CONWICK U #1
[IMPERFECT] The Girlfriend Agreement (Standard Edition)
[IMPERFECT] The Girlfriend Agreement (Standard Edition)
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The Girlfriend Agreement is book one in the Conwick U series.
Each book follows a different couple and can be read as a standalone.
Please note: This listing is for the standard paperback/hardcover edition. This version of the book includes a bonus chapter and interior art. This edition comes signed by the author.
Returns/Refunds: All sales are final once an order has been shipped. No refunds or returns will be accepted.
PLEASE NOTE: These are imperfect copies, which means they may have some minor cosmetic damage, but are otherwise fine to read. For that reason, these copies are discounted.
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Who said faking it was easy?
Lexi Dornan is a genius. Literally. Except when it comes to her university’s most renowned playboy, Damian Navarro. When they’re together, her IQ plummets by at least eighty points and her life becomes a series of miscalculations, leading her to make the worst decisions imaginable...like agreeing to be Damian's fake girlfriend despite knowing it's a terrible idea. One she will probably live to regret.
Damian Navarro has zero interest in dating. He just wants to enjoy his senior year before following in his father's footsteps and going to work for his grandfather's pharmaceutical company. Trouble is, Damian's parents are starting to think he might not be the best thing for the family business…or its reputation. Tired of his childish antics, they present him with an ultimatum: prove he's matured before graduation or face being financially cut off and disowned.
The last thing Lexi wants to be is Damian's girlfriend, but he needs to show his parents he's capable of commitment and she desperately needs the money he's willing to pay her to put on a good act. Will they make it to his graduation deadline unscathed—from their lies and each other? Or will they discover that, when it comes to the equation for love, sometimes, the right people + the wrong reasons = happily ever after?
The Girlfriend Agreement is a slow-burn, laugh-out-loud college romance featuring fake dating, enemies-to-lovers tension, and a notorious playboy who meets his match in the one girl who wants nothing to do with him. Packed with sharp banter, undeniable chemistry, and just the right amount of chaos, this spicy romcom guarantees plenty of swoons, steam, and a happily ever after you won’t want to miss! This is book one in the Conwick U series. Each book follows a different couple.
Who said faking it was easy?
Lexi Dornan is a genius. Literally. Except when it comes to her university’s most renowned playboy, Damian Navarro. When they’re together, her IQ plummets by at least eighty points and her life becomes a series of miscalculations, leading her to make the worst decisions imaginable...like agreeing to be Damian's fake girlfriend despite knowing it's a terrible idea. One she will probably live to regret.
Damian Navarro has zero interest in dating. He just wants to enjoy his senior year before following in his father's footsteps and going to work for his grandfather's pharmaceutical company. Trouble is, Damian's parents are starting to think he might not be the best thing for the family business…or its reputation. Tired of his childish antics, they present him with an ultimatum: prove he's matured before graduation or face being financially cut off and disowned.
The last thing Lexi wants to be is Damian's girlfriend, but he needs to show his parents he's capable of commitment and she desperately needs the money he's willing to pay her to put on a good act. Will they make it to his graduation deadline unscathed—from their lies and each other? Or will they discover that, when it comes to the equation for love, sometimes, the right people + the wrong reasons = happily ever after?
The Girlfriend Agreement is a slow-burn, laugh-out-loud college romance featuring fake dating, enemies-to-lovers tension, and a notorious playboy who meets his match in the one girl who wants nothing to do with him. Packed with sharp banter, undeniable chemistry, and just the right amount of chaos, this spicy romcom guarantees plenty of swoons, steam, and a happily ever after you won’t want to miss! This is book one in the Conwick U series. Each book follows a different couple.
Fake dating, enemies-to-lovers, forced proximity, slow-burn, reverse grumpy/sunshine, reformed playboy, billionaire, enemies with benefits, no third act break-up, opposites attract, STEM vibes FMC, he falls first
Fake dating, enemies-to-lovers, forced proximity, slow-burn, reverse grumpy/sunshine, reformed playboy, billionaire, enemies with benefits, no third act break-up, opposites attract, STEM vibes FMC, he falls first
Chapter One - Lexi
Poor impulse control + alcohol = life choices I’ll regret in the morning
September
My back slams into the hard wooden door, and I let out a sound that’s half gasp and half moan against soft lips that remind me of velvet. An unbidden giggle escapes me in my drunken stupor as warm hands slide across my thighs and pull my legs tighter around the muscled waist belonging to the tall, blurred figure before me. I wish I could see his face more clearly, but I took out my contacts since they were irritating my eyes (I was beginning to look like someone with hayfever who just snorted a line of pollen) and I don’t have my glasses on hand. I might make it a point to pick outfits with pockets but no pocket in the world—at least, where ladies’ clothes are concerned—will comfortably fit a glasses case. Plus, the copious amounts of alcohol I ingested is making everything extra fuzzy. As such, all I can really make out is that kissable mouth, which pulls away now, leaving me hungry—so damn hungry—for more.
Suddenly, the world seems to shift and I’m on my feet instead of where I want to be, which is wrapped around him…whoever he is.
I pout as the mouth I was devouring only seconds ago twists into what I can only assume is a smirk.
“Someone’s eager,” it says, but the liquid courage flooding my body wipes away any embarrassment I might feel at those words.
With a confidence Sober Me would die to possess, I answer with a nonchalant, one-shouldered shrug. “Well, I won’t be if you keep me standing out here all night.”
My mystery man—the owner of that perfect mouth I desperately want to keep kissing—lets out a low, throaty chuckle that sends an arc of electricity racing through me. It’s an entirely new kind of buzz, and I wobble, a little unsteady on my feet.
My gaze drifts down the hallway over the course of the moment I wait for him to unlock the door. Although I can’t see the details, I know all too well where I am. I’ve never been in this dorm before; only select students at the university are invited to live in this particular building, which was donated by some rich douchebag’s daddy a few decades ago to probably buy their kid’s way into school. The rest of us are either townies, like me, who live in Newport and travel to campus for classes every day, or are residents in the lesser dorms, like my best friend, Ronnie, who isn’t quite at one-percenter level of wealth but isn’t exactly scraping the bottom of the barrel. Her cousin, Andie—my other best friend—is her roommate (and the third leg to our little tripod), and while she doesn’t technically come from money, she benefits from having two very doting uncles who have plenty to spare. Ronnie’s dads have ensured they have every advantage in life, even paying for her and her little sister, Sammie’s, education.
Aside from the small number of us who earned our way into Conwick solely with our brains—and, in my case, a very generous scholarship awarded by the school—the majority of those in attendance are rich, many of them disgustingly so, earning the institution its elitist reputation as a prestigious private university. It’s not Ivy League, but in terms of academic expectations and student selectivity, it’s definitely close, though it’s obvious Conwick favors the rich and powerful over people like me, who are only here to fill a quota. The dormitories are just one aspect of the school that reflects the obscene wealth polluting the campus, with Leeland Hall being the most exclusive and most desired by students, reserved only for those families with cash to burn who are willing to pay a king’s ransom in room and board for their child.
Having never seen the inside of any of the dorms aside from Garfield Hall where Ronnie and Andie live, I can only stare in wonder as the guy beside me—whose name I’m blanking on, assuming I ever learned it at all—pushes open the door and leads me into what is less of a dorm room and more of a lavish apartment.
I freeze mid-step, gobsmacked by the extravagance of my surroundings and the sheer size of the space, which I can grasp with ease even if it’s all pretty distorted. Garfield Hall—lovingly nicknamed “the Orange Pussy” by the students residing there—is practically a five-star hotel, and yet, next to this place, it might as well be a dumpster. No, not a dumpster. A dumpster fire. Damn, no wonder none of the truly wealthy students bother renting real estate in town. Why would they when they have their own high-end apartment building at their disposal here on campus?
My jaw drops as I step into the living room, my eyes springing wide as I take in the well-styled, modern decor, which makes my own house seem paltry by comparison. A sectional sofa and glass table stand opposite a black rectangle on the wall that is either the world’s most boring painting or an obnoxiously large TV, the set up accented by side tables, plants, and wall furnishings that—even obscured by my inadequate sense of vision—make the room look like the set for a photoshoot for Pottery Barn. It even smells expensive in here, and I can’t help wondering if this all came with the space or if some interior decorator was brought in by my mystery man or his rich parents to decorate.
I shake my head, ignoring the way my surroundings spin with the movement. This can’t really be a dorm room, can it? I haven’t stepped through a portal into a parallel universe? Maybe I’m asleep and this is the beginning of a really nice dream where I’m the love interest in a billionaire romance. Or a porno.
Yeah, that last option definitely seems the most plausible of the two.
Well, if this is a sex dream, I’m here for it.
Drawn into the fantasy, I inch forward a few more steps, peering through decorative archways into what looks like an open-plan kitchen and dining area on my left and then over at a bedroom with a huge four-poster bed on my right. My gaze clings to the otherwise indiscernible black bedspread, which hugs what must be a king-sized mattress from the size of it, maybe larger. The material gleams under the overhead spotlights, which come on suddenly as if in response to my perusal.
I startle at the touch of a hand on my wrist and, flicking my eyes upward, meet the gaze of the owner of that luscious mouth, offering him a smile as he guides me into the bedroom with a devious grin. As if under a spell, I giggle again and bite down coyly on my lower lip—a poor, drunken attempt at flirting that I would never dare commit the crime of while sober and which I’m sure I’ll die of shame over tomorrow.
For now, though, my inhibitions are gone, and all I care about is letting loose and enjoying this moment for what it is. The school year has only just begun and, already, I need relief from the constant stress that plagues my day-to-day life. Although Ronnie was the one who said I should go to the party—that I needed to blow off some steam and start sophomore year off on the right foot…or, at least, on a more relaxed foot—it hadn’t taken much convincing to get me to go. I just didn’t realize at the time that this was what I really needed, not a game of beer pong with a bunch of random frat boys.
As if determined to satisfy my unspoken needs, Mystery Man pulls me close with large, firm hands. Then he’s kissing me again, those soft lips traveling down to my throat, every scrape of his teeth on my skin doing things to my insides that definitely shouldn’t be legal.
“Can I?” he whispers against my neck, and I nod, not even sure what he’s asking permission for but willing to let him do anything if it will mean he keeps touching me. If it means he touches me more.
Warmth pools in my belly when our lips meet again, and I sigh into his mouth the moment his hand moves lower, stealthily slipping between my legs. A shiver follows every light graze of his fingertips as they carefully slide up under my skirt, but to my dismay, they linger there, teasing the sensitive skin of my inner thighs—inching closer to where the heat inside me is strongest but not close enough to alleviate the ache building there, as if intent on holding back. On letting the anticipation build. Each brush of his fingers feels electric, sparking a slow burn that spreads through my body until every touch, no matter how light, has me squirming.
Breath shaky, I urge him on, pressing my chest flush to his. It’s been a while—too long, really—since I last had sex, and all my appendages seem to respond to that nagging desire inside me as if they have a mind of their own. My tongue sweeps deeper into his mouth as my fingers fumble clumsily with the buttons on his shirt, my heart racing in time with my unsteady hands. It’s pale blue, I can make out that much. Gucci, probably.
I snort.
“What’s so funny?” he purrs in my ear, nipping my lobe with teeth that I’m sure are blindingly white, perfectly straight, and probably cost a small fortune in dental care to get that way.
Before I can answer, he puts me out of my misery, an obscene moan parting my lips as he skillfully pushes my underwear to one side and dips his hand between my thighs in the most perfect form of torture. When he sweeps a finger between my folds, I practically melt at his touch.
“You’re so fucking wet,” he whispers in my ear before gently biting my earlobe again, and I gasp when he sinks one finger inside me. Spurred on by my cry, he moves his hand faster, another finger joining the first, and as he plays with me, his fingers dipping in and out, his palm smacks repeatedly against my clit in a way that’ll have me coming before he’s even inside me. I’m so pent up, I won’t last long at this rate.
I grab his wrist to still his hand, and he looks at me, confusion ablaze in hazy but stunning eyes the color of dark chocolate swirled with honey. Shaking my head, I push Mr. Probably Too Rich For His Own Good back onto the bed, running my hands over his deeply tanned—and very defined—abs as I crawl over him and straddle his pelvis, kicking off my red heels in the process. With a pleased hum, I trace the ridges of his muscles, the skin rock hard beneath my fingers.
As I worship the hard planes of his body, his hands cup my ass and he pulls downwards on my hips, grinding me firmly against his length. I can feel the heat radiating from him, can feel just how hard he is through his jeans, and every movement as he guides my hips is a delicious friction, sending shockwaves of warmth rippling through me, making my entire body hum with need.
“Do you have a condom?” I ask, my breath hitching as my fingertips continue their keen exploration.
“Top drawer. Nightstand.” He grunts out each word then bites down on his plump lower lip as he rolls our hips together again.
Panting, I extricate myself from his grasp and lunge forward onto my stomach, reaching for the nightstand beside the bed…but in my inebriated horniness, I miscalculate the distance and tug the drawer in question open with far more force than is actually required.
Eager, indeed, I berate myself as the compartment comes loose and at least a hundred shiny square packets in varying colors explode into view. A handful even spill over onto the floor.
Raising a brow, I glance over my shoulder, my eyes landing once more on Mystery Man, his features frustratingly vague. My focus strays to his hand as he impatiently palms himself through his jeans, that delicious heat once again stirring in my lower belly at the sight. Swallowing, I force my gaze back to the treasure trove of contraceptives. The foil seems to glisten and glow, illuminated under the spotlights, like I’ve discovered some kind of sexual Atlantis.
For a long moment, I simply stare at the hazy contents of the drawer in amazement, equal parts envious and disturbed. Just how much sex does this guy have to warrant stockpiling this many condoms?
Enough that I think I can safely assume he’s not interested in anything serious.
I let out a breath of relief. At least I won’t have to worry about him chasing me for my number after this. I don’t have the time or energy for anything other than a senseless hook-up right now. Not with my school work, my scholarship requirements, and taking care of Mom. I have way too much on my plate as it is. I don’t have the mental bandwidth for a guy, no matter how hot he is…I think…or how completely insane his touch might make me feel.
As if aware of my thoughts, Mystery Man mutters something unintelligible, then his hand brushes my leg, jerking me back to the here and now. A shiver of awareness surges through my body, his fingers like brands on my skin that instantly ease me, helping to push all outside worries away and bury them down deep where they won’t be able to impede on this moment. I need to stop thinking before I inadvertently cockblock myself and ruin my night.
Clearing my head, I reach out toward the nightstand and pluck a dark purple foil from the pile, then sit up, ready to give Mystery Man my undivided attention. As I move, my hair shifts in front of my face and though I push it back behind my ears, the silky texture is unforgiving and just slips back into whatever inconvenient position it feels like. I am so not used to straightened hair, but Ronnie had insisted, and if there’s one thing that girl is a pro at, it’s getting her way. My makeup, my hair—that was all her. Not that I can’t pull in my natural state if I wanted to…or ever bothered to try (I’ve noticed men really aren’t that picky if sex is on the table), but considering I’m about to get dicked down when I would normally be playing the role of hermit at home, I suppose I should thank her.
Straddling Mystery Man’s legs, I pick up where we left off, rising up onto my knees to give me some needed clearance as I yank down his jeans. As they slip down his thighs, my eyes dip to the generous bulge in his briefs in anticipation. I might be half-blind, but I can tell he’s big. Really big. The thin fabric of my panties grows damp from just imagining what it will feel like to have him inside me.
Eager to start, I skim my fingers along the waistband of his underwear, then pause when I catch a glimpse of the name printed there. The letters are indistinct, melting together into an amoebas blob, but I would swear it says Versace.
I snort again. This pair of underwear alone probably costs more than my entire wardrobe combined.
“God, you’re so sexy,” Mystery Man mutters, sitting upright. With a warm hand, he pushes my hair over my shoulder, then cups his fingers around the back of my neck to pull me in for a kiss that would leave me weak-kneed if I was still on my feet. His tongue plunges into my mouth, colliding with mine in a dance that increases in pace and intensity until I only seem to exist in this kiss. He tastes like mint and gin and something so profoundly intoxicating I can barely think straight. Hell, I can barely breathe.
I rake my fingers through his thick umber hair, ravenous for those perfect lips and for everything he has to offer under his tight, overpriced briefs. Oh, my sweet little rich boy. I sincerely hope your dick is at least half as impressive as your trust fund.
We part just long enough for him to kick off his jeans and underwear and for me to wrestle my top over my head and unhook my bra. His undivided attention is on my chest as soon as it’s bare, and I relish the feel of each wet sweep of his tongue as he licks and flicks the tip of it across my nipples, his hands squeezing my breasts as he alternates between fondling and then drawing them into the scorching heat of his mouth. His touch is so warm and his lips are the sun as he drags them over my skin, burning me with every caress.
Grabbing Mystery Man by the chin, I tilt his head back and chase his lips, eager to taste him again, kissing him deeply once more as he drags me into his lap, his hard-on rigid against my stomach. It seems to beg for my attention from where it stands wedged between us, and pre-cum leaks onto my fingers as my nails carefully graze over the head and then slide downward along the smooth skin of his shaft. He’s even bigger than he looked with his underwear on, and I’m hungrier than ever to feel the fullness of another human inside me again. Now that I think about it, I haven’t experienced such intense physical attraction to someone since I lost my mind and spread my legs for one particular fuckboy freshman year. It’s not that I haven’t wanted that connection, I just haven’t been able to bring myself to let a guy touch me or even get close on an emotional level since that asshole wreaked havoc on my life.
But that was last year and I’m done letting my past mistakes control me. As I learned the hard way, sometimes, sex is just sex and it doesn’t always mean something to the involved parties…even if the participating male member makes you think otherwise. Often, it doesn’t mean anything to the other person, which I’m certain is the case with this guy if the volume of condoms in his bedside drawer is any indication of how commitment-phobic I’d wager he is. I doubt he even knows my name. I sure as shit don’t know his.
And it’s going to stay that way because names lead to familiarity and I need that distance between us to keep feelings out of the equation. I don’t have time for feelings. I don’t want feelings. I just want my lady cave to get plundered and to have a mind-shattering orgasm that isn’t caused by something with batteries for once.
I can have meaningless sex, I assure myself.
I can do this and not expect anything to come of it or for him to give a damn about me after. I can allow myself just one night of pleasure and then move on, no strings attached. No nuclear fallout. In and out. One and done.
With that little mental pep talk out of the way, I break the kiss and hold up the packet still clutched in my hand, tearing the foil open and deftly removing the condom inside before I can change my mind. Mystery Man offers me a crooked smile, then lets out a stilted breath when I touch him again, a long groan parting those gorgeous full lips when I slowly roll on the rubber sheathing. Once he’s covered, I lift my hips and position myself over his cock, ready. So fucking ready. He carefully shifts my panties aside once again, and this time, I’m the one who groans when his thumb teases over my swollen bud, pulling a startled whimper from me. Every touch feels so damn good, I can’t take it anymore. I can’t wait. I need him—I need this—like I need air to breathe.
“Are you good?” he asks, his voice husky.
“Yeah,” I manage in a panting breath. I am more than good.
Licking my lips, I lower my body until his head is snug against my entrance, and we both let out trembling breaths at the same time as I sink into his lap, taking him in an inch at a time. As he enters me, his erection pulsates against my core, and I swear I can feel his heart racing inside me. Or maybe that’s my own heartbeat I sense. Either way, this feels so damn good and we haven’t even started moving yet.
Mystery Man smiles against my neck, placing a sucking kiss on the dip at my collarbone, allowing a moment for me to adjust to the welcome invasion. Once he’s fully seated, he looks at me, and I can sense a question in the silence between us. He wants my permission again—this time to start, to fuck me into oblivion—and I nod once more, all too eager to grant it. With another kiss at the base of my throat, he lifts me up by my hips, pulling out just a little before thrusting back into me with enough force to make me cry out.
“Again,” I breathe, my tone pleading.
With a guttural growl, he loops one arm around my back and flips me over onto the mattress so he’s kneeling between my open legs. The sudden shift catches me off guard, but before I can process what’s happening, he pulls out in one smooth motion and peels off my panties with a swift tug, tossing them carelessly onto the floor. Then, hooking one of my knees over his shoulder, he plunges into me again, deeper, harder—moving in an almost desperate rhythm that makes my body tremble beneath him. My gasp of shock quickly turns into a wail of pure bliss, my back arching as I grasp at the sheets. His fingernails dig into my hip bones, holding me still as he drives into my sex over and over again, his movements fast and unyielding, hitting all the right places. I’m dizzy with desire, my pleasure building, my whole body quivering as he guides me toward the edge.
“You feel amazing,” he says, one hand squeezing my breast, and the ego boost combined with the touch of his magic fingers is all it takes. When my orgasm hits, I scream so loudly I wouldn’t be surprised if someone heard me on the other side of campus.
Thankfully, I’m far too intoxicated to care, my focus centered on the shudder of pleasure rippling over my skin and the wave of ecstasy I’m all too happily riding, like a high I never want to end. As it fades, I go limp in my rich stranger’s arms, and after a few more pumps, he, too, reaches the brink.
“Fuck,” he snarls, clamping those dark eyes shut. He then drops his face into the crook between my neck and my shoulder as his hips shudder, convulsing once…twice…three times against mine.
Fuck, indeed. Exhausted and sated, I melt into a puddle on the bedspread beneath me, more content than I’ve felt in a really long time. Or, at least, the last year. God, I needed this.
Neither one of us says another word as he pulls out—disentangling himself from my jelly-like limbs—discards the condom, and then flops onto the pillow beside me, exhaling a heavy but satisfied breath. I consider getting up and removing myself from the room for all of five seconds before I decide I’m too drunk (and definitely way too blind) to even entertain the notion of stumbling home at this hour, even if it means doing the walk of shame in the morning. Deciding that’s Tomorrow Lexi’s problem, I let my eyes drift closed and fall into the sweet embrace of sleep…
*
Less than five minutes seem to pass before a buzzing against my thigh is wrenching my eyes open again. Light floods in through a window to my right, and I wince as my head throbs relentlessly, each beat of pain keeping in perfect time with my pulse.
Pushing a tangled mess of hair off my face, I press the heels of my hands into my eye sockets and reach for my phone, tugging it free from the hidden pocket Andie (using her superhuman sewing skills) graciously sewed into my skirt, which now sits askew on my waist. I blink the sleep from my eyes to find Ronnie’s name flashing almost aggressively across the screen.
I swipe to answer and bring the phone to my ear.
“Hello?” I barely recognize my voice when I speak. My throat is raw and dry, as if I’ve been gargling sand…or a whole lot of dick. My memory of last night is so spotty, it honestly could be either.
“Lex?” I yank the phone away from my ear, flinching at the high-pitched screech emitting from my best friend. The frequency of her tone could crack glass. “Where the hell are you? I’ve been calling you for hours.”
“Sorry.” A yawn swells in my chest before I can get the full word out. “I was sleeping. What time is it?”
“Nearly ten,” she answers, her tone scolding. “Where’d you run off to last night? I would’ve sworn I saw you disappear with Damian Navarro, but I know you would sooner huff glue than go anywhere with that unapologetic bag of dicks.”
All the blood drains from my face as I’m struck by a chill and a sense of bone-deep dread. For the first time since waking, I take stock of my surroundings, finally seeing them a bit more clearly without the bleariness of alcohol adding an extra layer of obscurity to my vision and severely impacting my judgment. It takes Ronnie repeating my name several times for me to snap out of my stupor and grasp what in the drunken hell I’ve done.
Bracing myself, I roll over and risk a reluctant glance at the now slightly less blurry face of my one-night stand, praying to any god that will listen that it be anyone but him…before realizing almost immediately that there is no god. Or, at least, none who are on Team Lexi.
“Fuck my life,” I breathe into the phone as I stare in horror at the fuckboy who ruined my freshman year where he sleeps soundly beside me.
Chapter One - Lexi
Poor impulse control + alcohol = life choices I’ll regret in the morning
September
My back slams into the hard wooden door, and I let out a sound that’s half gasp and half moan against soft lips that remind me of velvet. An unbidden giggle escapes me in my drunken stupor as warm hands slide across my thighs and pull my legs tighter around the muscled waist belonging to the tall, blurred figure before me. I wish I could see his face more clearly, but I took out my contacts since they were irritating my eyes (I was beginning to look like someone with hayfever who just snorted a line of pollen) and I don’t have my glasses on hand. I might make it a point to pick outfits with pockets but no pocket in the world—at least, where ladies’ clothes are concerned—will comfortably fit a glasses case. Plus, the copious amounts of alcohol I ingested is making everything extra fuzzy. As such, all I can really make out is that kissable mouth, which pulls away now, leaving me hungry—so damn hungry—for more.
Suddenly, the world seems to shift and I’m on my feet instead of where I want to be, which is wrapped around him…whoever he is.
I pout as the mouth I was devouring only seconds ago twists into what I can only assume is a smirk.
“Someone’s eager,” it says, but the liquid courage flooding my body wipes away any embarrassment I might feel at those words.
With a confidence Sober Me would die to possess, I answer with a nonchalant, one-shouldered shrug. “Well, I won’t be if you keep me standing out here all night.”
My mystery man—the owner of that perfect mouth I desperately want to keep kissing—lets out a low, throaty chuckle that sends an arc of electricity racing through me. It’s an entirely new kind of buzz, and I wobble, a little unsteady on my feet.
My gaze drifts down the hallway over the course of the moment I wait for him to unlock the door. Although I can’t see the details, I know all too well where I am. I’ve never been in this dorm before; only select students at the university are invited to live in this particular building, which was donated by some rich douchebag’s daddy a few decades ago to probably buy their kid’s way into school. The rest of us are either townies, like me, who live in Newport and travel to campus for classes every day, or are residents in the lesser dorms, like my best friend, Ronnie, who isn’t quite at one-percenter level of wealth but isn’t exactly scraping the bottom of the barrel. Her cousin, Andie—my other best friend—is her roommate (and the third leg to our little tripod), and while she doesn’t technically come from money, she benefits from having two very doting uncles who have plenty to spare. Ronnie’s dads have ensured they have every advantage in life, even paying for her and her little sister, Sammie’s, education.
Aside from the small number of us who earned our way into Conwick solely with our brains—and, in my case, a very generous scholarship awarded by the school—the majority of those in attendance are rich, many of them disgustingly so, earning the institution its elitist reputation as a prestigious private university. It’s not Ivy League, but in terms of academic expectations and student selectivity, it’s definitely close, though it’s obvious Conwick favors the rich and powerful over people like me, who are only here to fill a quota. The dormitories are just one aspect of the school that reflects the obscene wealth polluting the campus, with Leeland Hall being the most exclusive and most desired by students, reserved only for those families with cash to burn who are willing to pay a king’s ransom in room and board for their child.
Having never seen the inside of any of the dorms aside from Garfield Hall where Ronnie and Andie live, I can only stare in wonder as the guy beside me—whose name I’m blanking on, assuming I ever learned it at all—pushes open the door and leads me into what is less of a dorm room and more of a lavish apartment.
I freeze mid-step, gobsmacked by the extravagance of my surroundings and the sheer size of the space, which I can grasp with ease even if it’s all pretty distorted. Garfield Hall—lovingly nicknamed “the Orange Pussy” by the students residing there—is practically a five-star hotel, and yet, next to this place, it might as well be a dumpster. No, not a dumpster. A dumpster fire. Damn, no wonder none of the truly wealthy students bother renting real estate in town. Why would they when they have their own high-end apartment building at their disposal here on campus?
My jaw drops as I step into the living room, my eyes springing wide as I take in the well-styled, modern decor, which makes my own house seem paltry by comparison. A sectional sofa and glass table stand opposite a black rectangle on the wall that is either the world’s most boring painting or an obnoxiously large TV, the set up accented by side tables, plants, and wall furnishings that—even obscured by my inadequate sense of vision—make the room look like the set for a photoshoot for Pottery Barn. It even smells expensive in here, and I can’t help wondering if this all came with the space or if some interior decorator was brought in by my mystery man or his rich parents to decorate.
I shake my head, ignoring the way my surroundings spin with the movement. This can’t really be a dorm room, can it? I haven’t stepped through a portal into a parallel universe? Maybe I’m asleep and this is the beginning of a really nice dream where I’m the love interest in a billionaire romance. Or a porno.
Yeah, that last option definitely seems the most plausible of the two.
Well, if this is a sex dream, I’m here for it.
Drawn into the fantasy, I inch forward a few more steps, peering through decorative archways into what looks like an open-plan kitchen and dining area on my left and then over at a bedroom with a huge four-poster bed on my right. My gaze clings to the otherwise indiscernible black bedspread, which hugs what must be a king-sized mattress from the size of it, maybe larger. The material gleams under the overhead spotlights, which come on suddenly as if in response to my perusal.
I startle at the touch of a hand on my wrist and, flicking my eyes upward, meet the gaze of the owner of that luscious mouth, offering him a smile as he guides me into the bedroom with a devious grin. As if under a spell, I giggle again and bite down coyly on my lower lip—a poor, drunken attempt at flirting that I would never dare commit the crime of while sober and which I’m sure I’ll die of shame over tomorrow.
For now, though, my inhibitions are gone, and all I care about is letting loose and enjoying this moment for what it is. The school year has only just begun and, already, I need relief from the constant stress that plagues my day-to-day life. Although Ronnie was the one who said I should go to the party—that I needed to blow off some steam and start sophomore year off on the right foot…or, at least, on a more relaxed foot—it hadn’t taken much convincing to get me to go. I just didn’t realize at the time that this was what I really needed, not a game of beer pong with a bunch of random frat boys.
As if determined to satisfy my unspoken needs, Mystery Man pulls me close with large, firm hands. Then he’s kissing me again, those soft lips traveling down to my throat, every scrape of his teeth on my skin doing things to my insides that definitely shouldn’t be legal.
“Can I?” he whispers against my neck, and I nod, not even sure what he’s asking permission for but willing to let him do anything if it will mean he keeps touching me. If it means he touches me more.
Warmth pools in my belly when our lips meet again, and I sigh into his mouth the moment his hand moves lower, stealthily slipping between my legs. A shiver follows every light graze of his fingertips as they carefully slide up under my skirt, but to my dismay, they linger there, teasing the sensitive skin of my inner thighs—inching closer to where the heat inside me is strongest but not close enough to alleviate the ache building there, as if intent on holding back. On letting the anticipation build. Each brush of his fingers feels electric, sparking a slow burn that spreads through my body until every touch, no matter how light, has me squirming.
Breath shaky, I urge him on, pressing my chest flush to his. It’s been a while—too long, really—since I last had sex, and all my appendages seem to respond to that nagging desire inside me as if they have a mind of their own. My tongue sweeps deeper into his mouth as my fingers fumble clumsily with the buttons on his shirt, my heart racing in time with my unsteady hands. It’s pale blue, I can make out that much. Gucci, probably.
I snort.
“What’s so funny?” he purrs in my ear, nipping my lobe with teeth that I’m sure are blindingly white, perfectly straight, and probably cost a small fortune in dental care to get that way.
Before I can answer, he puts me out of my misery, an obscene moan parting my lips as he skillfully pushes my underwear to one side and dips his hand between my thighs in the most perfect form of torture. When he sweeps a finger between my folds, I practically melt at his touch.
“You’re so fucking wet,” he whispers in my ear before gently biting my earlobe again, and I gasp when he sinks one finger inside me. Spurred on by my cry, he moves his hand faster, another finger joining the first, and as he plays with me, his fingers dipping in and out, his palm smacks repeatedly against my clit in a way that’ll have me coming before he’s even inside me. I’m so pent up, I won’t last long at this rate.
I grab his wrist to still his hand, and he looks at me, confusion ablaze in hazy but stunning eyes the color of dark chocolate swirled with honey. Shaking my head, I push Mr. Probably Too Rich For His Own Good back onto the bed, running my hands over his deeply tanned—and very defined—abs as I crawl over him and straddle his pelvis, kicking off my red heels in the process. With a pleased hum, I trace the ridges of his muscles, the skin rock hard beneath my fingers.
As I worship the hard planes of his body, his hands cup my ass and he pulls downwards on my hips, grinding me firmly against his length. I can feel the heat radiating from him, can feel just how hard he is through his jeans, and every movement as he guides my hips is a delicious friction, sending shockwaves of warmth rippling through me, making my entire body hum with need.
“Do you have a condom?” I ask, my breath hitching as my fingertips continue their keen exploration.
“Top drawer. Nightstand.” He grunts out each word then bites down on his plump lower lip as he rolls our hips together again.
Panting, I extricate myself from his grasp and lunge forward onto my stomach, reaching for the nightstand beside the bed…but in my inebriated horniness, I miscalculate the distance and tug the drawer in question open with far more force than is actually required.
Eager, indeed, I berate myself as the compartment comes loose and at least a hundred shiny square packets in varying colors explode into view. A handful even spill over onto the floor.
Raising a brow, I glance over my shoulder, my eyes landing once more on Mystery Man, his features frustratingly vague. My focus strays to his hand as he impatiently palms himself through his jeans, that delicious heat once again stirring in my lower belly at the sight. Swallowing, I force my gaze back to the treasure trove of contraceptives. The foil seems to glisten and glow, illuminated under the spotlights, like I’ve discovered some kind of sexual Atlantis.
For a long moment, I simply stare at the hazy contents of the drawer in amazement, equal parts envious and disturbed. Just how much sex does this guy have to warrant stockpiling this many condoms?
Enough that I think I can safely assume he’s not interested in anything serious.
I let out a breath of relief. At least I won’t have to worry about him chasing me for my number after this. I don’t have the time or energy for anything other than a senseless hook-up right now. Not with my school work, my scholarship requirements, and taking care of Mom. I have way too much on my plate as it is. I don’t have the mental bandwidth for a guy, no matter how hot he is…I think…or how completely insane his touch might make me feel.
As if aware of my thoughts, Mystery Man mutters something unintelligible, then his hand brushes my leg, jerking me back to the here and now. A shiver of awareness surges through my body, his fingers like brands on my skin that instantly ease me, helping to push all outside worries away and bury them down deep where they won’t be able to impede on this moment. I need to stop thinking before I inadvertently cockblock myself and ruin my night.
Clearing my head, I reach out toward the nightstand and pluck a dark purple foil from the pile, then sit up, ready to give Mystery Man my undivided attention. As I move, my hair shifts in front of my face and though I push it back behind my ears, the silky texture is unforgiving and just slips back into whatever inconvenient position it feels like. I am so not used to straightened hair, but Ronnie had insisted, and if there’s one thing that girl is a pro at, it’s getting her way. My makeup, my hair—that was all her. Not that I can’t pull in my natural state if I wanted to…or ever bothered to try (I’ve noticed men really aren’t that picky if sex is on the table), but considering I’m about to get dicked down when I would normally be playing the role of hermit at home, I suppose I should thank her.
Straddling Mystery Man’s legs, I pick up where we left off, rising up onto my knees to give me some needed clearance as I yank down his jeans. As they slip down his thighs, my eyes dip to the generous bulge in his briefs in anticipation. I might be half-blind, but I can tell he’s big. Really big. The thin fabric of my panties grows damp from just imagining what it will feel like to have him inside me.
Eager to start, I skim my fingers along the waistband of his underwear, then pause when I catch a glimpse of the name printed there. The letters are indistinct, melting together into an amoebas blob, but I would swear it says Versace.
I snort again. This pair of underwear alone probably costs more than my entire wardrobe combined.
“God, you’re so sexy,” Mystery Man mutters, sitting upright. With a warm hand, he pushes my hair over my shoulder, then cups his fingers around the back of my neck to pull me in for a kiss that would leave me weak-kneed if I was still on my feet. His tongue plunges into my mouth, colliding with mine in a dance that increases in pace and intensity until I only seem to exist in this kiss. He tastes like mint and gin and something so profoundly intoxicating I can barely think straight. Hell, I can barely breathe.
I rake my fingers through his thick umber hair, ravenous for those perfect lips and for everything he has to offer under his tight, overpriced briefs. Oh, my sweet little rich boy. I sincerely hope your dick is at least half as impressive as your trust fund.
We part just long enough for him to kick off his jeans and underwear and for me to wrestle my top over my head and unhook my bra. His undivided attention is on my chest as soon as it’s bare, and I relish the feel of each wet sweep of his tongue as he licks and flicks the tip of it across my nipples, his hands squeezing my breasts as he alternates between fondling and then drawing them into the scorching heat of his mouth. His touch is so warm and his lips are the sun as he drags them over my skin, burning me with every caress.
Grabbing Mystery Man by the chin, I tilt his head back and chase his lips, eager to taste him again, kissing him deeply once more as he drags me into his lap, his hard-on rigid against my stomach. It seems to beg for my attention from where it stands wedged between us, and pre-cum leaks onto my fingers as my nails carefully graze over the head and then slide downward along the smooth skin of his shaft. He’s even bigger than he looked with his underwear on, and I’m hungrier than ever to feel the fullness of another human inside me again. Now that I think about it, I haven’t experienced such intense physical attraction to someone since I lost my mind and spread my legs for one particular fuckboy freshman year. It’s not that I haven’t wanted that connection, I just haven’t been able to bring myself to let a guy touch me or even get close on an emotional level since that asshole wreaked havoc on my life.
But that was last year and I’m done letting my past mistakes control me. As I learned the hard way, sometimes, sex is just sex and it doesn’t always mean something to the involved parties…even if the participating male member makes you think otherwise. Often, it doesn’t mean anything to the other person, which I’m certain is the case with this guy if the volume of condoms in his bedside drawer is any indication of how commitment-phobic I’d wager he is. I doubt he even knows my name. I sure as shit don’t know his.
And it’s going to stay that way because names lead to familiarity and I need that distance between us to keep feelings out of the equation. I don’t have time for feelings. I don’t want feelings. I just want my lady cave to get plundered and to have a mind-shattering orgasm that isn’t caused by something with batteries for once.
I can have meaningless sex, I assure myself.
I can do this and not expect anything to come of it or for him to give a damn about me after. I can allow myself just one night of pleasure and then move on, no strings attached. No nuclear fallout. In and out. One and done.
With that little mental pep talk out of the way, I break the kiss and hold up the packet still clutched in my hand, tearing the foil open and deftly removing the condom inside before I can change my mind. Mystery Man offers me a crooked smile, then lets out a stilted breath when I touch him again, a long groan parting those gorgeous full lips when I slowly roll on the rubber sheathing. Once he’s covered, I lift my hips and position myself over his cock, ready. So fucking ready. He carefully shifts my panties aside once again, and this time, I’m the one who groans when his thumb teases over my swollen bud, pulling a startled whimper from me. Every touch feels so damn good, I can’t take it anymore. I can’t wait. I need him—I need this—like I need air to breathe.
“Are you good?” he asks, his voice husky.
“Yeah,” I manage in a panting breath. I am more than good.
Licking my lips, I lower my body until his head is snug against my entrance, and we both let out trembling breaths at the same time as I sink into his lap, taking him in an inch at a time. As he enters me, his erection pulsates against my core, and I swear I can feel his heart racing inside me. Or maybe that’s my own heartbeat I sense. Either way, this feels so damn good and we haven’t even started moving yet.
Mystery Man smiles against my neck, placing a sucking kiss on the dip at my collarbone, allowing a moment for me to adjust to the welcome invasion. Once he’s fully seated, he looks at me, and I can sense a question in the silence between us. He wants my permission again—this time to start, to fuck me into oblivion—and I nod once more, all too eager to grant it. With another kiss at the base of my throat, he lifts me up by my hips, pulling out just a little before thrusting back into me with enough force to make me cry out.
“Again,” I breathe, my tone pleading.
With a guttural growl, he loops one arm around my back and flips me over onto the mattress so he’s kneeling between my open legs. The sudden shift catches me off guard, but before I can process what’s happening, he pulls out in one smooth motion and peels off my panties with a swift tug, tossing them carelessly onto the floor. Then, hooking one of my knees over his shoulder, he plunges into me again, deeper, harder—moving in an almost desperate rhythm that makes my body tremble beneath him. My gasp of shock quickly turns into a wail of pure bliss, my back arching as I grasp at the sheets. His fingernails dig into my hip bones, holding me still as he drives into my sex over and over again, his movements fast and unyielding, hitting all the right places. I’m dizzy with desire, my pleasure building, my whole body quivering as he guides me toward the edge.
“You feel amazing,” he says, one hand squeezing my breast, and the ego boost combined with the touch of his magic fingers is all it takes. When my orgasm hits, I scream so loudly I wouldn’t be surprised if someone heard me on the other side of campus.
Thankfully, I’m far too intoxicated to care, my focus centered on the shudder of pleasure rippling over my skin and the wave of ecstasy I’m all too happily riding, like a high I never want to end. As it fades, I go limp in my rich stranger’s arms, and after a few more pumps, he, too, reaches the brink.
“Fuck,” he snarls, clamping those dark eyes shut. He then drops his face into the crook between my neck and my shoulder as his hips shudder, convulsing once…twice…three times against mine.
Fuck, indeed. Exhausted and sated, I melt into a puddle on the bedspread beneath me, more content than I’ve felt in a really long time. Or, at least, the last year. God, I needed this.
Neither one of us says another word as he pulls out—disentangling himself from my jelly-like limbs—discards the condom, and then flops onto the pillow beside me, exhaling a heavy but satisfied breath. I consider getting up and removing myself from the room for all of five seconds before I decide I’m too drunk (and definitely way too blind) to even entertain the notion of stumbling home at this hour, even if it means doing the walk of shame in the morning. Deciding that’s Tomorrow Lexi’s problem, I let my eyes drift closed and fall into the sweet embrace of sleep…
*
Less than five minutes seem to pass before a buzzing against my thigh is wrenching my eyes open again. Light floods in through a window to my right, and I wince as my head throbs relentlessly, each beat of pain keeping in perfect time with my pulse.
Pushing a tangled mess of hair off my face, I press the heels of my hands into my eye sockets and reach for my phone, tugging it free from the hidden pocket Andie (using her superhuman sewing skills) graciously sewed into my skirt, which now sits askew on my waist. I blink the sleep from my eyes to find Ronnie’s name flashing almost aggressively across the screen.
I swipe to answer and bring the phone to my ear.
“Hello?” I barely recognize my voice when I speak. My throat is raw and dry, as if I’ve been gargling sand…or a whole lot of dick. My memory of last night is so spotty, it honestly could be either.
“Lex?” I yank the phone away from my ear, flinching at the high-pitched screech emitting from my best friend. The frequency of her tone could crack glass. “Where the hell are you? I’ve been calling you for hours.”
“Sorry.” A yawn swells in my chest before I can get the full word out. “I was sleeping. What time is it?”
“Nearly ten,” she answers, her tone scolding. “Where’d you run off to last night? I would’ve sworn I saw you disappear with Damian Navarro, but I know you would sooner huff glue than go anywhere with that unapologetic bag of dicks.”
All the blood drains from my face as I’m struck by a chill and a sense of bone-deep dread. For the first time since waking, I take stock of my surroundings, finally seeing them a bit more clearly without the bleariness of alcohol adding an extra layer of obscurity to my vision and severely impacting my judgment. It takes Ronnie repeating my name several times for me to snap out of my stupor and grasp what in the drunken hell I’ve done.
Bracing myself, I roll over and risk a reluctant glance at the now slightly less blurry face of my one-night stand, praying to any god that will listen that it be anyone but him…before realizing almost immediately that there is no god. Or, at least, none who are on Team Lexi.
“Fuck my life,” I breathe into the phone as I stare in horror at the fuckboy who ruined my freshman year where he sleeps soundly beside me.
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