"What the hell are you doing?" Emmett asks, reaching for the book. "I told you. Twins."

"Huh?" I look up from my history textbook.

My roommate grabs the book out of my hand. "Why are you reading this shit?"

"It's for class," I say, an edge in my voice that isn't usually there. "Maybe you've heard of classes? I have to get my GPA up."

The words come out of my mouth before I realize they're basically a parroted version of what Hot Librarian said to me. Shit. Now I'm sounding like that nerdy virgin. That hot nerdy virgin.

"Since when are you studying on a Wednesday night?" Emmett asks. "You don’t need to do that shit."

I shrug. "I have a paper to write."

"Don’t you have a tutor for that?"

"Yeah," I say, shaking my head. "She's not going to write my paper for me."

"You need a better tutor, then," Emmett says.

I can't think of a better tutor than Cassie.

"Take a break," he tells me. "This chick Ally told her sister you were going to have beers with us. For some reason I can't possibly understand, her sister is your biggest fan. You know what that means, dude."

I groan. I know what that means. When a girl is my biggest fan, I can get her to do anything. It means blowjobs in the backseat of the car on the way to my place, getting my fill of her, and then kicking her ass out the door. They're always grateful to have gotten a piece of me.

Part of me says I should close the book and go fuck the girl's sister. Or hell, both of the twins, even if Emmett thinks he’s claimed one of them. I haven't gotten laid since that damn tutor started working with me, giving me grief about studying and shit. By my own standards, I'm practically a monk now.

The problem is, the thought of yet another girl on her knees between my legs, looking up at me for approval with big doe eyes, doesn't make my cock stir the way it usually does.

Shit. Something is wrong with me.

"Jesus, man," Emmett says, shaking his head. "I can't believe I offered you a chance at this girl's sister and you're turning guaranteed sex down to sit here and read a stupid book."

"It's actually kind of good," I say halfheartedly. "I mean, it's interesting and –"

"Shit," Emmett says. "I can't listen to this. It's sad as hell."

Later, I stare at the blinking cursor on my laptop as I try to formulate a sentence that doesn't make me sound like a fucking third-grader.

I shouldn't give a shit. Why am I even trying to write a dumb paper, anyway? Impressing Hot Librarian should be nowhere on my list of priorities. Who cares what some nerdy girl thinks about me?

Dumb jock.

That's what she called me. I don't know why it grates on me the way it does. I've always been a dumb jock – not like my brother Drew who's smart as hell. Of course, he's not going to get drafted into the pros with a multi-million dollar contract, either.

So, writing some bullshit history paper is irrelevant. Studying plays, that's relevant. That's what my future is about. Not writing some crap about stuff that happened a million years ago.

---

I glance up from my playbook at my watch again. Three minutes past the start of our tutoring session. One minute since the last time I looked. Not that I'm counting or anything.

She probably reconsidered after the last session when I lost my shit. I shouldn't have lost my shit. But she was sitting there across from me, and that look on her face… smug, like she was better than me just because she's good at schoolwork. It just got to me.

She's the kind of girl who doesn't understand wanting to move up in life. She's smart and pretty and I'd bet a million dollars she didn't grow up poor on a farm in East Texas.

"Studying?" A voice interrupts my thoughts, and I look up to see her standing there. This time, she's not wearing a little skirt and heels, no longer the hot librarian. She's wearing jeans that hug her curves like they were designed for her body, a pink tank top that skims over her full breasts, with a messenger bag slung over her shoulder.

Her cheeks are flushed, her breath is short, and all I can think about is that she'd better not have just come from hooking up with someone.

"Yep," I answer, my voice tight. She crosses the room and slides into a chair on the other side of the table. Why the hell am I so annoyed at the thought of her being late because she was with someone?

"That's not school stuff," she says, eyeing the playbook. "Sorry I'm late."

"It's the only studying that matters," I say.

She purses her lips. "Unless you're ineligible and can't play," she says. "Then knowing all those football diagram thingies won't help at all."

"Football diagram thingies?" I ask, leaning back in the chair. "Do you know anything about football at all?"

Her cheeks flush and she looks down, digging in her bag for a notebook and a pen. "It's not my forte."

"It's not your forte?" I ask. "What does that mean? You can't use your fancy words around me."

I'm only half-joking. I don't know what the fuck forte means.

She sighs. "I know nothing about football, okay? Nothing. Not a single thing."

"But you're in Texas," I point out. No way does this girl go to a huge football school in Texas, for shit's sake, and know nothing about football. That would mean she genuinely knows nothing about me.

"I know." She shrugs like it’s irrelevant. "I just never got into it. So, did you read Pride and Prejudice?"

"Yeah." I wave my copy dismissively at her. Of course I didn't fucking read it. Not only am I not reading something like that, but I was busy staring at my laptop and trying to write that stupid history paper. "Have you ever even been to a game?"

She pulls out her copy of Pride and Prejudice. "I sold my student season tickets last year."

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"What do you mean?" she squeals. "There are plenty of people in the world who don't watch football."

"Not in Texas."

"Stop avoiding work," she says. "Did you do your History paper? It's just a reaction paper, so it's short. Do you want to talk about Pride and Prejudice or do you want me to look over your work?"

I open my laptop and the document containing the paper, then turn the computer to face her. "If I have to learn this bullshit English stuff, you should have to learn football. It's called quid pro quo."

That's literally the only Latin phrase I know. My brother taught it to me when we were in high school, said it's a smart-sounding way of getting girls to put out when you take them out someplace.

She laughs. "Yeah, sure, if you think you can teach me something about football."

"Okay," I say. "My place. Eight o'clock."

Cassie looks up at me, surprised. "I wasn't serious. I was kidding. You're not teaching me about football."

"Oh, 'cause you're too good for it?"

"What?" she stammers. "I did not say that. I didn't even imply that."

I raise an eyebrow. "I learn, you learn."

"I am not going to your house," she says. "That's such an obvious ploy. Does this stuff really work on women?"

"I've never offered to teach a chick about football," I admit. That’s honesty right there. I really haven't. Why the fuck would I need to teach a girl about football? The girls I screw know exactly who I am. They're groupies, fans of the game. And of mine.

She rolls her eyes. "'Come over to my house and I'll teach you all about the game?'" she asks sarcastically. "That's so transparent. What's next? 'Baby, I need you to help me get a home run?'"

"Are you just fucking with me now? Home run is baseball, not football."

"It is? Isn't that what you score?"

"You are fucking with me," I say, shaking my head in disbelief. "You actually don't know that a home run is baseball? Hit a home run? There's nothing to hit with in football."

"I'm not into either sport."

"Well, I'm not into English," I retort. "Or whatever the hell it is you're studying."

"Sociology," she informs me. "And my graduating doesn't hinge on my learning football."

"You're a terrible tutor," I say, leaning back, arms crossed over my chest.

"Why is that? I can tutor you without knowing anything about football."

"You're supposed to give me an incentive to learn," I point out. "Make it interesting."

Her face colors. "I'm not even going to ask what you think an incentive is."

"I was going to suggest that you legit learn about what I do," I say. "But if you insist on a more… physical incentive, I'm game. If my paper passes, you take your shirt off."

I don't expect her to take her shirt off. In fact, I fully expect her to slap me for the suggestion. I just want to get a rise out of her.

"I am not taking my shirt off," she says. But when she averts her gaze to look back at the laptop screen, she pulls the edge of her lower lip between her teeth and shifts in her seat.

I know that look. Little Miss Goody Two Shoes might be dirtier than she appears. So I push my luck.

"Your panties, then," I suggest. "And if I get an A, I get to put my face between those thighs and make you come on my tongue."

Now her cheeks turn scarlet. But when she looks at me and doesn't say anything for a minute, I think she actually might be considering it.

And hell, now that I said it out loud, I'm not going to be able to get the image out of my head – Cassie on her back, her legs spread as I bury my face in her pussy. Cassie bucking against my face, her hands on the back of my head as she presses me harder against her. Cassie, as she pants my name when I thrust my tongue inside her.

Fuck. That just gave me the biggest raging boner ever.

Cassie looks at my face, and then looks down. Yep, she just saw it. And she looks at it just a little longer than necessary.

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and clears her throat. When she speaks, her voice is tight. "Looking at the quality of your paper, I could safely agree to that with no qualms whatsoever."

"Does that mean you're agreeing that if I get an A, you'll let me lick your pussy until you scream my name?"

"You're so crude. I did not just say that," she protests. "But there's no chance of you getting an A."

"I just need the right incentive."

She just shakes her head and doesn't respond, instead turning her attention to my paper. "I think I get what you're trying to say here, but it's not organized well. Even if the paper is only a page, you should still organize it the way you would a longer paper. Do you know what a thesis statement is?"

Suddenly she's all businesslike as she pulls out her notebook and writes down an example of an outline, something about structuring papers, but I'm not paying attention. All I'm thinking about is the raging hard-on I have that's in no danger of deflating anytime soon — and the fact that I can't stop thinking about what it would be like to make Little Miss Goody Two Shoes come on my tongue.