Simple.
There’s no denying my physical attraction to him. From the second I landed in his lap, I knew he was a potent force. One that could effortlessly set my world aflame, incinerating it to ashes with each flicker of my helpless heart. Ryder’s an all-consuming vortex made up of nothing but pure, primal, fierce, mind-fucking alpha male. There’s not a girl on campus who doesn’t chew her lip, clench her thighs, or giggle like a stupid twit when he’s within a hundred feet of her.
Still, my participation in all of the above acts—and then some—has nothing to do with the fact that Ryder’s the owner of a quick-witted personality I could get used to. A personality I could so easily trip, stumble, and fall for. It has nothing to do with the fact that when I spoke, he genuinely listened to everything I said. I saw it in his eyes. The way their light steel blue melted into cobalt, hanging on every word I spilled. It definitely doesn’t have to do with the fact that there’s a lot more to Ryder than sexual god–like tendencies and a kissable face. He actually has a heart. A heart that cares for a sister with cancer, a grandmother, and a single mother. A heart that adored a grandfather who’s no longer in his life. And it definitely doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that I just listed a slew of reasons why Ryder Asshole Ashcroft possesses more than enough ideal characteristics to be considered “relationship material.”
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “Not him.”
He’s too dangerous, sexy, and toxic for me. We’re mismatched. Two jagged pieces of glass that’ll never fit. He’s a cocky, outspoken bastard; I’m a closed-off, delusional bitch. He walks, talks, and breathes sex; I use it in whatever disturbing way I deem necessary. He loves and cares for his family; I loathe mine for what they did to me. Though I’ve used sex to fuck away the ghosts torturing every anxiety-driven breath I take, I’m not a cheater, and I don’t intend to become one. Brock and I aren’t official in the Merriam-Webster sense, but I’ve made a connection with him, and it’s one I’m unwilling to break.
Brock!
I swing my eyes toward the digital clock. Five thirty. Forty-five minutes. Forty-five short minutes until I have to meet him at the main entrance for our first official date.
My heart sinks, buckling my knees as I grip my hair. “Shit!”
I zip over to the closet, pluck out a red linen skirt and white button-up blouse, and toss the duo onto my bed, my nerves rioting as I swipe my toiletries from my dresser. Breaking a record, I’m in and out of the communal bathrooms within ten minutes, having showered, shaved, and moisturized all of the necessary body parts for the evening.
By the time I’m in front of the mirrored closet and doing my makeup, my nerves are no closer to decompressed. As I brush the last bit of mascara over my lashes, I can literally recall only one time in my life when I felt as undone as I do right now. Considering that was the moment my parents took their final breaths, it’s pretty safe to say I’m a complete mess.
Still, no matter what surprises today’s given me, I’m determined to clear my head of any and all disturbances.
One very dangerous disturbance in particular.
One with blue eyes that see into my soul, reading beyond the fortress I’ve built around my heart.
One who kisses like he’s literally fucking me, making me feel like I’m about to orgasm by that simple act alone.
One who doesn’t care who he has to step on, best friend included, to make me his.
For the rest of the evening, no matter how many times Ryder tries to sneak into my skull, Brock Cunningham will own every emotion flying through my head.
Done.
I stand and shimmy my skirt over my less-than-flattering hips, button my blouse around my more-than-generous C cups, and slip on a pair of fuck-me-now red stilettos. A scowl anchors my face when I glimpse myself in the mirror. No matter how much effort I dump into my appearance, I’ll forever be uncomfortable in my skin. No amount of paint on my face or fancy clothing will ever change that.
I make myself cringe.
My practically mute roommate walks into the room and yanks me from my scattered thoughts. As usual, she pays me no mind as she rummages through her drawers. I sigh, instantly uncomfortable. I’m not quite sure why her lack of conversation bothers me, but it does. We’ve literally spoken less than twenty words since the semester started a few weeks ago.
Other than knowing the chick’s name—Madeline—I know more about aliens overtaking the universe than I do about the girl whom I’ll be rooming with the next few months.
I made a decent attempt to talk to her the day my foster parents dropped me off. After unpacking, I tried the normal “Where’d you grow up, and what’s your major?” questions. Instead of answering, she stared at me as if I had a dick protruding from my forehead.
And I’m the one deemed to have mental issues?
I brush off my recurring urge to put in a request for a new roommate, grab my purse, and slide it over my shoulder.
As I make my way for the door, Madeline the mute says, “Nice hit.”
I stop dead in my tracks and turn around. “Huh?”
“I saw you smack Ryder Ashcroft a few weeks ago.” A cheeky smile appears on her lips, her dark-as-sin brown irises sparkling with mirth. “You were the first girl to ever do that to him. Well, that I know of. Either way, he deserves to be put in his place. Though completely merited—considering he’s sex on a chocolate-covered dildo—that boy thinks way too much of himself.”
I’m shocked that the mute knows how to form coherent sentences and that she actually seems pretty . . . cool. A slow smirk climbs over my face. “Good. I’m happy I was his first. I devirginized him.” Little does she know, my hand’s fucked up his dimples twice.