I am not a bitch, although people like to say I am. I kept our relationship secret. I’m not responsible for telling the university administrators about it, but a lot of students still blame me for getting their favorite professor fired.
I am not a drama queen, although everyone thinks I am now. When I got a few nasty messages, I just deleted them. When I got the threat, I assumed it was someone being stupid. I still think that’s all it was. My parents worry, though, so they hired me a bodyguard. Now Jack follows me around, intimidating everyone who approaches me and looking obnoxiously hot.
This is what I am. I’m Chloe. I’m a twenty-year-old art history major. Kind of shy, although I pretend not to be. Stubborn enough to stay here for my senior year, even though everyone hates me.
And I’m stuck with Jack.
He calls me “Princess,” but I’m not a princess either.
Rachel is a writer, a teacher, a romance reader, and a dog-mom. She loves animals and art and hot men with soft hearts under a tough exterior. She tries to write love stories that feel real, even in unlikely circumstances.
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“Oh.” After a minute, I jerk. “Wait! Am I a cotton-candy case?”
“Of course, you are.”
I glare at him, trying to think of something appropriate to say. Nothing comes to mind.
“I thought you were here to be nice.”
“Am I not being nice?” His voice has changed, grown slightly huskier.
I gulp some more beer and put down my pizza. My fingers are greasy so I lick them.
Jack’s eyes are on my mouth as I do, and the innocuous gesture suddenly feels sexual.
I lower my hand. “Calling me a cotton-candy case is definitely not nice.”
His eyes blaze with a heat that’s unmistakable. “I like cotton candy,” he murmurs. Not his obnoxious, smug drawl—but a thick, sexy one that makes me quiver. I literally quiver. I never realized I could do that from nothing but hearing a voice.
“I’m not cotton-candy,” I say, because there’s a principle here, and I refuse to melt into goo because he makes me think about sex. “That’s insulting.”
“You’re not cotton-candy. The case is.” Somehow he has scooted closer to me, but I never actually see him move.
“That’s still insulting.” I’m doing my best, but I can’t look away from his eyes, his mouth, his lips… Oh, fuck, this is bad. I’m supposed to be on a man-fast.
“Why is it insulting? I like cotton candy.” He’s really close to me now. Not touching me yet, but it feels like he is. It feels like he’s about to.
“Cotton candy is nothing but air.”
Now his hand moves up to my face, cupping it like he did earlier today. He’s just as intense, but it’s all focused on this heat I can see in his eyes, feel in his body. “It’s sweet,” he murmurs, leaning forward until his lips are just a breath away from mine. “And soft. And you know it’s bad for you. You know you’re not supposed to have it. But you just can’t help yourself.”
I barely suck in a breath before he’s kissing me. He’s kissing me. His lips are hard but gentle, and his tongue is very naughty—slipping along my lips and then inside my mouth in ways it really shouldn’t be allowed to do.
It feels so good I groan at the back of my throat, and my hands move up to wrap around his neck, tugging at his hair, trying to get him even closer.
His stubble is scratchy against my skin, but it creates new shivers that run up and down my spine. I can’t think of anything except how this feels, how I need even more.
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