Page 13 of Trick Shot (Bainbridge Hockey #4)

But he’s not the only good-looking guy at BU.

I’ve dated a few, and I can just as easily fantasize about one of them while I make myself come.

I’m pumping my fingers in and out of my pussy with my right hand while I reach into the bedside drawer with my left.

The little satin bag is right where I left it, so I pluck it out and dump the contents onto the blanket next to me.

Just the promise of all the pleasure it can give me sends a jolt of desire through me.

This is what I need. It’s what I’ve been craving.

Maybe that’s why my body sang for Pete a few hours ago.

It wasn’t his sexual prowess that had me seeing stars. My body was just that needy.

And it’s needy now. I’m pressing the rounded head of the vibrator to my clit as I fill myself with my fingers.

My eyes flutter closed as I let the sensations wash over me.

I need this release and I’m so damn close.

I can feel my orgasm building and I’m chasing it, desperate for completion, but it’s just out of reach

My mind is trying its best to conjure up sexy images of guys I’ve been with, but it’s drawing a blank. I can usually cue up a parade of thick, muscular hotties on demand, but when I try that trick now, they all look like Pete.

Ughhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I give myself another minute to get my act together and come, but it’s no use. My legs are shaky, my hand is tired, and none of my usual methods are even coming close to getting the job done.

I blame Pete. Bainbridge’s favorite defenseman has been pissing me off since the beginning of our college careers, but now? He’s earned a permanent place on my shitlist.

With a frustrated sigh, I adjust my clothes and clean my vibrator with one of the sanitizing wipes I keep in the satin bag.

Once that’s done, I grab my laptop and stare at the screen for a solid five minutes.

I’m about to toss my favorite possession out the fourth-story window when I hear the lock disengage.

Great. Mandi’s home.

I guess my luck could be worse. She could have arrived five minutes earlier.

She breezes into the room, dropping her bag onto the floor before flopping onto the mattress.

I offer a cursory wave, hoping she’ll dash in and dash out like she’s done the past few days. But when I glance up, I realize she’s not alone.

Thankfully she hasn’t dragged another unsuspecting frat boy back to her lair. Today’s guest is Reagan, a fellow legacy scholar and the one who tried to get me to go swimming at the pool on the first day we arrived. I begged off then, but I’m not so sure I’ll be as lucky today.

“Claaaaaire!” she squeals, pronouncing my name like it has about four syllables instead of one.

“Oh my god, where have you been? I’ve barely seen you since we got here,” she says, like it’s a criminal act that I’ve been busy doing schoolwork for the past week instead of relaxing by the pool or attending the never-ending frat party in our building.

Before I can answer, Reagan starts bouncing up and down with delight, clapping her hands like a six-year-old who was just offered a pony ride.

“Claire! You have to come with us! We’re going to a party at one of the beach houses up the road.

It’s gonna be fire. You have to come. Mandi, tell Claire she has to come with!

Ooh, and let her borrow your black tank dress. ”

Mandi sits up and looks at Reagan, then back at me.

She doesn’t visibly shudder, but she doesn’t have to.

I don’t need to read her mind to know exactly what’s going through it.

She doesn’t want me at this party, so that makes two of us.

And she has no intention of letting me borrow her dress.

She’s probably afraid I’ll stretch it out by tugging at the too-short hem all night.

At five feet and eleven inches, I’m taller than most girls—and a fair amount of guys—at Bainbridge.

Unlike my best friend Holland, I’m no curvy bombshell.

Unlike my friend Josie, I’m no petite, pocket-sized girlie.

My body is strong and toned, not soft or pillowy.

My body is thick, not waif-thin or cut from hours spent at the gym.

Could I get Mandi’s dress on? Yep. Would I fill it out the way she does?

Nope. Would I be way more comfortable in my own clothes?

Absolutely. In fact, I’d be way more comfortable staying in my shorts and hoodie, curled up in bed, and trying to write this article or finish the lab report that’s due in two days. I’m not in the mood to party.

“Please, please, please say you’ll come,” Reagan begs, clasping her hands together. “We haven’t hung out in soooooo long.”

Mandi clears her throat. “Reagan, I doubt Claire wants to come with us. She’s probably busy writing for the paper or catching up on assignments.”

She’s exactly right, but instead of declining the invitation, I smile brightly at Reagan. “Actually, I’d love to,” I say. I don’t have any desire to go to this party, but the look of horror on Mandi’s face makes my lie worth it.