"My French girls have got nothing on you," Fitz informs me three nights
later.
From the floor of his bedroom, I lift my gaze off the papers in my lap and
stick my tongue out at him. And then I realize he's not joking. A mixture of awe
and appreciation shines in his brown eyes as he stares at me.
"You're stunning," he insists.
"Stop," I order. "You're going to make me blush."
"Yeah right. Compliments don't make you blush. You love 'em."
Well, sure. I do. But the intensity on his face is a tad unnerving. We've gone
back to our he-draws-me-while-I-write-my-essay routine, but usually he doesn't
say much while he sketches, and he certainly doesn't throw around words like
"stunning."
I tend to do most of the talking, reading bits of my paper aloud to him and
trying to vocalize my thoughts before I put them down on the page. His presence
helps my concentration, if I'm being honest. It's as if it creates a sense of
accountability for me. The midterm is due in a few days, but I'm actually feeling
good about it. Not saying it's A-material, but I'd be perfectly content with a B or
C.
Fitz studies his sketch. His biceps flex as he shifts one arm and scrapes the
pencil over the page to add another detail.
Lord, he is hotter than a five-alarm fire. In appearance, and in body
temperature, I'm discovering. He stripped off his T-shirt ten minutes into our
study/sketch session, taunting me with his ripped chest. I honestly don't know
how my ADHD brain has managed to remain focused on my schoolwork.
"Stunning," he says again, this time mumbling it under his breath. "I can see
why other women are threatened by you."
I feel the blush rise in my cheeks. "Nobody's threatened by me. You're
nuts."
"No? Remember the girl at the bar?"
"She was threatened by Brenna, not me."
"Naah, it was both of you." He examines his drawing again. "Jesus. I can't
get over it. You're beautiful, but it's the kind of beauty that's so…unattainable.
It's otherworldly."
I snort. "That's very poetic of you, sweetie."
But inside, Selena Gomez and I are doing an entire cheerleading routine's
worth of cartwheels and flips. Nobody has ever called me otherworldly. I think I
like it.
When footsteps echo in the hall, we both stiffen. And this is something I
don't like—the awful cloud of tension that's fallen over our household. If we're
in my bedroom or Fitz's, the tension fades away. The conversation flows, and
there's an ease between us that I've never experienced with another guy before.
Anywhere else in the house, the thundercloud looms.
Hunter's hardly spoken a word to us since Thursday night. We've been
tiptoeing around him, and even Hollis, who's fazed by nothing, admitted that
Hunter's brooding is getting to him. I don't know how to make the situation
better, though. Hunter needs time to get used to the idea that Fitz and I are…
dating, I guess?
We haven't given it a label yet, but I'm in no rush. I know he likes being
with me, and that's all that matters at the moment. Besides, it's not like I could
raise the subject on Valentine's Day weekend. That's pressure with a capital
everything for a guy.
In fact, we barely even acknowledged that yesterday was Valentine's Day.
We watched Titanic with Hollis, then went upstairs and made out for a bit (not
with Hollis).
Beyond his door, I hear the footsteps travel down the stairs, then grow
muffled. The TV switches on in the living room. We both relax. Must be Hollis,
then. Hunter hasn't hung out in the living room in days.
"Okay, I think I'll write the conclusion tomorrow. My brain needs to
recharge." I set the laptop and notebook on the hardwood and pick up the leather
portfolio that contains everything related to Summer Lovin', the cheesy name
I've chosen for my swimwear line.
I'm holding my first fittings with the models in a few days. Nearly all my
pieces are done—I sewed most of them myself in the Fashion department's
sewing rooms. Brenna kept me company for a couple hours yesterday,
mockingly calling me Home Ec Barbie. The crochet bikinis, I had to outsource;
I'm working with an awesome seamstress in Hastings. Once I tailor the
swimsuits to my models, we'll do a final fitting to iron out any kinks, and then
we're good to go.
"I need to redo this one pair of briefs," I say absently, flipping through my
designs. "My seamstress says the cut is too high for a man. I'll draw a couple
other options and see what she says."
"Draw?" There's a funny note to his voice.
I glance over, confused by the astonishment in his eyes. "Yes, draw. How do
you think I designed these swimsuits? I did sketches of them."
"Sketches." Fitz is staring at me as if he's never seen me before in his life.
"Yes. Sketches. What's wrong with your face?"
He shakes his head a few times, as if it's stuffed with cobwebs. "I'm just…I
can't believe you can fucking draw and this is the first I'm hearing about it."
I arch my eyebrows. "What, you're the only one in this house who's allowed
to draw? That's a bit arrogant, don't you think?"
Fitz flings his sketchbook aside and shuffles over to me. "I gotta see this.
Show me."
I snap the portfolio closed and hug it to my chest. Before, I would've gladly
shown him the sketches. Now, with his eager eyes and grabby hands, I feel an
anvil of pressure weighing on my throat.
"It's a bunch of bikinis and swim trunks. Nothing fancy," I insist.
"Lemme see."
My cheeks heat up. "No. You're, like, the most talented artist in the world."
He showed me pictures of some of his paintings—mostly dazzling fantasy
worlds and dystopian landscapes—and his art blew my frigging mind. "I draw
clothes."
"Garments can be really difficult to draw."
"Uh-huh. No need to humor me."
"I'm serious. Clothing has elements that a lot of artists tend to overlook.
There are shadows and creases in the drape of the garment, in the way certain
fabrics fold." He shrugs. "Can be challenging."
"I guess." I still think he's humoring me, but his earnest expression has me
relinquishing the sketches.
Fitz doesn't say a single word as he scrutinizes each one. I try to see the
drawings through his eyes, but it's hard to tell what he thinks. The figures are at
their most basic. Faceless, with long limbs that aren't anatomically correct,
because it doesn't matter. They're only there to display the garments.
"These are great," he tells me, then spends a long time examining a onepiece with a plunge neckline that reveals my pencil-drawn model's perfectly
round boobs.
"Nice tits," he remarks.
I fight a laugh. "You know they're not real, right?"
"They're not? Right on. I support a woman's choice to get a boob job.
Whatever makes her happy."
"You're hilarious."
He looks at the sketch again. "Did you use your own tits for reference?" he
drawls.
"Come on. Those are way bigger than mine."
His seductive gaze drops to my chest. I'm still sporting the dress I wore to
campus today, and its high neckline and long sleeves don't offer much in terms
of cleavage. But Fitz is ogling me as if I'm completely topless. "I don't know…
Yours are pretty big."
"I'm a C cup. That's average."
"That is not average."
"Mmm-hmmm, and you know the universal boob size average because…?
You personally polled every woman in the world?"
"No, but there's this thing on the Internet, Summer. It's called porn. Have
you heard of it?"
My laughter can't be contained this time. I have so much fun with this guy,
it's unreal.
"I'm so turned on right now," he adds. "Just so you know."
"Because of my cartoon lady's bigger-than-average boobs?"
"No, because you're an artist. You literally just became a hundred times
hotter to me."
Rolling my eyes, I gather my stuff and get to my feet. "I'm going to put all
this back in my room. You said you wanted to watch something on Netflix—are
we still doing that?"
"Like hell we are."
The growly timbre stops me from taking another step. When I notice his
expression, a shiver rolls through me.
He's looking at me as if I'm his next meal.
"You're smoldering," I inform him.
Fitz walks over and takes my school stuff from my hands. Without a word,
he sets the entire pile on the bed. Then he returns.
He's unzipping his pants as he walks.
My breath gets stuck in my throat. Oh my God.
Saliva floods my mouth. He's got a rocket in there. I want it. To my dismay,
he simply reaches a hand inside his undone pants and does some rearranging,
tucking his hard-on under the waistband of his boxers.
My jaw opens. "Are you kidding me? You unzipped your pants just to hide
your sweet penis from me?"
He chokes out a laugh. "My sweet penis can wait a few minutes."
"Wait for what—"
His mouth is on mine before I can finish. A loud moan slips out, which he
swallows with his soft, hungry lips. "Quiet," he murmurs, even as his tongue
scrapes over mine in a dirty, dirty kiss. "Mike's downstairs. And my door isn't
locked."
"Should we lock it—"
He cuts me off with another kiss. I guess he's confident in our roommate
honoring the privacy code.
With his lips glued to mine, he nudges me backward. My butt bumps into his
desk, and a pair of earphones crash to the floor. Fitz ignores that and slips one
hand underneath my dress. I shiver when his fingers graze my inner thigh. His
knuckles briefly rub my damp panties, and then he moves the fabric to the side
and the pad of his thumb presses on my clit.
The air leaks out of my lungs in a squeaky rush.
"Feel good?" he whispers in my ear.
"What do you think?"
He smiles, and it's filthy and adorable at the same time. His hand glides over
me. The heel of it now tends to my swollen clit while his middle finger teases
my opening. Every nerve ending in my body crackles to life. I never, ever want
this to stop.
Fitz bends and kisses the column of my throat. I'm sure he can feel my pulse
throbbing there. His mouth is hot on my neck when his finger slips inside. He
doesn't go too deep. Instead, he curls it and rubs a sweet spot inside me.
"So wet," he croaks.
Yup. I am. And I can barely stay upright. Luckily, he's gripping my butt with
his other hand, holding me steady while he expertly fingers me. The pleasure
builds to an excruciating point, until I'm swaying on my feet even with his
strong grip on me.
He laughs huskily. "Hop up on the desk."
I almost cry when he withdraws his finger, but I follow his orders and find an
available surface, which is hard because there are computer monitors and
gaming equipment all over his desk.
The second my ass connects with the solid wood, Fitz bunches the hem of
my dress between his fingers. The calluses on his palms rake my bare legs as he
drags the fabric up to my waist. His hungry gaze focuses on my pink bikini
panties. Before I can blink, he's tugging them off and tossing them aside.
I'm completely exposed to him now, and he eyes me like a man who's just
discovered a secret treasure.
"No teasing tonight." There's a note of desperation in my voice. "Just fuck
me."
He chuckles and goes to get a condom from his drawer. He eases his cargo
pants and boxers down his hips until his penis springs free and slaps his
washboard stomach.
"You are so sexy," I breathe, staring at his thick erection.
The pressure between my legs intensifies. He's so big and so male and I've
never wanted anybody the way I want him.
Licking his lips, Fitz covers himself with the condom. When he grips the
base of his erection, anticipation ripples through me.
I spread my legs wider.
Heat flares in his eyes. He steps into the cradle of my thighs and guides
himself inside me.
And that's when the door swings open and Hunter stumbles into the
bedroom.