Page 1 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

Poor impulse control + alcohol = life choices I’ll regret in the morning.

September

My back slams into the hard wooden door, and I expel a sound that’s half gasp and half moan against soft lips that remind me of velvet.

An unbidden giggle escapes me in my drunken stupor as warm hands slide across my thighs and pull my legs tighter around the muscled waist belonging to the tall, blurred figure before me.

I wish I could see his face more clearly, but I took out my contacts since they were irritating my eyes (I was starting to resemble someone with hay fever who just snorted several lines of pollen), and I don’t have my glasses on hand.

I might make it a point to pick outfits with pockets, but no pocket in the world—at least where women’s clothes are concerned—will comfortably fit a glasses case.

Plus, the copious amount of alcohol I ingested earlier is making everything extra fuzzy.

As such, all I can really make out is that kissable mouth, which pulls away now, leaving me hungry— so damn hungry—for more.

Suddenly, the world tilts and I’m on my feet instead of where I want to be, which is wrapped around him…whoever he is.

I pout as the lips I was devouring only seconds ago twist into what I assume is a smirk.

“Someone’s eager,” it says, but the liquid courage flooding my body wipes away any embarrassment I might feel at those words.

With a confidence Sober Me would die to possess, I answer with a nonchalant, one-shouldered shrug. “Well, I won’t be if you keep me standing out here all night.”

My mystery man—the owner of that perfect mouth I desperately want to kiss again—lets out a low, throaty chuckle that sends an arc of electricity racing through me. It’s an entirely new kind of buzz, and I wobble, a little unsteady on my feet.

My gaze drifts down the hallway over the course of the moment I wait for him to unlock the door.

Although I can’t see the details, I know all too well where I am.

I’ve never been in this dorm before; only select students at the university are invited to reside in this particular building, which was donated by some rich douchebag’s daddy a few decades ago to probably buy their kid’s way into school.

The rest of us are either townies, like me, who live in Newport and travel to campus for classes, or are residents in the lesser dorms, like my best friend, Ronnie, who isn’t quite at one-percenter level of wealth but isn’t exactly scraping the bottom of the barrel.

Her cousin, Andie—my other best friend—is her roommate (and the third leg to our little tripod), and while she doesn’t technically come from money herself, she benefits from having two very doting uncles who have plenty to spare.

Ronnie’s dads have ensured they have every advantage in life, even paying for Andie’s and her little sister Sammy’s education.

Aside from the small number of us who earned our way into Conwick solely with our brains—and, in my case, an extremely generous scholarship awarded by the school—the majority of those in attendance are rich, many of them disgustingly so, earning the institution its elitist reputation as a prestigious private university.

It’s not Ivy League, but in terms of academic expectations and student selectivity, it’s definitely close, though it’s obvious Conwick favors the affluent and powerful over people like me, who are only here to fill a quota.

The dormitories are just one aspect of the college that reflects the obscene wealth polluting the campus, with Leeland Hall being the most exclusive and desired by students, reserved only for those families with cash to burn who are willing to pay a king’s ransom in room and board for their child.

Having never seen the inside of any of the dorms aside from Garfield Hall where Ronnie and Andie live, I can only stare in wonder as the guy beside me—whose name I’m blanking on, assuming I ever learned it at all—pushes open the door and leads me into what is less of a dorm room and more of a lavish apartment.

I freeze mid-step, floored by the extravagance of my surroundings and the sheer size of the space, which I can grasp with ease even if it’s all pretty distorted.

Garfield Hall—lovingly nicknamed “the Orange Pussy” by the residents there—is practically a five-star hotel, and yet, next to this place, it might as well be a dumpster.

No, not a dumpster. A dumpster fire . Damn, no wonder none of the truly wealthy students bother renting real estate in town.

Why would they when they have their own high-end apartment building at their disposal here on campus?

My jaw drops as I step into the living room, my eyes springing wide as I take in the well-styled, modern decor, which makes my own house seem paltry by comparison.

A sectional sofa and glass table stand opposite a black rectangle on the wall that is either the world’s most boring painting or an obnoxiously large TV, the layout accented by side tables, plants, and other furnishings that—even obscured by my inadequate sense of vision—make the room look like the set for a Pottery Barn photo shoot.

It even smells expensive in here, and I can’t help wondering if this all came with the space or if some interior decorator was brought in by my mystery man or his rich parents to decorate.

I shake my head, ignoring the way my surroundings spin with the movement. This can’t really be a dorm room, can it? I haven’t stepped through a portal into a parallel universe? Maybe I’m asleep and this is the beginning of a dream where I’m the love interest in a billionaire romance. Or a porno.

Yeah, that last option definitely seems the most plausible of the two.

Well, if this is a sex dream, I’m here for it.

Drawn into the fantasy, I inch forward a few more steps, peering through decorative archways into an open plan kitchen and dining area on my left, and then over at a bedroom with a huge four-poster bed on my right.

My focus clings to the otherwise indiscernible black bedspread, which hugs what must be a king-size mattress from the size of it, maybe larger.

The material gleams beneath the overhead spotlights, which come on suddenly as if in response to my perusal.

I startle at the touch of a hand on my wrist, and shifting my eyes upward, meet the gaze of the owner of that luscious mouth, offering him a smile as he guides me into the bedroom with a devious grin.

As if under a spell, I giggle again and bite down coyly on my bottom lip—a poor, drunken attempt at flirting that I would never dare commit the crime of while sober, and which I’m sure I’ll die of shame over tomorrow.

For now, though, my inhibitions are gone, and all I care about is letting loose and enjoying this moment for what it is.

The fall semester has only just begun and already I need relief from the constant stress that plagues my day-to-day life.

Although Ronnie was the one who encouraged me to go to the party—who said I should blow off some steam and start sophomore year off on the right foot…

or at least on a more relaxed foot—it hadn’t taken much convincing to get me to go despite my usual distaste for crowds and loud music.

I just didn’t realize at the time that this was what I really needed, not a game of beer pong with a bunch of random frat boys.

As if determined to satisfy my unspoken needs, Mystery Man pulls me close with large, firm hands. Then he’s kissing me again, those soft lips traveling down to my throat, every scrape of his teeth on my skin doing things to my insides that definitely shouldn’t be legal.

“Can I?” he whispers against my neck, and I nod, not even sure what he’s asking permission for, but willing to let him do anything if it will mean he keeps touching me. If it means he touches me more .

Warmth pools in my belly when our lips meet again, and I sigh into his mouth the moment his hand moves lower, stealthily slipping between my legs.

A shiver follows the light graze of his fingertips as they carefully slide up under my skirt, but to my dismay, they linger there, teasing the sensitive skin of my inner thighs—inching closer to where the heat inside me is strongest but not close enough to alleviate the ache building there, as if intent on holding back.

On letting the anticipation build. Each brush of his fingers feels electric, sparking a slow burn that spreads through my body until every touch, no matter how light, has me squirming.

Breath shaky, I urge him on, pressing my chest flush to his.

It’s been a while— too long, really—since I last had sex, and all my body parts seem to respond to that nagging desire inside me as if they have a mind of their own.

My tongue sweeps deeper into his mouth as I fumble clumsily with the buttons on his shirt, the pounding of my heart just as frantic as my unsteady hands.

It’s pale blue, I can make out that much. Gucci, probably.

I snort.

“What’s so funny?” he purrs in my ear, nipping my lobe with teeth that I’m sure are blindingly white, perfectly straight, and likely cost a small fortune in dental care.

Before I can answer, he puts me out of my misery, an obscene moan parting my lips as he skillfully pushes my underwear to one side, and dips his hand between my thighs in the most perfect form of torture. When he sweeps a finger through my folds, I practically melt at his touch.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he whispers in my ear.

He gently bites my earlobe again, and I gasp when he sinks one finger into my heat.

Spurred on by my cry, he moves his hand faster, another finger joining the first, and as he plays with me, his fingers dipping in and out, his palm smacks repeatedly against my clit in a way that’ll have me coming before he’s even inside me.

I’m so pent-up, I won’t last long at this rate.