The Freshman (College Years 1)

God, that really sucks.

“No, I just happened to use the word dictate.” He contemplates me, while I squirm where I stand. “I bet you’re one of those people who overthink everything.”

I am so, so grateful he didn’t say one of those women, or worse—one of those girls.

So far he hasn’t proven himself to be sexist, and I appreciate that.

“But like I just said, why can’t we just…hang out? See where this takes us? We don’t need to label everything, do we? We can be friends,” he says easily.

“Friend

s who…” I prompt.

“Friends who what? Spend time together? Mess around?” He shrugs, slipping his hands into his jeans’ pockets. “Maybe we will, maybe we won’t.”

Oh God. He is temptation personified. I can’t even believe we’re having this conversation on campus, on a bright and sunny Wednesday afternoon, surrounded by strangers.

Life is weird.

“We spend time together, we will,” I tell him firmly.

“Maybe,” he adds. “Maybe I don’t want to.”

“Ha! You liar. You’re the one who’s pushing for it,” I remind him.

“If you’re not interested in me, just say it.” He smirks, his expression like a dare.

I cross my arms. “I’m not that interested.” I sound like a thirteen-year-old denying her middle school crush.

“Uh huh,” he says, his deep voice full of doubt. “Keep convincing yourself of that.”

“You’re too young anyway,” I throw at him, feeling hostile. Why am I so heated? “What sort of moves could you have? I’ve got two years on you.”

“So what? I’ve got moves you’ve probably never even heard of.” He starts to chuckle.

“In your dreams.” I start walking again.

So does he, and he follows me into the parking lot, not saying a word. Just grinning and walking. I think he’s enjoying himself.

Which of course, infuriates me.

“I have moves too you know,” I retort, picking up my pace.

He does too, keeping in stride with me. “I’m sure you do. Can’t wait to see you execute them on me.”

“Execute?” I pull out my keyless remote from my backpack and hit the button, my Range Rover chirping. “You make it sound like I’m going to kill you.”

“The French do describe an orgasm as a little death,” he says.

I roll my eyes. “Oh, now you know French? Are you trying to impress me?”

“No, but I know about orgasms.” He grins. “And how to give them.”

“To yourself?” I try to keep my expression neutral, but I’ve just been hit with the mental image of Tony completely naked and jerking off, his hand wrapped tightly around—

Swear to God, sweat starts to form on my hairline. And it’s not even close to hot outside.

“Ouch, down woman.” He rests his big hands against his chest, his gaze going to my car. “I have the same exact model, but mine’s black.”