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 smile 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.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Only for you, Charlie. Only for you.”

An hour later, Spencer and I are all decked out in black and orange and walking into Princeton Stadium. It’s packed with students and faculty. We’re playing Harvard today and one side of the stadium is filled with fans in crimson and gray, and our side is filled with tiger stripes. Just like the ones I painted on our faces.

Usually the season ends in November, but this game is the first weekend of December. The chill in the air seems to bring the festive nature of the event to life. The place is swarming with people, and Spencer reaches for my hand.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he says against the shell of my ear.

I lift my eyes to meet his, and if we were alone I’d silently beg him for another kiss, but we aren’t, everyone on campus is here, and all of these people have an opinion on the man I’m with.

“We have seats in section five,” I tell him. He nods, leading the way.

As we weave through the crowd, we’re stopped a dozen times. Everyone looks from him to me, and I notice all the stares, but Spencer either chooses to ignore it or is just living in a different reality. A reality where he can do no wrong, where there are no repercussions for his choices. A world where privilege is king, especially for Princeton Charming.

Kick off happens as we find our seats and for the next three hours, we are caught in a hailstorm of chanting and cheering. Tatum is killing it on the field and I practically lose my voice shouting his number, twenty-three, as he runs in two touchdowns.

Prescott finds us at halftime, delivering popcorn and soda, and handing Spencer a flask.

“In all these years I’ve never seen Spencer have so much school spirit,” Prescott teases.

“Maybe Charlie is a good influence on me,” Spencer tosses back.

Prescott smirks. “Call it what you want, Charming. Blackjack is calling my name, motherfucker!” He waves us off, and I ask Spencer what that was all about.

“Prescott is a douche, that’s all you need to know.”

“I thought he was valedictorian of your graduating class?” I ask.

“You seem to know a lot about him.” Is that more jealousy in his voice?

I shake my head. “Not really, just that for all his games he’s still impressively smart.”

Spencer scoffs. “I take offense, Charlie.”

I laugh. “Aww is your ego bruised? You’re not happy with being the hottest guy on campus, you need to be the smartest too?”

Spencer laughs as the second half begins. “Right now I’m just happy to be here with you.”