the room. The rest of the girls looked the same. In a sea of red and green, all I saw were easy chicks ready to spread their legs for muscles and a killer smile—both of which I had in spades. They didn’t nickname me Lex Luthor because I was a button-down-wearing gentleman who said “please” and “thank you” in the bedroom.
I was the villain.
The Dark Side.
The dirty.
The bad boy the girl brought home to piss off her father, though the joke was almost always on the girl, considering I was a Mensa member—I just didn’t look it. To most girls I was the dark, brooding, motorcycle-driving loser just waiting to flunk out of college. Little did they know: I had more brain cells in my pinky finger, more money in my bank account, than they could possibly imagine—or add using all ten fingers.
Frowning, I moved through the thick crowd of hormones and nearly collided with a short girl, dressed in an elf costume, who had a cute little white mask covering part of her face. Two big emerald green eyes scrutinized me.
“Sorry.” My gaze fell to her cleavage, which was . . . refreshingly . . . perfect. Not too much on show, leaving just enough to the imagination. I liked it. Plus she smelled like peppermint.
And I was a damn sucker for mint.
Or maybe it was just tits.
I licked my lips as her green eyes blinked up at me with a mix of shock and then confusion, as though she wasn’t sure if I was friend or foe.
Hah, I was both—a little bit of both, anyway. But for tonight? I’d be the best friend she ever had. Her pink tongue snuck out, wetting her lips, and my cock twitched with envy. As if she sensed the direction of my thoughts, a bright red blush stained her cheeks. With a sigh she huffed out a breath. Damn, more peppermint. She could handle my candy cane any day of the week.
There was something oddly familiar about her, though, like we’d met before—but that was the oldest line in the book. And the truth? Had we met before, I’d still be buried balls deep in her. She was gorgeous.
“Lex.” I held out my hand, immediately breaking one of my playbook rules. A dude should never offer his hand first. It seemed too polite, and girls immediately assumed you were in the market for a relationship.. Ian and I had created the rules the minute we realized there was a serious need to strategically navigate the college world of sex and women in a mutually satisfying way where no strings were attached. I never approached, I never offered my name, and I sure as hell didn’t shake a girl’s hand when I could be flicking her nipple with my tongue.
Her eyebrows furrowed and then she slowly, methodically reached out and shook my hand firmly. “Gabrielle, but my friends call me Gabi.”
Gabi? I grew up with a Gabi. But no chance in hell the scrawny and awkward Gabi that Ian and I used to torture was the vision of sex standing in front of me. Besides, she would be on her last year of high school and probably hadn’t even grown into her stubby little legs yet.
“And your boyfriend, what does he call you?” I pressed my body closer to hers.
“Sara.” Her lips twitched.
“Huh?”
She laughed, and that damn sound went to all the wrong places. It was an automatic physical reaction; being near her was driving me insane, and I had no freaking idea why. “He was dating me and Sara at the same time and got confused when he kissed me goodnight.”
“Damn.” I shook my head and smirked. “Did you knee him in the junk?”
“And bit his tongue,” she said, smiling like a feral cat. “I’m violent like that.”
“Feminism.” I nodded. “I give to the cause . . . swear.” I put my hand over my heart. “And I hope he walks funny for a year.”
“Eh.” She gave a casual shrug. “It’s not like he had much for me to hit anyway.”
“Can we be best friends?” I blurted out with a laugh.
She joined in the laughter just as someone pushed her from behind, sending her flying into my arms. Her delicate fingers pressed into my biceps while her breasts slid against my chest.
My breath hitched as she lifted her face toward me.
And I did it.
I lost my mind, forgetting all about my rules of play, and just went for