“Damn. It’s really good.” I took another bite. It was like fucking Thanksgiving dinner in sandwich form.
She paused to suck down some soda and the way her lips looked wrapped around the black straw had me holding back a groan. “Yeah, it’s my favorite. I didn’t expect to find it down here in Alabama.” She licked her lips, her pink tongue slipping out to catch a smear of cranberry on the corner of her mouth.
My cock jumped and I hunched over the table a little more to hide it. Gym shorts weren’t exactly discreet.
Oscar whined beneath us, and I automatically ripped him off a piece of bread and tossed it to him under the table.
“That dog has you whipped,” she teased.
I shrugged. “It’s important to take good care of your wiener. Keep it happy.”
She struggled to keep a straight face. I saw her grin fighting to break through but it never quite appeared, denying me a glimpse of her dimple. “Is there a story there? How the drumline captain ended up with a dachshund of all breeds?”
“There’s always a story. This one’s pretty tame as far as stories go, but I really shouldn’t be telling it to you. Not yet anyway.”
“Why’s that?”
“The competition. It hasn’t happened yet this year.”
She looked intrigued, her sandwich forgotten as she turned her whole upper body toward me. “Tell me anyway.”
I pretended to contemplate whether or not I should, and was rewarded for my ploy when her smile grew wide, that dimple on full display.
“There’s always a contest at one of the parties, and my vet had given me the heads up about it my freshman year—kinda like I’m telling you now, even though he wasn’t supposed to.”
“What contest?”
“The dick measuring contest.”
She choked on the Coke she had been drinking, her hand going to her mouth. “The what?”
I was enjoying this way too much. “It’s one of the drumline rituals. One of the girls, usually a cymbal player or whoever the captain thinks is the hottest, lines up the snares by dick size. And I wanted to win. I mean,” I shrugged modestly, “I probably would’ve won anyway, but I wasn’t taking any chances. So, I went down to the animal shelter the day before the party and found Oscar. I brought him with me, and no one could deny I had the biggest wiener.”
Her laughter floated between us and I wanted to capture it somehow, record it so I could listen to it again whenever I wanted. “You’re crazy.”
I made a sound of agreement. “It was worth it. And Oscar’s a great dog. He’s my second favorite wiener.”
She nibbled on another bite, and when she glanced down at Oscar again, I saw her head tilt a little and check out my lap too. Yeah, busted.
Her chin snapped up, her brown eyes not quite meeting mine. “Is it… normally this hot in here?”
“I—” Frowning, I noticed for the first time I didn’t hear the normal hum of the air conditioner. I carried my sub with me to the thermostat on the wall, where the digital display read eighty-two degrees. What the fuck?
I flicked the switch to off, waited a few seconds, and flipped it back to cool again. Silence.
“I don’t think the AC is working.”
“You’re a smart one, Sherlock. What did you say your major was again?”
“Computer science,” I answered, distracted. I punched some of the other buttons, lowering the temperature and turning the fan from auto to on. Still nothing.
Damn it.
As I finished off my sandwich, I texted the building superintendent to see when someone could come out to check on my unit. First thing tomorrow was the response I got. I swore under my breath.
Great. Just fucking great. Sweat beaded on my forehead and gathered along the top of my back.
“It’s still broken?” She fed a piece of turkey to Oscar, who licked her calf in appreciation.
“Yeah, they can’t come out and check on it until tomorrow.” I moved around the room, closing the blinds to try to minimize the heat. The space was dim now, but still muggy.
I slipped my shirt off to combat the humidity, and double checked that Oscar had plenty of water in his dish before adding a scoop of kibble to his empty bowl. “Here, buddy, dinner time for you too.” While I was in the kitchen, I grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen from the cupboard.
When I reclaimed my spot on the bench next to Reese, she was finishing the last bite of her sandwich. She brushed the crumbs from her hands onto the wrapper, but a smudge of cranberry sauce was still smeared just below her mouth. “Hang on,” I said, giving into the impulse. I rubbed my thumb along her bottom lip, and a surge of lust shot through me when her mouth parted at my touch. Her pupils dilated as I brushed that full lower curve again, slower this time.
Her exhale was shaky, and she curled her hand around my wrist as if to hold me there longer. Fuck, this girl. The tip of her tongue met my skin, and the heat from the small point of contact made the room seem like an igloo in comparison. Those perfect lips closed around my thumb for a second, and all I could think about was what my cock would look like circled by that pink mouth, her hair wrapped in my fist. I groaned.
She turned her head, breaking the contact, but her fingers still held my arm while I brought my hand to my own mouth and licked the remaining cranberry sauce off my thumb. I murmured her name, and waited until my eyes captured hers. “I bet you taste better.” Her gaze darted to my mouth, and I swelled in response. “Less tart, more sweet.”
She sucked in a breath, and I leaned forward, ready to find out right then. But when I got close, when her exhale became my inhale, she turned away, my lips feathering over hers to land near her ear instead. I changed directions, sampling the spot just beneath her lobe, unable to stop my shit-eating grin when she shivered.
My lips followed the line of her neck when she spoke. “I fell.”
I stopped, felt her body tense beside me where a second ago she’d been soft and pliable, and knew she was lying.
Reluctantly, I pulled back. “How did you fall?” I’d play along with her story for now.
“When we headed out to the field for choreography. I was a few minutes behind y’all, so I was running to catch up, and I… tripped.” She touched the ice pack on her side, releasing my arm in the process. “My hip landed on the edge of the curb because I twisted to save the snare.”
“Fuck the snare,” I bit out, reaching between us to pull her shirt up. She tried to push it back down, but let go of the fabric when she looked at my face. Like hell she was going to stop me from checking out her injury. Unsatisfied with what I could see with her shirt bunched along her ribs, I pulled the whole damn thing over her head, ignoring her gasp of surprise. She was wearing a sports bra, and considering she’d paraded herself around without a shirt half a dozen times since auditions started, I wasn’t worried about her modesty.
“Jesus, Reese.” The peas had fallen to the floor along with her tank, and the purple outline of the bruise was stark against her tan skin, even in the shadows of the room. I traced the edges, wishing like hell I could absorb her pain, transfer the injury to my own flank. I popped open the Motrin and shook two pills into her palm. “Take these.”
She obeyed me without an argument for once. My fingers slid to the waistband of her shorts again, because I needed to see for myself the full extent of the bruise. I lowered it past her hip, and the scrap of black lace I found had me cursing for a whole different reason.
“You should’ve fucking told me.” My glare would’ve wilted most men.
“And then what?” Her eyes burned bright. “You would’ve taken it easier on me? Told me to march without the drum? Sent me home? Cut me on the spot?”
“I —” Yeah. Probably. Not cut her, but one of those other options she mentioned.
“No special treatment, Laird.” Fuck, her voice saying my name. My fingers still gripped her shorts, the heat of her upper thigh warming my skin, and I itched to tug them the rest of the way off, to explore what those panties looked like beneath the nylon. To taste her through the lace.
I wrenched my hand away, wincing when she flinched from the snap of the elastic. Her words echoed in my head. It was one thing on the field, but off…