Page 61 of The Frathole

I finally get him back into his room and close the door.

“What did I do?” he asks, wide-eyed.

Aside from depriving me of that mouth so you could give it to Gisele?

What?

That’s such a fucked-up thought. This was the whole point of making out with him to begin with.

He wears a concerned expression as he says, “I couldn’t have beenthatbad.”

“Huh?”

As if I wasn’t confused enough. After having had my tongue down this guy’s throat, I can’t imagine why that would even cross his mind.

“Isn’t that why you got me out of there? Because I messed up with Gisele?”

“That wasn’t it.” I run my fingers through my hair, closing my eyes and trying to think this through like I would after fucking up a play.

“So I did good?”

The knife in my chest is twisting.

“What the hell is going on?” I spit out, grabbing at my chest.

“Ry, you okay?” Marty approaches. “Do you need to sit down? You look like you’re having an anxiety attack.”

Despite how thoughtful he’s being, I shoot him an angry look. “How was it?”

“What?”

“The kiss. You enjoyed kissing Gisele, didn’t you?”

“It was…fine.”

The pain intensifies, and I realize what I’m dealing with here. It reminds me of when I get jealous over another guy taking a touchdown I thought would be mine.

“I think I might be jealous,” I admit.

Marty’s sympathetic expression shifts quickly—now he looks pissed, which throws me even more.

“Oh, so you can fuck two girls at once in my bed, but I kiss one and you have to have her too?”

The hell is he on about?

“I should have known better than to agree to this,” he says. “I have one nice experience with a girl, and that’s too much for you while you were flirting away with Dax…and I’m sure you guys will be fucking in no time, but no, please, it would be terrible if anyone else in this frat got to have some fun with someone you haven’t already fucked.”

I’m starting to realize why he’s so worked up, but before I can respond, he starts for the door.

“I swear, you’re even more of a frathole than I thought.” He turns the knob, but I’m already at the door beside him, pressing my hand against it to keep it closed.

“Let me go,” he insists.

“Aren’t I supposed to be the idiot here?”

His brow creases, and before he has a chance to come up with any other ridiculous theories, I rush him, taking that mouth again.

Those lips give me much-needed relief, that knife being pulled from me, allowing me to enjoy this moment. I shove him back against the door. Despite how annoyed he seemed, he doesn’t resist me, relaxes as I push my tongue up against his, toying with it in a way that helps bring me down from the heat I’d worked up. He moans into my mouth, and as I taste the peach in the cider he was drinking, I once again feel like myself. I finally pull away.