CHAPTER EIGHT

COLTON

THREE WEEKS LATER

I wake up sore from head to toe. Practice has been brutal. I had mistakenly assumed everything was pretty chill this side of the border, all Crispy Crunch and manners, but Coach has been fucking us all on the ice.

Too much being fucked and not enough fucking, I muse, reaching down to check my cock’s still functional.

I come up into a sitting positon, note the mild bruising around my ribs from where I’ve been shuttled against the glass. The retaliation for what I did to Ricky hasn’t come to haunt me yet, but these guys aren’t taking prisoners out there. I’m a target, and not for the first time in my life.

There’s a half-full beer beside my bed. I pick it up and down what’s left, but it’s warm. I may as well be drinking my own piss.

I notice the clock on the wall—quarter to nine.

Fuck.

I hunt for the nearest shirt, throwing it on with the closest pair of jeans, foregoing socks to slip into my sneakers and blast out the door.

I’m halfway down the road before I realize I left my coat back at the apartment, but it’s too late now. I’m in such a rush I barely see a patch of ice, half-slipping, half-sliding through the gates of Branton College already five minutes late to class.

Thank heavenly fuck it’s warm inside the lecture hall. A few more minutes of exposure and I’d be an ice sculpture.

Harper’s busy addressing the class when I enter.

She pauses, looking up at me. “Thank you for joining us.”

I sit down breathing hard.

In truth, I don’t even know why I took this elective. I literally picked the first thing I saw. I might even be into it if the woman teaching it wasn’t so scorchingly hot. I don’t know how anyone with a dick can concentrate in this class when she turns to face the screen. She’s a bigger distraction than the perma-blonde sitting three seats down, so much cleavage on show you could shack up there for the winter. No, Harper is far above the usual college groupie. She’s something special and I do intend to go there again. Question is, how? My earlier play might be backfiring. She’s made it pretty clear she wants nothing to do with me. That’s why I’m surprised when she asks me to stay after class, once again waiting until everyone has left before speaking, her sing-song voice turning my cock to concrete.

She’s wearing tight black dress pants and a white blouse, an azure blazer providing a perfect pop of color. The latter matches her eyes, an amber-sided city caught within them.

“Changed your mind?” I start. Her perfume, her scent, whatever the fuck it is it’s driving me insane.

I can see she’s biting her tongue. Pity it’s not because my hand is down her pants again.

“Actually,” she says, the picture of academic professionalism, “it’s about your grade.”

“My grade?” I laugh, admittedly surprised. “You don’t think that was an A-plus-worthy performance back at my place?”

She sighs. “Look, be an ass if you want; your cocky attitude may have working for you in the US, but here, at Branton, you are going to fail this class. Am I making myself clear? Keep this up and the only letter you’ll be seeing is a F.”

For ‘fucked,’ my head fills.

I’m thinking of a way to turn this around, use it to my advantage, but once again I’m distracted by the heavenly creature in front of me, the way her chocolate hair falls softly on her shoulders, the delicate composition of her skin and neck.

It hits me.

“So,” I begin, “how about some private tutelage then?”

The words hit her like a locomotive. “Personal tutoring? Are you serious?”

I play it cool. “I don’t see what’s so wrong about that.”

She takes a step closer to me, starting to seethe. “No, I don’t suppose you do, but mark my words, I am dead serious. I will fail your ass.”

I study her carefully. I could threaten to reveal the hook-up, use my trump card, but it wouldn’t play well. It wouldn’t get me any closer to slipping inside her fine pussy.

As if reading my mind, she adds, “If you’re thinking of saying anything about what happened between us, think again. Be smart.”

I act offended. “Do you really think I’d stoop that low? You don’t give me enough credit.”

“Oh, I’m giving you plenty, trust me.”

I let my eyes run down her body, scanning her curves. Even this teacher camouflage can’t hide them. “I don’t need to resort to threats to get what I want.”

“Is that so?”

Dial it down, smartass. “Tutor me, help me lift my grades. I’m asking nicely.”

I see that big ol’ ice wall she’s put up starting to crack. She’s considering it, chewing on her cheek.

“If you want me to do better, you at least owe me the opportunity to prove I can.”

She exhales and I know I’m over the line.

“Fine,” she snaps, shifting behind the lectern, “but don’t think it’s going to be anything more.”

I raise my hands up in surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She nods to the door. “I’ll arrange the details and let you know.”

“Looking forward to it,” I smile, collecting my things and heading for the door.

I keep smiling as I walk, even if my balls are becoming ice cubes. Cold or not, nothing’s going to stop me enjoying this win.

Do I have ulterior motives?

Of course I fucking do.

I’m a Beckett.