also creepy the way I can tell him apart from everyone else, by the way the team seems to pulse around him.

  Every so often, someone comes over to Lincoln to talk close in his ear, or consult an iPad. They all seem to gravitate toward him, even the coaches. He’s wearing a soft baseball hat with Warchester’s logo and not a helmet, and I know from before that Rhiannon told me he wouldn’t be starting in the quarterback position for this game. She went on some long-winded rant about how he should be starting, but they like to ground newbies by making them watch from the sidelines for a while. Learn their place. As if Lincoln Kolb has ever had to learn his place in life.

  He looks into the stands, searching. I don’t even know how he knows I’m here, but as I watch the eyes that I can’t seem to stop daydreaming about scan the crowd for me, I know that he does.

  We both knew my coming today was a toss-up. He asked, and I hadn’t responded. But I needed to draw him in. I needed to show a smidge of interest before the next phase of my plan. Which was pulling away completely.

  I sit up straight, unmoving, waiting for his predatory glance to land on its prey. That’s what I am to him, prey. He thinks he has the upper hand here, that he’s controlling the narrative. Oh, how terribly sad for his lizard boy brain.

  When our eyes connect, the right corner of his lips tug up, and he raises a brow. I give him the smallest of shrugs, and something silent passes between us. We’ve only spent one night together, and yet there is this connection. Maybe this is what Catherine was talking about whenever she mooned over him.

  Which is more dangerous: the game I’m playing to break his heart, or the fact that mine is disappointed I’ll have to ignore him in the coming days?

  The fact that it’s this attached already can’t be a good omen.

  15

  Lincoln

  “Linc!”

  Tyla comes running into my arms, her tight black curls bouncing all over her head as she sprints across the football field.

  I catch her, spinning her around by her armpits as she squeals.

  “How is my favorite girl?” I nuzzle her cheek with my nose.

  “I colored Peppa Pig and then I got ice cream, and we saw you on the field!” Her brain moves a mile a minute, and I love trying to keep up with the random thoughts that fly from her mouth.

  “That’s awesome, what flavor?” I ask.

  “Vanilla and chocolate swirl with extra sprinkles!” She’s so excited that she almost hits me in the face as I hold her.

  “Good game, buddy.” Mom comes up, kissing me on the cheek as she takes Tyla from my arms.

  I high five Brant, because eight-year-old boys are far too cool for hugs. “Dude, it’ll be you out here someday.”

  He and I talk a lot about his goals for football. I know he looks up to me, that he wants to follow in my footsteps, and I keep it in mind whenever I’m out here or in practice. There is a chance he’s always watching or learning, and I never want him to have the wrong way set for him.

  “Nice opening drive in the fourth quarter.” Dad claps me on the back.

  “Thanks.” I nod, trying not to smile too much.

  It’s not h
umble to brag, especially not as a quarterback. Quarterbacks are supposed to be the level-headed leaders of a team, the guys who work their tails off and make sure everyone else looks good, but don’t take any credit for it.

  “I can’t believe they let you play today! I was so happy we got to see it, because I didn’t think we’d be able to,” Mom gushes.

  I didn’t think they’d be seeing me play today either. The coaches have been adamant that I’m not the starter this season; some stupid made-up rule about grounding a hotshot like me to make me work harder for it. I get the whole “earn your keep” thing, but come on. I came in during the fourth quarter because we were down by three touchdowns and I nearly won the game. A few more minutes on the clock and I would have helped score that third touchdown. As it was, I helped our team grab two of the ones we needed to make up.

  “I’m just hoping I get to keep playing.” My tone is serious.

  “You will. It’ll come, the starting position, the glory. For now, just keep your nose to the grindstone and learn as much as you possibly can,” Dad instructs.

  That’s my father, always a hard worker, and always one to instill those kinds of values in his kids. My parents are two of the most hardworking people I know, and they gave Chase and me everything we could have wanted, plus, the life lessons to go with them. What they’re taking on with Tyla and Brant is no small feat; heading into their wind down years with two little kids that will need a decade or more of care, they’re freaking saints.

  As my family chatters on around me, a flash of sunset golden curls catches my attention.

  Henley is making her way down the stadium bleachers, and I can see her easily from my position on the field. She’s wrapped in a short-sleeve blue sundress, and goddamn does it make her look like the girl next door. When, in fact, I know she’s quite the opposite.

  Our gazes had caught before the game, and they do so now. She’s watching me track her.