Rusk University: All Lined Up Part 3

She pulls her gaze away from the now-empty balcony and focuses on me.

"Better."

Her eyes turn wary, and I'm pretty sure she's thinking about the skirt mishap. Her hands confirm it when they slip into two hidden pockets at her hips and casually push down to make sure her skirt is as long as she can make it. Fortunately for me, that's still not that long.

I mimic her, placing my own hands into my pockets. A cold front is just creeping into town, the first hint of fall, so it's cold enough to keep everyone inside, but not so cold that it's unbearable. h.e.l.l, I hadn't been cold since the minute I'd laid eyes on Dallas.

For a few seconds, we just stare at each other, unsure how to proceed. She reaches up and gathers her thick red hair into her hands like she's going to pull it up into a ponytail. Then she seems to think better of it, releasing it until it settles in crimson drifts across her shoulders. I fist my hands in my pockets, nearly overwhelmed with the urge to wrap that long hair around my fingers. She links her hands behind her back, and it draws my attention to her slim, tall frame.

And d.a.m.n, I really need to get a handle on this.

When we do speak, it's in a rush and at the same time.

"What were you doing out here alone?"

"So, you jump off balconies often?"

We apologize in sync, and then laugh together, too.

I leave the shadows of the balcony and cross to her. "I needed some s.p.a.ce to think. I just transferred to Rusk from a junior college, and it's not as easy to settle in as I thought it would be."

"What junior college?"

I shove my hands deeper into my pockets. I hadn't meant to tell her about that. Most people are weird when I mention junior college, like I am somehow lesser than because I went there first. But she is so open and honest, I didn't even think about filtering myself before I spoke.

"Westfield."

She smiles. "I have a few friends who went to Westfield and are planning to transfer here after a year or two. It's pretty smart, really. So much cheaper to get the basics out of the way there first."

Her smile is genuine, and I've not felt this at ease since I set foot on this campus a few weeks ago to officially try out for the team. "So what about you? Balcony jumping a habit? Favorite pastime?"

She tilts her head to the side and scrunches her nose up cutely before shaking her head. "Not so much. Probably not the smartest thing I've ever done either."

I raise an eyebrow. "Oh really? What happened to your whole Carson, you're an idiot. It was only one floor bit?"

She bites back a smile before asking, "Carson?"

I hadn't told her my name before? Oh, right. I was too busy getting my tailbone broken and accidentally undressing her.

"Well, Carson. Normally, I'm much more graceful than . . ." She laughs before adding, "All of that." She circles her hand, gesturing toward the general vicinity where we'd ended up after my botched attempt at catching her.

I step up beside her, and I'm close enough to her now that I can see the way her eyelashes brush against her cheeks when she blinks. And I must be insane because just the simple act of her blinking has me staring, dumbstruck.

I can deny myself all I want, but one thing I cannot deny is just how f.u.c.king gorgeous this girl is. And exactly the kind of distraction I'm supposed to be staying away from.

I'm sure there are plenty of people who go to junior college because it's cheaper or the smart thing to do. And yeah, the cheaper thing definitely helped. A lot.

But mostly I went because I didn't get accepted into any state schools, and my high school team hadn't been good enough to get the kind of exposure I needed to land a football scholars.h.i.+p. So Dad and I had made a plan. One year at Westfield-get my grades up, play football there, train every spare second, reach out to the coach at Rusk, and nab a walk-on spot. Eventually, the goal is to leverage that spot into something more permanent, something with a scholars.h.i.+p.

So far the plan is working perfectly. Right on track.

But the hardest part is standing right in front of me.

Don't get distracted by a girl.

That's Dad's number one rule, and he's probably right.

It's going to take everything I have to keep my grades up here. And I don't exactly have it easy on the field, considering I'm playing second string to Levi Abrams. The guy won two high school state champions.h.i.+ps, and still holds the high school state record for all-time leading pa.s.ser. He was reds.h.i.+rted the year before last, his freshman year, and though he had decent numbers in his first season last year, the team as a whole had a disappointing year.

Normally that might have given me a little hope.

But considering the university's new coach was the one to coach Levi to those two state champions.h.i.+ps in high school, I figure I'm s.h.i.+t out of luck.

I'm sure one of the reasons he was hired was to get Levi back on his game.

Which is why I give myself a break and let myself step a little closer to Dallas. I can afford to get distracted for one night. How much could it hurt?

"So what did that guy do to p.i.s.s you off? You know . . . just so I don't make the same mistake."

"Unless you're lying to me and trying to trick me into sleeping with you . . . you should be good."

"So what if I'm up-front about trying to get you to sleep with me . . . Does that still get me yelled at?"

I expected a blush, but I don't get one. Her face is carefully blank.

"I thought you weren't trying to hook up with me."

"Just keeping my options open. I like to be prepared for all possibilities."

She rolls her eyes. "You can be as up-front as you want. I can promise I will be, too."

There's a devilish glint in her eye, and I wonder how many hearts this girl has broken with her honesty. Not that I'm worried about my heart. I'm more concerned with the hard-on I can't get to subside with her so close to me.

"Then in the interests of honesty, I should say I'm trying really hard not to kiss you."

She straightens, and the strand of hair she was lazily twirling drops from her grasp.

"Why would you tell me that?"

"So that when I slip up and break my promise, you'll at least know I tried."

Chapter 4.

Dallas I roll my eyes, not because I'm annoyed, but because it gives me time to think.

And I desperately need time to think.

I wouldn't say I'd been entirely sheltered growing up. I did have Stella, after all. But being the coach's daughter affected the way people treated me. Sure, guys made s.e.xual jokes, but never to my face, and never with a devastatingly handsome grin to back it up.

I stare down at our feet-mine have fallen into third position of their own accord and his boots are scuffed and muddy. I wouldn't have pegged him for country, not with his university sweats.h.i.+rt and stylishly ripped jeans, but the boots don't lie.

"Stop thinking so hard," he says. "You're giving me a headache."

"I can't just turn it off."

"I could distract you." He lifts one side of his mouth in a lazy smirk, and I want to say that I am already distracted by him. No, distracted is not the word. Bulldozed seems more appropriate.

When he takes my wrist and pulls me down to sit at the base of the oak tree beside him, I'm pretty much putty in his hands. Which is annoying as all get out.

His thumb teases at my pulse point for a few seconds, and I wonder if he feels it pick up under his touch. His shoulder brushes against mine, and the s.h.i.+ver that runs down my spine speeds through my limbs, drawing my toes to a point.

I keep my eyes on my feet as he asks, "So, Daredevil, besides jumping off balconies, what other crazy things do you spend your time doing?"

"Hanging out in backyards with complete strangers, obviously."

His blue eyes are practically twinkling when he nudges my shoulder and says, "I've had my hands up your skirt, Daredevil. I think that qualifies me as an acquaintance at least."

I shove him away, and when he comes back laughing, his shoulder doesn't just brush mine, but presses against me to stay.

I pull on a scowl, but it's getting harder and harder not to smile at him. Not to mention my heart is beating so hard, it might be leaving dents in my rib cage. "Feel free to ease back on the honesty any time now."

He leans his head back against the tree, and swivels his face toward me. "Too late. I'm addicted. It's your fault, really."

I turn my head toward him, and he's closer than I expect him to be. His eyes are this incredible electric blue, and a shock wave ripples through me like his gaze carries a voltage.

It's my eyes that drop to his lips first, just for half a second, but when I look back up his sight is trained on my mouth. There's a drum line in my ears, and my skin feels too tight for me to properly breathe. It's been so very long since I've felt like this that I'd forgotten how consuming it is. How physical attraction really is. All my relations.h.i.+ps began in my head first, or at least after Levi they did. I dated guys because it made sense, because they ticked all the boxes, and the attraction came later. Sometimes.

This is different. I don't know anything about this guy except that his eyes make my mind fuzzy, and his muscled arms make my mouth water, and the things he keeps saying . . . they burn-beginning in my flushed cheeks, blazing through my blood, and curling between my legs until I feel like I have to squeeze them together just to keep from combusting on the spot.

I lean into him before I can change my mind, my whole arm lined up against his. Then our knees b.u.mp, followed by our pinkies.

His head dips down, the scruff on his chin grazing my shoulder, setting off a s.h.i.+ver that should be measured on the Richter scale.

I tilt my chin up, and his breath skims over my lips in a ghost of a kiss.

And that's all I get, a phantom touch, because he pulls back with a wry grin. I try to school my expression into something detached or annoyed or bored or anything-anything other than the disappointment churning in my gut.

He's just playing with me. Clearly. And the humiliation drowns out everything else.

I turn away, pulling up my knees in preparation to stand. I open my mouth to make an excuse, that I need to find Stella, that I need a drink, that I need electroshock therapy to jolt the stupid out of me. G.o.d, when will I learn?

I don't even get out a word before he grips my elbow, pulling me toward him, and slams his lips against mine.

I am not the kiss-a-stranger type. I'm not even the kiss-an-acquaintance type. But I keep hearing Levi calling me an icebox. And I keep remembering the one and only time we had s.e.x, and the horrible day after when it hadn't saved our relations.h.i.+p like I'd thought it would. I'd had very little interest in physical contact since then, and I hate that Levi still controls a part of my life even all these years later.

But this . . . Levi doesn't have control of this because I'm not sure even I have control of this.

Carson's hand smooths up from my elbow and curls around the back of my neck, pulling me even closer. He tilts my head back, positioning me just how he wants me. And though my body is a big fan of jumping on that bandwagon (and I totally plan to), my brain feels the need to remind him, "I'm still not sleeping with you."

He huffs out a laugh, his head dropping down until I can feel the breath from his laughter singe my collarbone.

"Oh, Daredevil," he murmurs. "I like you."

I like it when he calls me that. My stomach swoops low in my belly in approval and antic.i.p.ation.

This time, I kiss him, and his lips press back against mine so hard that a jolt of something coils down my spine. The hand at the back of my neck tightens, and his other hand rests lightly against my knee. I know he must feel it shaking.

I can't decide if him being a virtual stranger makes this kind of intimacy more or less terrifying.

His lips open against mine, his breath fanning over my skin, and I think more terrifying, definitely.

But also so much . . . hotter.

He brushes his open mouth against mine, softly, once and then twice, like we have all the time in the world, and I expect myself to be grateful for his slowness, but instead it's killing me. I want to dive into him headfirst, submerge myself in the way he makes me feel, and not come up for air until I have no other choice.

But I don't. I let him hold me like the porcelain doll that I'm terrified of being because I'm even more terrified of how badly I want him.

He threads a hand through my hair, cupping the back of my head, and gently tilts my lips up toward his. After a few more soft kisses, his thumb runs across my bottom lip and electricity sparks from that tiny touch.

His thumb trails down to my chin, and he presses down just enough to pull my lips apart. His tongue darts out, tracing my bottom lip the same way his thumb did, and I grip his shoulders hard because I feel like I might fall even though I'm sitting down. One of his hands grips my hip in response as he teases my lips with his tongue one more time.

Then, like he'd been teasing himself too, he groans and pushes the kiss deeper. And my body is ready to throw him a d.a.m.n parade in celebration. His tongue slides against mine, firm and demanding, but not overwhelming. Not scary. Yet.

He leans into me, pressing me back, and the crown of my head touches the tree behind me. I've only had a handful of kisses besides Levi, as sad as that is. And maybe it's the bad memories that make me look back on those kisses with indifference, but I don't remember his or anyone's being this . . . good.

And because I have no filter, I whisper those words against his lips.

"This is good."

He laughs. "I love it when you do that."

"Do what?"

He hums against my lips, and it vibrates pleasantly.

"When you say exactly what you're thinking."

I pull away. "You won't love it when I say something stupid."

And the stupid would come. No doubt about it.

"Are you kidding? I can't wait."