STRIPPED (The Slate Brothers 3)

What if she comes back with a story of sleeping with Tyson Slate? What if Trishelle not only gets the reinvention I so badly want, but the guy too?

I knew I had to have you.

That’s what he told me— but if he had to have me, he could have. And if he wants Trishelle, or any of the other freshman cheerleaders, I suppose he can have them too if he bids high enough. I swallow. I need to get out of the apartment for the night— because what if Trishelle brings him back here? Or what if she stumbles back in at two o’clock with stories about Tyson Slate’s hands on her or one of her friends, stories lifted from my own fantasies? I shiver, throw on some clothes, and hurry to the student center.

The Charlotte University student center is open twenty-four hours, has a coffee shop, and enormous oversized chairs and couches in just about every room. It’s attached to the library, though that section is closed at this time of night— instead, I grab a book out of the “leave a book, take a book” bin out front and crash on a sofa with a large latte. Trishelle usually comes back in around two o’clock, if she comes back at all. I’ll hang out here till two thirty to be sure the coast is clear. I feel a little silly about the whole thing, but my ego just can’t take hearing about anything to do with Tyson and any other girl.

I yawn, slide down on the couch, and begin to read.

Which…is the last thing I remember. Suddenly, I snap awake, with no idea how long I’ve been out. I blink and fumble for my phone through bleary eyes. It’s almost four o’clock in the morning. I groan, clear my throat, and rise— was I sleeping with my mouth open? Probably.

I don’t have any texts from Trishelle, so I assume she came home alone— she’s always texted me when she’s staying with someone, and I can’t imagine her bringing a guy back without at least a heads up. The mental image of her toned, lean legs around Tyson’s waist fades, and relief trickles through my limbs as I walk back to our apartment. I was being ridiculous anyway— Trishelle said the auction was just for fun. It was probably some stupid tradition; I was the one that added sex to the equation, the one that turned what might be an innocent party game into my best friend bringing a senior football player back to our apartment. I flush, embarrassed for myself. I can’t believe Tyson Slate managed to get so thoroughly under my skin.

I climb the steps to our apartment, untangle my keys, and push through the door. It’s pitch black inside— it’s four o’clock in the morning, after all— but I nearly trip over a pair of high heels, so at least I know Trishelle is home. I don’t bother turning on the lights, opting to feel my way along the kitchen bar, to the hallway, and finally to my bedroom. I open my door, kick off my own shoes and toss my book inside, then strip off my shirt as I head to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. I yawn, push open the bathroom door—

A light in the living room clicks on— one of our tiny table lamps. I grimace and turn toward Trishelle to apologize for waking her up-

But it’s not Trishelle.

Sitting on our sofa, wearing jeans, a gray t-shirt, and that impossible to read expression, is Tyson Slate.

Chapter 6

“What the fuck?” I shriek, and throw an arm over my chest. I’m wearing a coral colored bra, but it’s lace, so it leaves even less to the imagination than a regular bra might. Tyson barely moves.

“Your friend said you wouldn’t be out late— that it wasn’t your thing. It’s after four in the morning,” Tyson says. He doesn’t look tired, or like he’d been asleep. He looks like he’s been waiting.

“What are you doing here?” I snap. “And where is Trishelle?”

Tyson sighs. “Your roommate is passed out drunk, last I checked. She’s not an experienced drinker, is she?”

“She wasn’t before college,” I mutter. My heart starts to pound almost painfully. “Did you guys— are you here with her?”

I don’t think I can take hearing him say yes. It’s out now, though, so what can I do? I try to avoid his eyes as I wait for a response.

“Technically. I was the high bid on her in the auction,” he says.

I close my eyes for a moment, hopefully not long enough of one that he realizes that he just brought my fears to life. Tyson wanted Trishelle. He came here with Trishelle.

“What do you mean, technically?” I ask.

“She could hardly walk straight. I asked to come back here so I could see you, then more or less put her straight to bed.”