Page 16 of Kitty Season (Green Line Ice #2)

N o way. My eyes must be deceiving me. They must. Because there is NO WAY.

Risking death, I compulsively pull out my phone as I cross the street to check Troye’s message for the umpteenth time.

Troyeby

Kitty. Come meet me at my new place.

I’m an idiot, but even to me that section is perfectly understandable. It’s what’s next that has me freaking the hell out.

3A. Messina West.

Troye is a Boston University student, the bad boy star of their beloved Bulldogs … at least he was if what Brady said is true. Messina West, however, is not a BU dorm. It’s a BC dorm. And not just any BC dorm, but Brady Basse’s BC dorm. It’s all of that leads me back to this … NO WAY.

My freshly cleaned, white Vans are practically smoking as I haul-ass to Brady’s.

I’ve replied to Troye three times, but as per usual there’s a big fat zero response.

That alone should force me to stop and reconsider my life choices.

But instead, with a block to go before the dorm building, I give it one last shot.

Troye. Tell me what’s going on or I’m not coming.

It switches from delivered to read. Like my hope and pride, typing bubbles come and go and come go, and I wait, and wait, and wait and walk into a stop sign—fuck that hurt—but nothing.

Nothing comes through.

He’s totally playing me. I know he is. I should turn around and go home, or shit …

was I supposed to work today? Oops. Well, since I’ve already screwed that up, I may as well go the whole hog.

Besides, it’s too late to save me from myself.

I may as well just start a-fresh. Make myself a whole new identity.

From now on I’ll be known as Marionette, Troye Freaking Becker’s puppet on a string.

As I approach Messina, I take a fortifying breath, push through the nerves and the double doors.

This dorm is on the dork-side of campus which means mostly free of jocks and foot odor, and the large foyer filled with potted plants, a small drink station, and study spaces filled with people actually studying.

And it’s quiet. Library quiet. I feel the need to tiptoe to the elevator quiet.

A few familiar faces wave as the polished silver doors slide closed, and then I’m all alone, nothing but my granted stellar reflection and troublesome thoughts for company.

Why didn’t I just text Brady? Is the first.

He would never send me a message like that, frightening the hell out of me then ignoring me. Brady’s a good guy. He has great hair too. Though, Troye’s is pretty hot. The way he slicks it back and that one bit that keeps falling onto his eyes like a young, Winona era Johnny Depp.

With a ding the doors part and my spiraling thoughts end.

Inching forward, I step out, and dawdle the three doors down till I’m standing at Brady’s door, images of Edward Scissorhands still looping.

The last time I was here Professor Plum was too.

That riled me up to no end, but now, facing what I’m about to face, I’m not sure which scenario I’d prefer.

“This can’t be happening,” I mutter, my trembling hand knocking so softly the room’s inhabitants may not hear.

“Troye living with Brady?” It’s a thought that’s equal parts titillating and terrifying and …

reality. A miserable Brady opens the door and steps slightly to his left, revealing Troye who’s hovering behind him, a too-small BC Bears jersey stretching over his chest, and a smile as wide as the hole my exploding brain just left in my skull.

“Hey, Kitty.” He smirks, arms widening as if to greet me with a hug. “Welcome to our home.”

As a child I had this recurring nightmare that a witch shrunk, then trapped me in a massive jungle inhabited by giant chickens.

Now that I think of it, maybe the chicken wasn’t giant, I was just Thumbelina size.

Either way, the point is this, every time, I would wake drenched in sweat and cry for my dad to come save me.

Nine times out of ten Mom rushed to my rescue because Dad was on the road.

Still, it was always him I called for. His neck, I wanted to throw my arms around.

Right now, the same urge to wrap something around his neck is so strong I could almost identify its taste. “I’m going to throttle him.”

Troye, who’s sitting opposite me on the bed, shoulders lazily resting against the wall, snorts a laugh which is both cute and infuriating. He dragged me in here once he’d had his fill of torturing poor Brady who could barely raise his pretty baby blues to look at me.

“It’s not funny, Troye,” I whine, picking up and slapping his pillow into his pretty face. “This is super awkward for me.”

“Great for me though. And the team. And, technically, it’s not your dad that’s to blame. If you had told him we were still hanging out like you promised, none of this would have happened.”

“Well if you had … shut up.” I hate being wrong, so I wack him again then slump onto the bed.

Like Troye’s new living arrangements, it’s super uncomfortable.

The Bear’s newest recruit who wears the hell out of that jersey, doesn’t seem to mind it though.

Through hooded eyes, he takes in every inch of my body and scoots down the wall, shimmying closer till his hands can follow the same path.

Eye to eye, his fingers disappear beneath my skirt and trail up, pausing at the apex of my thighs. It’s maddening, how much I want him.

“I dunno, Kitty Kat. I can think of several benefits to this situation. For one, it might make the birthday gift I’m dreaming up for you much easier to deliver.”

“You got me a gift?”

“The idea of one, yes.” With that, he cups my face with his left hand, while his middle and index fingers slip beneath my panties. “Would you like me to tell you about it? It’s a very dirty idea for a very dirty, very naughty girl. It involves you, me and …”

If a name is spoken, I miss it. So raw and filthy is the gasp I release as two thick fingers push inside me, curling just right to have my back arching off the bed.

“One underneath. One on top. Is that how you’d like us, Kitty?

Both inside your pussy like my fingers are now, or one sliding in and out of that other special, forbidden little spot? ”

I know it’s just a fantasy. That he’s playing me again. But honestly, lay me down and spread me open, that image alone could have me dying a happy, satisfied woman.

I’m so lost to desire and those talented fingers all I can do is nod and moan, and grind and moan …

perhaps a little loudly if the three bangs that rattle the wall behind us are any indication.

“For the love of God, I can hear everything,” Brady’s whine has me freezing, but Troye? Troye is inspired.

“Let’s give him a show, hey Quinny.” That lean, muscular body slides down mine, and within one depraved gasp, my skirt is hitched around my hips, panties pushed to the side and Troye’s face is buried between my legs, tongue replacing fingers.

“Oh, fuck,” I cry, weaving my hands through apple-scented chocolate locks and tugging. That draws a groan from Troye, and another pound on the wall.

Laughing, Troye moves his head to the left, placing a series of kisses to my wet thigh. “He can hear everything we’re doing. Do you want me to stop?”

“No.”

“No? You like it?”

“Yes.” My pussy clenches around nothing, and I need that to change. Now. “Fuck me, please, I need you inside me.”

Dark and disturbed is the laugh Troye releases as his lips return to their ministrations, lavishing long wet strokes to my clit, then dipping lower to fuck me with his tongue and I know he’s not going to give me what I want.

Edging me till I beg for relief is his kink.

An audience is just spurring him on.

His nails dig into the flesh of my thighs as he holds me down. Spreads me open, and devours. Writhing beneath him, I still have one hand in his hair, the other twisted in the sheets that cling to my sweat drenched body that’s so close to the edge I can taste it.

Troye must too as he again kisses a path away from where I need him most to lick beads of moisture from my belly. That’s when we hear it. Barely audible over my pathetic panting is a breathy and soft, “Quinn. Quinn.”

I’ve heard Brady call my name a thousand times, but it’s always in my dreams.

Reality is so much sweeter.