All athletes think they have big dicks, but the guy standing in front of me actually does.

I know this because he opens the door wearing nothing but a towel. A very small towel, one that’s straining to reach all the way around his thick, muscular thighs. Because of the largeness of the man and the smallness of the towel covering him, it’s almost impossible not to get a glimpse of what’s between his legs.

Who the fuck answers their front door wearing next to nothing and showing off their monster cock like it’s a collectible item on display?

Finn Thorne, that’s who. Recent transfer, rumored bad news, and my new tutoring student.

“Do I know you?” he asks, looking at me as if I might be a door-to-door vacuum cleaner saleswoman, or maybe even worse.

A football groupie.

Which is ridiculous, since I don’t care about football.

Like, not a bit. Negative caring. The actual game, I mean. I like the tailgating and the temporary tattoos and the giant confetti cannons they shoot off in the stadium after a win, even if I do think that’s just asking for a PTSD-related lawsuit. But the actual game? Whatever. Downs and tackles and punts and…bunts?

No, that’s baseball.

I don’t care at all about sports.

But going to Harton University means I more or less have to shut up about that fact, because anyone who doesn’t care about football here gets eaten alive. And besides, the one perk of going to a school with a huge and competitive football team? I make good, good money tutoring linebackers that never see the inside of an actual classroom. I’m good at it, too— which is why they’ve sent me to handle the new guy.

“I’m Kenley. Kenley Sullivan?” I say, thinking it might jog his memory. “Your math tutor?” I avert my eyes from what’s going on below his waist and meet his arrogant gaze.

Is it possible I have the wrong house?

I glance down at my phone to double check the address. I’m in Ansley Park, one of the nicest neighborhoods in Atlanta, but it’s not totally insane that a football player would be meeting me for a tutoring session here— there’s a house one of the alumni owns, and my understanding is my new client is staying here to keep a low profile before the first game of the season.

Finn Thorne.

453 Magnolia Ave (white house with blue door), 5pm

Struggling with math, classes from Florida didn’t transfer, needs to pass first test in order to play, don’t worry about second since it’s after season is over. Thanks!

“Ohhhhhh….right,” Finn replies, nodding. He adjusts his towel, mercifully blocking his, um, parts, from view. Strangely, I’m still visualizing what I just saw, even wishing he hadn’t so quickly adjusted the towel—which makes no sense.

I should not be ogling my student’s cock, no matter how enormous and eye-catching it might be.

“That’s all? That’s all you have to say for yourself?” I manage to ask, incredulous.

“Say for myself?” He smirks. “I don’t have anything to say for myself.” His huge biceps flex as he crosses his arms over his smooth, muscular chest.

My eyes roam momentarily over his tanned skin, noting the finely drawn tattoos in various places, all of which seems to underscore the raw masculinity that permeates the air around him. His muscles are insane. What sort of pushup does someone have to do to work those muscles, exactly? I find myself inhaling, wanting to touch his chest, to see if it’s as hard as it looks.

I push on, trying to take control of the situation. “I’m here to tutor you in math, which I assume you need. And you show up to answer the door half-naked and acting completely rude—”

Finn’s smirk grows.

To say he’s good-looking is a huge understatement. He’s one of those guys that even if you took away the muscles, the height, the flawlessly straight teeth, would still be hot. Maybe it’s his cheekbones? Or the way he carries his shoulders— like he owns everything around him.

Including me.

“Apparently showering is now considered rude,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “I’ll be sure to make a note of it.”

I sigh and try to control my voice. He’s trying intimidating me with his size, and his looks, and his cockiness -- which makes me think about the glimpse I got of his cockiness, and how big it was, and that makes me wonder what it would be like to touch it…

“Maybe I should come back another time, when you’re actually prepared for our lesson,” I say, forcing my eyes to look away from his body, away from him. I want to glance back again, but instead I force myself to turn and begin walking away, down the steps, moving toward the sidewalk.

“Have a nice day, Kenley,” he calls out in his deep baritone, and I hear the door slam shut, causing my shoulders to rise as I grit my teeth and keep walking.

I hate athletes.

I can’t help it—I’ve spent way too much time trying to teach them stuff they have no interest in learning.

It’s bad enough to have to teach someone who doesn’t care about the subject matter, but it’s even worse to have to deal with…

Someone who’s hot and sexy as hell and knows it?

I mutter to myself as I walk.

The last thing I want to do be doing right now is tutoring a football superstar who decided he didn’t feel like paying attention in math class for the last ten years and needs to catch up on everything—now that he’s in college and flunking his exams.

So screw Finn Thorne, I think as I stomp back down the driveway.

But then I stop as I picture myself telling Professor Joshua Reams that I canceled the appointment with Finn Thorne because Finn was being obnoxious and hadn’t yet gotten dressed when I arrived.

I have a sinking sensation that the head of the math department would not be happy about my decision. Not to mention my mother, who’s a professor here, too, and second in command of the math department. Finn Thorne is a very big deal at Harton, and there are different expectations when it comes to handling someone like him.

In other words, I have to swallow my pride and go back and try again.

I shoulder my bag, full of snacks, math books, and colored markers (tutoring football players involves using a lot of tricks you’d use for tutoring elementary schoolers) and trudge back to his front door.

I’m now sweating profusely, and I feel a strange tightness in my lower abdomen. I’m suddenly aware of myself, the way I look, my lack of makeup, how un-put together I am right now.

And I hate that I feel this way, that I feel like I somehow want to impress him when I know that he sees me as nobody important. I’m not even a woman as far as he’s concerned, because I don’t have perfect tits, a tiny waist and the face of a runway model.

I raise my hand and knock on the door, twice.

It seems to take forever for him to come and open the door again. When he finally does, he’s now clothed, and I find myself almost disappointed.

“Forget something?” Finn asks, his lips quirking, not quite forming a smile.

“Let’s start over,” I say, putting on my most professional voice and trying to smile. I reach out my hand. “My name’s Kenley Sullivan and you must be Finn Thorne.”

“In the flesh,” he says, taking my hand in his. It’s not really quite a handshake. His hand is enormous, so big that it’s like mine is miniature by comparison. He merely holds my hand, and his grips is warm and solid and suddenly I’m breaking into goose bumps.

“Nice to meet you, Finn. I’m here to tutor you in math.”

“Come in, then,” he says, releasing my hand as quickly as he’d taken it. He turns and walks into the foyer, leaving me to follow.

He’s now wearing a t-shirt and basketball shorts, though I can’t understand how the shirts sleeves aren’t tearing against his biceps.

Think about something else. Anything else. Stop thinking about the way his cock looked when you saw it through that tiny towel he had around his waist, about how you wish the towel had fallen off completely so you could truly get a proper look—

“Is math a difficult subject for you?” I ask, trying to keep up with him as he makes his way into the kitchen.

“I have no use for it,” Finn says, shrugging and tearing into a box of protein bars on the counter. The counter is covered in treats befitting an enormous football player. Protein bars in a million flavors, a giant stack of locally made jerky, hardboiled eggs in packages, nuts and seeds and trail mixes, even some kind of weird protein-infused potato chip.

“No use for math?” I query, raising an eyebrow. “So I suppose you never try and figure out what’s fifteen percent to tip a waiter after a meal—“

“I usually just drop a large enough bill to more than cover it,” he says, not a hint of irony in his voice. “I’ve never had any complaints.”

“But you wouldn’t know, since you don’t bother figuring it out.”

I set my bag down on the counter and begin removing notebooks. I printed out Finn’s math class syllabus, so I knew where to start, as well as an email from the professor on what sort of things we need to review for the first test.

“How long will this take? I’ve got plans,” Finn informs me, looking at the notebooks like I’ve put a live cobra on the counter. I swallow, and fully embrace Tutor Mode. Tutor Mode Kenley gets shit done. Tutor Mode Kenley has a job to do. Tutor Mode Kenley doesn’t care about hard dicks, flat abs, or any of that crap.

And Tutor Mode Kenley doesn’t have patience for entitled students.

“Usually the sessions are an hour. You should be free till the team meeting at seven, right?” I ask, lifting a paper from my notebook— his training schedule. The athletic director always provides one when I’m tutoring athletes, so I don’t interfere with their training.

“Maybe my plans aren’t so official,” Finn says, lifting his eyebrows, daring me to contradict him.

“If they’re not official, I’d cancel them, since this tutoring session is if you want to stay on the team,” I counter, folding my arms.

Finn isn’t impressed by my threat. “Trust me, they’re not throwing me off the team. Jacob Everett is gone, Stewart Adams is graduating this year— I’m next year’s senior quarterback.”

I shrug. “Well, senior quarterbacks have to pass freshman math.”

Finn narrows his eyes a little, like he was expecting admiration rather than insistence. He takes a large bite of the protein bar and chews as I slide onto one of the kitchen barstools.

“An hour,” Finn says, his brow furrowing as he scratches his strong chin.

“Just an hour. Twice a week,” I say.

He scoffs. “They never made me do this sort of thing in Florida.”

“Which is why you’re now a junior who needs to pass freshman math,” I answer pointedly.

His eyes narrow more, but this whole exchange is putting me at ease. I know I can argue with this guy. I’m a woman in a field dominated by men— I am excellent at taking entitled men down a peg. It’s the whole, “you’re-standing-there-naked-and-grinning-at-me” stuff I’m not so good at.

“Look,” I finally say. “If you can convince Dr. Reams and your advisor and whoever else that this isn’t necessary, then I’m happy to disappear and never darken your doorway again.”

Finn crosses his arms over his chest, and almost curious expression flickering through his eyes. “Fine,” he says. “I suppose this is how it is for now. But if we’re going to do this, I don’t want to do it here.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Come on,” he says, grabbing his keys. “We’re going out.”