The Chase

“I can be sweet when I want to.” My knuckles graze her clit. “But right now, I’m feeling dirty.” I slip a finger inside her. “Spread your legs so I can screw you against the wall.”

Her jaw falls open at the wicked demand. “Oh my God. You’re in a mood tonight.”

“Yeah, I am. So for chrissake, stop trying to break up with me. Stop worrying about this job. Just stop and kiss me.”

When my mouth covers hers, she finally quits arguing and kisses me back with a level of passion that steals my breath. I grind against her, but it’s not enough. My aching cock is straining behind my zipper, and I’m too primed for foreplay.

“I just need to be inside you,” I whisper in her ear. “I’ll make you feel good later. Promise.”

“You make me feel good always,” she whispers back, and damned if my heart doesn’t beat a little bit faster.

Thanks to Summer, I always keep a condom in my pocket these days, no matter the occasion. I don’t bother dropping my trousers. I unzip, pull out my cock, cover it up. Then I yank Summer’s dress up, lift one of her long legs to my hip, and with one deep stroke I bury myself inside her.

“Oh my God,” she moans.

The heat of her surrounds me, her inner muscles clamping around my dick as if to trap it in place. My skin is on fire. My heart beats in a sharp staccato against my ribcage. I’m hot and hard and in desperate need of release.

There’s nothing graceful about the pounding I give her. The wall behind her shakes and the credenza rattles as I fuck her standing up. Her legs snake around my waist and she’s so wet and tight I can’t think straight. I can’t stop the freight train of pleasure that slams into me without warning. I bury my face in the crook of her neck and tremble against her body, coming hard enough to see stars.

“Fuck yes,” I grunt against her neck.

My hips keep rocking for several moments before going still. I know she didn’t come, but I already promised I’d make it up to her. My knees start to wobble, but still I don’t move.

“You feel so good,” I mumble. “I never want to leave you—”

Ding.

We both jolt in surprise when the elevator doors slide open. The next thing I hear is, “What the fuck!”

It’s Dean.

As in Summer’s brother Dean.

As in my good friend Dean.

How is this happening again?

“How is this happening again!” Summer cries in embarrassment.

I honestly don’t know. This is the second time someone’s walked in on us while I’ve been lodged deep inside her. But this is a million times worse because it’s her brother. I’m about to turn around when I realize that if I do, Dean will see my dick flapping in the wind and know where it was a second before.

“I’m gonna kick your ass, Fitzgerald!”

“Dean,” Summer begs, burying her face against my chest. “Turn around. Please.”

“Oh my fucking God. Are you having sex?” he thunders. “Right here?!”

“Dean! Turn around!”

He has the decency to obey her, but sounds utterly furious as he snarls, “Get your shit together and meet me in the living room. I’m walking past you guys right now, and I’m not looking, okay? Jesus fuck, I’m not looking.”

My peripheral vision catches him stalking by, holding one hand to his face as a blinder. The moment he disappears, we snap into action. I pull out. Summer takes the condom and ducks into the nearby powder room. A toilet flushes, and then she returns and we reluctantly walk into the living room like two teenagers who just—

Got caught having sex?

Yup. Exactly like that.

When we’re seated on the couch, Dean looms over us, arms crossed. “How long has this been going on?” he asks sternly.

I choke down a laugh. Hearing Dean (whose nickname in college was ‘Dean the Sex Machine,’ for chrissake) put on a Puritan tone and glare in disapproval is the ultimate irony. But I know this whole big-brother posturing is coming from a place of genuine concern. He adores his sister.

“A while,” Summer admits.

“Uh-huh.” He scowls at her. “Oh, and a heads-up? Next time you’re trying to hide something from me, maybe don’t post a pic on social media?”

She rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t trying to hide it from you.”

He’s outraged. “So you wanted me to find out on social media?”

“No, you didn’t even cross my mind. Fitzy and I went to a party. I took a picture of us together. I posted it on Insta. Nowhere in that chain of events did I think about you. Wanna know why? Because it had nothing to do with you.”

“It has everything to do with me!” he fires back.

Ah. Now I know where she gets the drama-llama from.

Dean’s murderous glare whips toward me. “This is my little sister, man!”

“I know,” I answer calmly. “And I care about her a lot.”

“Yeah, Dicky,” Summer chimes in. “This isn’t just sex between us, okay? I mean, we are having sex, lots of it, but—”

Dean drops his head in his hands. “Why, Boogers? Why do you have to say stuff like that?”

She huffs. “So you’re allowed to talk about your sex life with me, but I can’t talk about mine with you?”

“I never talk about my sex life with you! It’s a taboo topic! Taboo!” He lets out a groan thick with aggravation. Then he inhales slowly. His gaze shifts between us. “That’s it? You guys are together now?”

I look at Summer, who fifteen minutes ago was threatening to break up with me. No, not even threatening—she did break up with me. I just wouldn’t allow it.

Her mouth hitches up in a rueful smile. “We’re together,” she confirms. “Colin is my boyfriend.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. The resignation in her tone is kinda adorable.

Dean gives a slow nod as he carefully studies my face. “So you’re with my sister? You’re my sister’s boyfriend?” He sounds as resigned as Summer.

I swallow a sigh, because I know exactly where this is going. “Yes.”

“Okay, then.” He rakes one hand through his blond hair. “You ready?”

My sigh slips out. “Let’s get it over with.”

Summer’s head swivels from me to Dean, confusion swimming in her expression. “What are you guys talking about?”

Dean gets to his feet. So do I.

“Sorry, Boogers. It needs to be done.”

“Needs to be done,” I echo guiltily.

When Dean cracks the knuckles of his right hand, understanding dawns in his sister’s eyes. “You’re going to hit him?” she exclaims, jumping to her feet. “What the hell! No way!”

“Fitz knows the code. He didn’t follow it. Therefore…”

Dean’s right. There is a code. Other teams might have rules about not dating a teammate’s sister or ex or whoever else is off-limits, but our team never strictly adhered to anything like that. Our rule was much simpler—ask before you go there.

Even if the other guy says hell no, you could probably do what you want anyway, since there’s no way for him to enforce anything. But that’s not what the code is about. It’s about respecting your teammate.

Dean cracks the knuckles of his left hand.

“You’re insane. Don’t you touch him, Dicky!”

She tries to throw herself between us, but I gently move her to the side. “Just let it happen,” I tell her. “It’s really not a big de—”

The fucker doesn’t throw a punch.

He knees me in the balls.

I drop like a stone, stars flashing in my field of vision as the pain twists my gut. I curl over and grip my junk, trying to catch my breath. “Jackass,” I croak, staring accusingly up at Dean.

“Dicky! Why would you go for his balls! We need them to make your future nieces and nephews!”

“Nieces and nephews plural? How many kids you planning on having?”

“A lot!”

“You’re not allowed to get pregnant until you’re at least thirty. I’m not ready to be an uncle.”

“Oh my God. Life isn’t always about you!”

They stand there bickering as if I’m not bent in half on the marble floor, gasping for air. “I’m not having kids with you,” I wheeze at Summer. “I don’t want to be part of your insane family.”

“Oh hush, sweetie. It’s too late. I’ve become attached.”

You’d think it would be impossible to laugh while I’m writhing on the floor in agony.

But Summer Heyward-Di Laurentis makes everything possible.

30

Summer

My last check-in with Erik Laurie takes place the Monday before the fashion show. I would’ve liked to talk to him after our History of Fashion lecture this morning, but he had a line of students waiting to speak to him. So I killed two hours on campus and then walked over to his office during his official hours.

I hate meeting in his office. I find he’s always extra smarmy behind closed doors. He’s already winked about four times, made one flirty comment about how I should walk in my own show, and now his hand grazes mine (intentionally, I suspect) as he passes me the schedule for Friday night. It’s the equivalent of a band’s set list, with the names of each student designer and the order in which they’ll be debuting their lines.