Dirty Curve

“This is beyond your usual lack of caution.”

The corner of his mouth lifts in a nasty smirk. “There is no risk here because you are who you are, and he is who he is. You’ll never be on his radar without the beer it takes to get there, honey, and he’ll continuously have his hands full of something better.”

Wow.

I want to scream and cry, to demand he apologize and start over from scratch.

But mostly, stupidly, I wish he’d look at me like he used to.

Even if I could never do the same.

It’s with that thought in mind that I go home, open my computer, and do what I should have done months ago.

I submit my transfer application to the University of Florida.

CHAPTER 7

Tobias

“Okay, that was the last question. Now we can get a head start on your research essay for history. You have a few weeks, but if we can narrow down what you plan to write about and get the materials mapped out, we might be able to drop one of our sessions.”

I stare at her, waiting for her to glance up, but of course, she doesn’t.

She never does.

We’ve met for two weeks now, eight sessions in total, and this chick is still holding on to her ‘I’m stronger than thou’ act. I mean, she’s a damn good actress. I’d almost believe she truly didn’t want to be here if it weren’t for those big brown eyes of hers.

See, every now and again, she has to look up, has to make sure I’m paying attention and what not. When she does, the second her gaze locks onto mine, her lips part, but just a tad, and she sucks in a tiny little breath.

It’s like my eyes pull at something in her, probably her pussy strings. I dig it.

Just last night, the ball babe waiting for me after class said she wanted my night to be hers, all so she could see the shade of blue my eyes take on when they take me on.

It’s a thing, girls talk about it all the time.

So yeah, my dick’s big and my eyes hold the vaginal verdict—to screw or not to screw, that is the question ... that only holds one answer.

Not that I took the chick up on her offer.

This girl, though, I give it to her, she’s good at hiding her lack of control.

I bet it’s buried under that sweater.

“Are you even listening?” Her head lifts.

See? If I don’t answer, she has to look at me.

Lips part, tiny gasp ...

I don’t answer. I tilt my head in an attempt to get under her skin and make her wonder what I’m thinking, but she looks away, back at her fucking books.

What the hell?

It’s not like I want her to want me, but it’s damn weird that she doesn’t.

I just want to fuck with her, to tease her, to have the upper hand like I’m supposed to. But she just keeps … schooling me.

“Okay, so I’m emailing you a list of options now. Pull it up and we’ll eliminate based—”

“I’m hungry.”

“You just ate.”

“I had a sandwich.”

“You had two sandwiches and a bag of jerky. And a Vitamin Water.”

“I’m hungry.”

She huffs, pushing to her feet without verbal complaint, so I hop up and start packing my stuff as she packs hers.

“Chinese or Mexican?” I ask, glancing over to her, staring with a deep-set frown. She says nothing, so I repeat myself in case she’s in awe at my invite and needs reassurance she didn’t imagine it. “Chinese or Mexican?”

She pulls her bag over her shoulder, turning away. “The list is in your email. Try and look it over before Thursday if you have a chance, okay?”

Thursday.

This chick pisses me off.

I cross my arms, widen my stance, and stare at her.

She looks from me to my feet and back. “Don’t be difficult.”

A slow smirk spreads across my face, and yet another deep sigh escapes her. Her shoulders drop an inch.

The girl knows already what I’m about to say.

We’ve only been here for an hour and ten minutes. I got her for another fifty.

“Chinese or pizza?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Pizza or pasta?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re a damn liar. Your stomach’s been growling for twenty minutes. Did you eat at all today?” She’s still that pale girl she was, but sometimes she looks like she’s rested and other times she looks like she was partying all night, and hell, maybe she is.

“Not that it’s your business, but yes, I ate.”

“What?”

“What?”

“What did you eat?”

Her cheeks grow slightly pink, and she avoids my gaze, like normal. “I had a peanut butter sandwich.”

My eyes narrow. “No jelly?”

She pulls fake lint off her jeans. “No jelly.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, my god.” She turns and walks past me, but, of course, I keep up. “Mind your own business.”

“Well, I should know if my tutor is starving herself because she thinks she’s fat.” She gasps. “You’re not, by the way, so if my shitty, insensitive phentermine comment has you cutting meals. Don’t. You need to eat.”