The Revenge Pact (Kings of Football #1) - Ilsa Madden-Mills Page 0,77

else matters. Forget about our thing. It’s so unimportant.”

It’s that easy with her. So damn easy.

The band takes a break, and someone starts up the jukebox. A wistful expression crosses her face.

“What?” I ask.

“It’s your song, ‘Iris.’”

My lashes shield my gaze as I watch her hum the opening lines about a man who’d give up forever to touch his girl, how she’s the closest thing to heaven he’ll ever feel—

She’s standing and takes my hand.

“What are we doing?” I ask, following her, my eyes drinking in the sway of her hips, the swish of her hair.

“You owe me a dance. You laughed at me in my apartment when I went low, low, low, refused to participate—”

“You know why,” I say as we stop in the center of a small dance area. We’re the only ones out here.

Her arms curl around my neck, her tits against my chest. “And you called me Rainbow—cute. Why?”

“You’re color.” I am so fucking lame.

“Color?”

“And beginnings.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

My legs go weak as I pull her against me, my arms wrapping around her waist. My hands linger at her sides, then go behind her back and settle there. She’s pressed against me, and it’s more than the friendly hug in my room. My hands drift and graze her ass. She melts against me and my heart pounds.

This. Her. The song.

Can’t touch her ass. Can’t.

My hands shift back to that slice of skin at her waist, my thumbs digging into her sides as my breathing escalates. Her skin is like silk. I dip my head and breathe in the smell of her hair.

She rests her head on my chest, right over my heart.

We’re too close. Too close for study buddies.

Fuck it.

Just.

Fuck it.

One song bleeds into another, then another, some faster, not slow songs, but we don’t let go.

I can’t.

I try to keep my body under control, but I’m in Anastasia overload.

That’s what happens when you keep denying yourself.

My lips touch her hair as my cock brushes against her.

She knows I’m hard. She has to.

My throat tightens as she curls her fingers in my hair, a long sigh coming from her lips. “River…”

I pull away from her in the middle of a song and clear my throat. “It’s getting late.”

A pink flush rises up her throat to her cheeks. “Maybe we should skip the library and go to your house—”

“We shouldn’t.” I walk back to the table, my chest rising and falling rapidly.

I fish out several twenties and toss them on the table as she joins me. “I didn’t bring my laptop. Going to get it back at the house and I’ll meet you there.” It’s an inane thing to say, but I can’t focus. With nervous hands, I pick up the pencil and put it in my coat pocket.

She watches me, her face carefully blank, but I think I see hurt there.

Fuck.

“Right.” She checks her phone. “I’m going to see June, then I’ll be there.”

She grabs her purse and the to-go box and we leave together, our bodies side by side, but it feels like a universe between us.

I’m still standing in the parking lot, watching her taillights disappear five minutes later.

I had her in my arms.

She’s too much. Too soon.

She isn’t over him. She still thinks about him.

20

I saunter up and plop my books down. It’s Wednesday, our third session in the library.

From the disarray on the table and the harried look on his face, he’s been here a while. My gaze sweeps over him, taking in his tall fame, the long legs stretched out under the table, the distressed black hoodie over his shirt. His hair is messy, eyes glinting with sparks.

Last night after pizza was kind of a mess. We both showed up at the library and barely talked to each other except to discuss the book.

Our chemistry sizzles, enough to singe my hair, and I like him, the person he is. It’s more than just how he looks. Yes, we can all agree he is the hottest man on campus, but I’m more entranced by his soul, by his strength and perseverance in dealing with his learning issues. His armor is falling away piece by piece in front of me, and I… I want to see all of him.

But…

He’s got a titanium shield up.

I stare at his Chucks, worn but loved, and wish for mine. I flash my pink stilettos.

“Don’t fall in those,” he quips.

“Too much?” I peer down at my magenta velvet mini skirt and fuzzy pink cropped sweater. “On Wednesdays we wear pink,” I