Page 7 of Win You Over

Remington

“ I don’t get why you stood up for them,” Finn complains, his hand stroking up and down my erection. I run a hand through his hair as he rests his head on my thigh, his nose inches away from my cock.

This isn’t an unusual scene – him on his knees, his lips around my shaft – but tonight it doesn’t quite feel the same. I have this sense that I'm doing it because it's what we so often do rather than because I want to. And because I'm not very good at saying no to Finn.

“I wasn’t standing up for anyone. I was trying to stop you from making a scene.

I don’t get why you have to antagonise them all the time,” I reply, thinking back to the flurry of rage that flashed across Holden’s handsome face earlier tonight.

Fuck, he’s gorgeous. And picturing him with a knife in hand, maybe slicing it across my chest while he rides my dick.

Well yeah, now that thought gets me hard.

Finn groans as I thicken in his hand over thoughts of another man.

“I’m not antagonising them, but they don’t belong here, scholarship or not. You have to see that.”

“They’ve earned their places here, Finn. They belong here as much as we do.”

He huffs, his warm breath ghosting my leg.

“Fuck, I know, okay? I get that, but still, I don’t like or trust them.

Who knows what kind of shit they’re into or what trouble they’ve left behind wherever it is they come from.

” He sits up and waves his free hand dismissively.

“And why the fuck doesn’t Booker talk? It’s like he thinks he’s too good for us.

Not too good for that little puppy-dog friend of his though.

” He mumbles what I’m sure is ‘stupid angel lips’ under his breath before groaning and rolling his head on his shoulders.

I raise a brow but don’t question him about it, nor do I admit that I’ve wondered about Holden’s silence one too many times. Something tells me it’s not for the reasons Finn thinks.

Holden Booker is a mystery to me, and I love mysteries. Just look at the size of my Agatha Christie collection. I wonder if that’s why I’m so drawn to him – because I want to be the one to draw him out of his prickly shell. That and his sexy as fuck body.

My sister, Nadine – who thinks she knows everything – would no doubt say that I’m obsessing over him because he doesn’t like me. I never have been good with rejection. But, hot damn, he would be so fun to play with.

My mind runs away on thoughts of Holden – a variation of the ones I’ve had about him since I first took notice of him at the start of our sophomore year, when he stepped into the ring with me.

Finding out that he’s in my English Literature class was like a fucking gift.

How did I not notice him sooner? How did we go an entire year on the same course and I didn’t clock his presence?

That he’s quiet, shy and sits at the back of our class of over a hundred students is probably why.

Or maybe because our social circles are so different.

I’m rudely brought back to reality when Finn, his hand still wrapped around my cock, grumbles something more about them not belonging. His annoyance at running into Holden and Theo earlier tonight is clear in the set of his lips and the frown lines evident beneath his messy fringe.

His attitude is a reflection of the life we grew up in. The idea that wealth equals prestige and a higher level in the pecking order. I don’t buy into it. I know I’m lucky to have the life I do, but I also know that’s not how everyone thinks, certainly not around here.

I like to think people would like me without money or the Langford name, because I’m a really great guy. I can’t deny, though, that there’s this niggling in the back of my mind – the one that keeps me and serious relationships at a wide berth – that doesn’t always trust people’s motives.

Unlike Finn though, whose father is one of those who literally sticks his nose up at people he deems “lesser” than him – and would disown him if he knew how much his son loved sucking dick – my family is pretty laid back.

My mother, after all, is a small-town girl from South Africa and not the upper class aristocrat my father was meant to marry, much to the disgust of my grandmother.

Mom is the kind of person who gives generously with her time and money. Who goes out of her way to help others, and who never has a bad word to say about anyone.

“Just tread carefully,” I warn. “Holden will beat the shit out of you.”

Finn scoffs, closing his free hand into a fist.“I’d like to see him try.”

I don’t mention that Holden is a better fighter than him.

He’s the second best fighter I’ve met – me being the best, obviously.

I also don’t add that he was very close to taking a knife to the back earlier.

I think Holden likes to keep that little tidbit to himself, but I’m super observant, especially where he's concerned.

Finn moves his hand over my shaft again, but I’m softening and the frustration radiating off of him is palpable. He’s not going to get what he wants tonight, but then that makes two of us. My mind once again stuck on the pretty boy with the pretty eyes and the pretty hair.

“I’m tired, dude. Let’s park this for tonight.”

Finn looks up at me with booze glazed eyes, a deep frown line appearing along his forehead.

“You don’t wanna fuck?” He gets to his feet and straddles my lap, his legs trapping my knees together. He presses his ass down, resting it on top of my half-hard cock.

“Not tonight, no.” I place my hands on his ass, ready to lift him off.

He rotates his hips, grinding on my cock, which has now taken notice, despite me being tired and not entirely into this. The friction does feel good and I do love an orgasm. Especially right before I go to sleep.

“You sure?” Finn leans forward and licks a stripe up my neck and I’m not so confident in my decision any longer.

He bites the soft part of my ear, hard , the pain sending a shockwave through me and I’m suddenly fully on board.

What can I say? I like a little pain to get me going.

And Finn is a master at getting me going.

“Bite me again,” I say, my voice husky. He grins and does as I ask, biting until the skin breaks.

We work together to get him stretched, and me gloved up.

When he looks at me as he sinks down all the way until he’s flush on my lap, I close my eyes, peering at the darkness of my eyelids and replace his baby blues with the sad, deep, whiskey eyes of the boy who hates me.

“Spring break is over and it’s full steam ahead for finals now,” my English professor, Prof.

Hayes, says towards the end of our lecture.

His comment sends the entire lecture hall full of students into a frenzy of boos and jeers.

Prof. Hottie – as I like to call him – is seriously sexy.

He’s kinda old, maybe like forty, but rocks a knitted vest and trouser combo.

And with his black-framed glasses and English accent, he reminds me of the actor from that old timey British show my mom likes.

“Quiet down,” he commands, then pauses and waits for everyone’s attention to be back on him.

“While I expect you are all excited to spend the next few weeks studying, I’m setting you an assignment that you have ten days to complete.” A murmuring of grumbles sounds throughout the lecture room. Just what we need on top of cramming for finals.

“For this assignment,” he speaks loudly into the mic at his lectern, pausing between words until a quiet hush falls over the room. “I am asking you to work in pairs.”

Leann, the girl sitting next to me, who has been flirting with me for the past few weeks, leans over, her shoulder brushing the top of my arm.

“Do you want to work together?”

If I had to pick anyone in this lecture hall to work with, it wouldn’t be her.

Before I answer, I turn towards the back of the classroom, to the exact place I know Holden likes to sit, something I made myself aware of after he caught my interest after our first fight.

When I spot him, he has his hand up, a piece of paper clasped between two fingers.

“Mr Booker,” Prof. Hottie says. “If you’re holding up a note that asks if you can do this alone, the answer is no.

” Holden puts his arm down, looking none too pleased.

“Life is not something we do in isolation. Nor is art, or writing, or in this case an assignment on famous poets.” He leans into his lectern, his voice booming through the speakers.

“Let this be a lesson – sometimes, we are forced to do things we don’t want to do.

Work with people we don’t get along with, submit assignments while also preparing for exams. The real world is tough, people, and it is my job to prepare you for it. ”

I turn to face Leann again. She’s smiling at me, waiting patiently for my answer.

“Now before you all start grabbing for your BFFs,” that gets a chuckle out of a few people.

“I have randomly paired you up. Shortly, you will all get an email with your partner's details. And before anyone asks, no, you cannot change your partner and yes, this is a requirement towards your final grade.”

Leann sighs, flopping back in her seat as the professor puts the assignment details up on the screen.

“Together, you are to pick a poet from any era, select one of their poems and dissect both the poet and the poem. What motivated them? Why did they write that poem? Who was their audience? Why did they use the words they did? What is the structure, the rhythm, the poetic devices they used? I want to know it all.” He flicks to another slide.

“I want you to think, if you left behind a piece of art, a poem, a novel, what would learners eighty years from now think of it? How could your words impact literature and the world around you?”

He finishes with a clap, then checks something on his laptop. “You should all have your emails now. You are dismissed.”

Leann opens her email first, sighing before she angles her body to see the screen of my laptop.

“Who’d you get?” she asks, giving away the fact that we did not get put together.

I open the email, a Cheshire cat grin lifting on my face when I see the name of my study partner.

I suppress the urge to give a fist pump.

Holden Booker.

When I turn towards my project partner again, he’s glaring at me as he stands from his seat, roughly shoving his laptop into his bag.

He’s wearing a neatly fitting v-neck sweater, which is a total contradiction to his black jeans with tears over the knees.

It’s like he’s all business on top and skater boy on the bottom.

It's a look that's all him and one I'm completely on board with.

I give him a wave when he walks past me and down the stairs towards the exit.

I'm met with nothing but a steely stare and pursed lips. It occurs to me then that this project is the perfect opportunity for us to get better acquainted. Before he can get out of the lecture hall, I’m on my feet, bounding down the stairs behind him.

“Hey! Holden!” I shout, catching up to him a few steps outside the double doors.

He stalls, his shoulders falling as he turns towards me. When his whiskey brown eyes meet mine, I momentarily forget why I followed after him. He raises one eyebrow, as if to ask what?

“You should give me your number.” I remove my phone from my pocket and hold it out to him, hoping he won’t insist we correspond via email.

He looks from my phone to my face and then down again.

“So we can arrange when to work on this project,” I add.

“And so that we can hang out sometime, you know, as friends.” I tack on that last part for good measure.

Reluctantly, he takes the device, types in some numbers, and then hands it back to me.

I notice when he does that he’s hit call so that he now has my number too.

The gesture sends a zing of excitement through me.

This is progress in my attempt to get to know him.

I’m about to say something witty when I see Finn closing the distance between us.

When he reaches where we're standing, he wedges himself between me and Holden.

“Langford,” he says in greeting, giving me this bro-hug, pat on the back thing he likes to do. “What are you doing talking to the loser? Be careful it doesn’t rub off on you, or you’ll find yourself knocked out at the next fight,” he jokes mockingly.

“Man, come on,” I say, rolling my eyes before looking over my best friend’s shoulder at Holden, who once again has his lips pursed and a deadly glint in his eyes. Without acknowledging me further, he turns and storms off.

Finn waffles on about something that happened in his Business Administration class and I’m half-heartedly listening when my phone pings.

Holden : I’ll do the project and put your name on it.

I scoff. As if I’m about to let the opportunity to spend time with him go.

He may hate the idea now, but he’s going to love me once he gets to know me.

I am literal sunshine and I will warm the frosty parts of him.

Ok-ay, that thought sounded a little creepy, even for me, but fuck if it isn’t the truth.

Me : Nope. We will work on this together like Prof. Hottie wants us to. My place, Friday after our last class?

I stare at my phone, watching the typing bubbles appear, then disappear again before his reply pops up.

Holden : Prof. Hottie? You know what – I don’t want to know. Fine, we’ll do it your way. Your place, Friday. Send me your address.

I’m typing out a reply when another message comes through.

Holden : And we are not hanging out or doing anything that gives you the idea we can be friends. We are not friends.

Me : Sure, leeutjie , whatever you say. ;)

Holden : Don’t call me names.

Me : It’s a nice name. Promise. I’ll tell you all about it on Friday.

Holden: Urgh

“What are you smiling about?” Finn asks, trying to peer at my phone. I turn off the screen and shove it in my pocket.

“Nothing. Come on, I have time before my next class and I’m hungry.” There’s a bounce in my step as we make our way to one of the university’s cafes.

Friday cannot come soon enough.