The Revenge Pact (Kings of Football #1) - Ilsa Madden-Mills Page 0,14

Sex. Everyone does it. Even amoebas. My parents, well, they’ve made no secret of their penchant for inviting others into their bed. It’s fine for them and they are devoted to each other, but I long for a guy who wants only me.

River’s eyes flash over at me as his fingers hover over his notebook, which is covered in doodles and squiggly lines. I admit to an interest in what he’s writing.

The professor walks forward. “Explain to the class. They seem to be slightly interested today. In case some of you have forgotten, that particular novel was banned for forty years in the US. It was dubbed as pornographic and it took a Supreme Court case to finally get the book published here. Ms. Bailey? Care to elaborate?”

I nod. “Connie, the female protagonist, is in a loveless marriage in the twenties in England and longs for true passion. When she meets the gamekeeper of her estate, Oliver, in the forest, they have sex, which hints at the premise of baser instincts and nature. The experience awakens her spirit and she heals from her depression, hence restorative.”

Dr. Whitman purses his lips. “There are explicit sex scenes. What did you think of them?”

I feel my face reddening. I can debate books all day, and normally I wouldn’t be embarrassed, but River is next to me. “A bit over the top, yes. Did D.H. Lawrence set out to write a titillating book? Perhaps. He was dying of tuberculosis and couldn’t perform sexually. His own marriage was failing.”

“Dude,” Benji whispers so only River and I can hear. “That would suck.”

I ignore him and carry on. “The sex scenes aren’t explicit by today’s standards. The book is more a statement about the characters’ unhappiness. It was a sexual awakening for both of them, but they aren’t together at the end.”

“They orgasm at the same time. Pretty sure I read that part a few times. That’ll restore my faith in sex,” Benji cuts in with a laugh.

“What’s your topic, Mr. Williams?” the professor asks, his voice sharpening.

Benji clears his throat. “I went with American Psycho. Haven’t chosen a topic, sir. Mayhem and serial killers probably. He murders lots of people. Blood and gore. I can get behind that one hundred percent.”

“Indeed.” Dr. Whitman compresses his lips. “Perhaps focus on the shallowness of capitalism in that novel, hmmm? Not the serial killer aspect. Mr. Tate?” He looks at River.

River straightens in his chair, pauses, then leans in over his desk. There’s a coiled tension in him, a storm waiting to erupt. He seems to battle it, his hands fisting. “‘The Power of Restorative Sex’ from Lady Chatterley’s Lover.”

Benji chuckles.

I gasp.

River looks at me. “We can have the same topic.”

I know. Just hearing him say ‘sex’—

And now I’m immature.

“Of course,” Dr. Whitman replies. “Just be sure it’s your work, Mr. Tate, and not hers.”

Whoa. I frown at the professor.

“It’s a common theme,” I say in a loud voice. The class needs to know. “There are thousands of papers on this topic. I do my own work and don’t cheat. Neither does River.” I don’t know how I know this, just a gut instinct. Our animosity aside, he’s an honorable person around his brothers. When Parker, one of the freshman pledges, lost his sister in a car wreck in September, River flew to Arizona to be with him at the funeral. He’s the only Kappa who went. I’ve also seen him sitting with Parker in the basement, their heads huddled as they talk. When Crew lost his Pops this summer, River was there for him too.

“Of course he doesn’t cheat. He’s failing this class,” Whitman says under his breath, yet loud enough for the front row to hear. He moves to another student.

I mutter under my breath.

Dr. Whitman swivels back to me. “Did I miss something you said, Ms. Bailey?”

River moves, his leg pressing against mine, as if to say Don’t do it.

My hands clutch my novel. “I said, it’s not appropriate for you to insinuate that either of us would cheat or announce that he’s failing this class.”

“You just announced it.” His eyes narrow behind wire-frame glasses. “This is my class—I can say whatever I want. You’re paying for my knowledge, and I impart it in the way I see fit. Please keep your comments to yourself. Unless you’d rather give this lecture yourself?”

Truth? I probably could. Books are my jam, the one solid thing I clung to growing up. Blood rushes through my veins, and I open