Although everyone worked together on the projects, each paper was handed in and graded separately. I practically dive out of my seat when my name is called. The moment the envelope that contains my submission is in my hand, I waste no time slicing it open. Beside me, Hunter does the same with his.

A cover page is stapled to the front of my submission, and I almost shriek out loud when I see my grade.

A-plus, baby.

Hell yeah.

Curious, I peer over at Hunter’s sheet. “What’d you get?”

“B-plus.” He looks pleased with that. I had proofed his research paper and thought it was excellent, but I probably would’ve gone more in-depth about certain things, so I think the grade is fair.

I flip through the pages of my case study to find that Andrews scribbled notes in the margins. The praise I find is ludicrously good for my ego. Things like:

Terrific insight!

Highly perceptive!

Provocative…

GREAT angle, she writes in the section where I discuss possible counseling tactics to try to help the narcissist reach the rare self-awareness. The slew of compliments has my ego swelling to monstrous proportions. This feels way more satisfying than the A-plus I got in Organic Chem. This one feels right.

Hunter leans closer to whisper in my ear. “You look so hot right now.”

I wrinkle my forehead. “Really?”

“Oh yeah.” His breath tickles my cheek. “It’s that cocky look in your eyes. Never thought I’d get turned on by an academic, but fuck, I’ve got a semi, Semi.”

I snicker softly. But I realize he’s not kidding when he straightens up and I glimpse the hot lust swimming in his eyes.

I gulp through my suddenly parched throat, turning toward TJ as a distraction. “How’d you do?”

“An A,” he replies, and Pax got a B, so all in all I’d say Abnormal Psych was a smashing success.

Since it’s the last class, Andrews rewards us with a topic that I could probably spend a solid twenty-four hours listening to: serial killers. In fact, if you tally all the time I’ve spent watching crime shows, it probably adds up to a depressingly long portion of my life.

Andrews begins to discuss a case that’s so macabre I’m on the edge of my seat. Ten minutes in, although she still hasn’t named the killer, I grab Hunter’s arms and hiss, “She’s talking about Harold Howarth!”

“Who?”

“He was the subject of the episode Brain Surgeons Who Kill.” I remember calling my dad immediately after watching that episode. I told him he’s never, ever allowed to inject poison into a patient’s frontal lobe, and he asked me if I was high.

As I resettle in my chair, I almost rest my hand on Hunter’s knee, a habit I have when we’re sitting together on his couch. This morning I forcibly have to stop myself. PDA isn’t allowed until I know what this is. But my gaze keeps flitting toward him. I wish I could touch his leg. Or even better—slide my hand inside his pants and wrap it around his cock. I find myself wanting to touch this man all the time.

And I mean all the time. Sometimes I want him so badly I can’t even wait for him to close the bedroom door before I’m mauling him. Today is one of those times, except we’re not in a bedroom and my throbbing body is furious at this predicament.

By the time Andrews dismisses us, my core is one dull ache. I barely hear Andrews thanking us for being so attentive this semester, wishing us luck with our future. Any other day, I’d linger after class to express my own gratitude, but I think I’ll need to settle for sending a lengthy email.

I’m so aroused, I’m practically leaping out of my own skin as we exit the lecture hall. My impatient gaze darts around the wide corridor. We didn’t drive, and there’s no way I can last the long walk back to my house. So, as Pax and TJ walk on ahead of us, I grab Hunter’s hand and drag him around the corner.

33

Hunter

Demi shoves me through the nearest doorway. Luckily, it leads into an unlit room with tables and chairs arranged in a semicircle. The blinds are shut, but the room isn’t pitch black. Just shadowy, with thin stripes of sunlight peeking in from the slats.

“What are you doing?” I ask in amusement.

She hurriedly shuts the door. “I was going crazy not being able to touch you in there. You have no idea how close I was to just taking off your pants and riding your dick, right there in front of everyone.”

My groin clenches. Oh Jesus, that sounds hot. The two of us are all over each other, all the time. It’s almost become an addiction. And I’m embarrassed to say it hasn’t affected hockey whatsoever, which means my vow of celibacy was completely fucking pointless. If anything, I’m playing even better these days.

I’ve avoided talking about it with Demi, because I’m afraid she’ll tease me, tell me I’d been acting out a scene from Wizard of Oz or some shit. Like, you had the power to be a good captain and teammate all along, Hunter! It was your guilt, and your fear of being a selfish jackass like your father, that stopped you from seeing that.

I can totally see Demi using a cheesy analogy like that.

But I guess it’s a lesson I needed to learn. Last season’s fuckery had scarred me. And I started this season wanting to put my team—and not my dick—first. I wanted to be a good captain. I wanted to prove to myself that I’m not a selfish narcissistic asshole whose needs are the only ones that matter. When our season went up in flames last year, it was a wake-up call for me. The first thing I thought after we lost that game was, maybe we are two of a kind. My father and I.

The first time he’d said that to me, I blanched inside. I felt dirty. Spooked by the notion that I could actually be anything like him. A dirt bag. An egomaniac.

But sex with Demi hasn’t resulted in anything but me going to bed sated every night and killing it in practice every morning. Not to mention the playoffs—we’re dominating the other teams.

Demi loops her arms around my neck and yanks my head down for a kiss. Christ. I love kissing her. I love fucking her. I love doing everything with and to her.

We both know this thing between us is more than a rebound. More than sex. But I don’t know what that more is. And I’m enjoying it too much to rock the boat by asking.

I laugh when she pushes me against the door. She clicks the lock into place, and her hand is at my belt before I can blink. She undoes my jeans and tugs them and my boxers just low enough that she can reach inside and pull out my hot, heavy cock.

“Oh my God, I wanted this so badly the past two hours,” Demi mumbles in anguish. “I want it all the time.”

“Take it,” I say huskily.

She sinks to her knees and my body tightens in anticipation. When her mouth engulfs my dick in one wet glide, I hiss in pleasure. So does she, and her brown eyes shine happily as she releases me to say, “I love having this in my mouth.”

“You and your oral fixation,” I mock, all the while trying to nudge my cockhead through her sexy lips again.

She laughs at my pathetic attempts. “So when I need my candy, it’s, what did you call it the other day? A serious problem. But when I’m craving your dick, my oral fixation is just fine and dandy?”