seemed slightly apologetic, then jerked his gaze away as the professor started talking about course expectations.
I nibbled on the corner of my thumbnail, wondering if there was any possible way Sam might somehow know that I knew it was him on the videos. No way. That’d require some kind of Inception-level physics fuckery.
The back of my neck burned through the entire class, visions of Sam’s big hands around his even bigger cock taunting me the whole way through. You’re better than that, I admonished myself repeatedly.
Except I wasn’t. I really, really wasn’t, and I should probably go ahead and pay the entry fee to Pervdom, get the lapel pin, and run for president because, try as I might, I couldn’t get those videos out of my head. They kept looping through my brain, each neatly correlating itself to one of my own jackoff sessions. So now we were inextricably bound together by virtue of whacking off. Except Sam was completely clueless about our exceptional link. What an especially mean twist of fate.
I had so many questions that were never going to be answered because there was no fucking way I could tell him I knew.
Maybe I should switch back to trig.
When class ended, I hurriedly packed up my laptop, responded to Question Guy’s “See ya?” with a “Yeah?” and glanced around for Sam so I could avoid him. He was talking to a cute brunette. Figured.
I had two hours before my next class, which was plenty of time for a sandwich, a mercy jerk, and a power nap.
Breezing out the door with my agenda for the rest of the day firmly set, I almost smacked into Reid, who must have veered into my Dipshit Blind Spot while I was busy avoiding Sam.
He jumped dodged to one side with a chuckle, then fell in step beside me. “I heard this class was kinda hard.”
“Mm-hmm. Same. You’re a football player, though. They know better than to fail you.” Did I want the soup and salad bar from the caf or a footlong meatball sub? Speaking of footlong. I begged my brain to please stop.
“Well, that’s no guarantee. Hey, maybe—”
I stopped and turned to face him. Damn. Why couldn’t he be having a bad face day, at least? But nope, he looked as good as he always had, though I now recognized that what I’d once considered an all-American smile actually more closely resembled a simpering weasel curve. “We’re approaching something that resembles conversation, which was not my intention. At all. Apologies for following up my acknowledging ‘mm-hmm’ with something that inadvertently opened that door when what I meant to say was ‘fuck off.’”
Reid whistled low. “Okay, wow, still mad at me.”
“Yep. Try again in…never. Never would be good.” I finger gunned him and then picked up speed to leave him behind.
That night I perched in bed finishing off some homework while downstairs the TV blared in what sounded like a cross between a nature program and Night of the Living Dead. Mark, Sam, and Ansel were alternately whooping and cracking up. After another five minutes, I shoved my laptop aside and rolled toward my nightstand, digging around for some headphones.
“Jesse?” Sam rapped his knuckles lightly on the doorframe.
I glanced up, one hand still buried in my drawer, continuing the fruitless search. “Usually the knock comes first.”
“I have social dyslexia.”
I gave up and closed the drawer, then rolled onto my back, pushing my laptop out of the way. “Is that a real thing?”
“If it’s not, it should be. I know a lot of people with it.”
I couldn’t disagree with him, and for a split second I totally forgot the fifty million compromising positions I’d seen him in. But then he pushed the door wider and leaned against the frame. There was hardly a flat area on him. Everything was sleek, carved rounds. Biceps sloping into triceps. Pillowy pecs, big forearms. Even his hair had a swoop to it that highlighted the varying shades of gold.
“Your doorframe poses are on point. Perfect bulging bicep-to-sleeve ratio there. How long did it take you to perfect it?” I arched a brow.
Sam glanced down at his arm and chuckled. “Guess I got lucky and nailed it on the first try.”
Well, that backfired. I wondered what else he nailed on the first try. I cleared my throat and thumbed toward my abandoned laptop. “What’s up? I’m kinda in the middle of something.” Technically I was in the middle of next week’s reading for Advanced Comp and retaining none