Cameron Cole has a plan.
After yet another relationship ends because of certain shortcomings-literally-Cameron decides it's time to swear off dating and focus her energy into her junior year at the University of Charlotte. There's an internship up...
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I inhale deeply and roll over onto my stomach.
I crack one eye open, morning light peeking in through my closed blinds and slanting across my room. Too early. My head drops back onto the pillow, and I exhale as everything stills.
Then my memory hits me like a truck, and I instantly push myself up onto both palms.
I spin back around onto my ass, resting back on my hands, and glance at the other side of my bed, finding it completely empty, though the sheets are clearly crumpled like someone had been there.
Not just someone. Wes.
Oh, fuck. You naughty, naughty girl, Cam.
I bring my knees up to my chest and fall back against my headboard, covering my face with both hands as I let out a frustrated groan into the room. It takes me longer than necessary to realize I'm buck-naked too.
Spreading my fingers, I peek out at my room for a few seconds as I try to process all this chaos.
Then I'm groaning again and dramatically flopping onto my side.
His hands, his mouth, the way he whispered my name like it was the only thing that mattered—it all comes back to me in too much detail.
I can't even blame it on being drunk like last time.
It was all me. Horny and stupid and horny me.
I can't even blame Wes for leaving either—I snuck out on him before, so it's only fair he does the same.
I'm kind of relieved too. If I had to deal with his smug, cocky expression this early in the day, I might just have to punch it.
After giving myself a few moments of self-care to wallow in pity, I drag myself up from my bed. I step onto my rug, stumbling a little from the blood rush to my head, and glance down at myself.
I'm peppered in love bites: my tits, my hips, my inner thighs. There aren't too many, none in obvious places, but still—fuck. It looks like Wes really feasted on me last night.
I run a hand through my hair before grabbing my white-and-pink floral short robe from the back of my door and tying it around my waist. I open the door, smiling at the glorious scent of our coffee machine, and flick my hair out from beneath my robe.
"Good mor—" I freeze the second I round the corner.
Scar is leaning back against the kitchen counter, her long blonde hair tied up, wearing a dark green spandex set. Across from her, perched casually at the kitchen island, is Wes.
Wes.
Back in his sweats and nothing else.
He's leaning on his forearms atop the counter, both hands wrapped around a wobbly, lumpy mug I made in a pottery class during a free trial. It has tiny little strawberries around it and a red handle and looks so damn tiny in his quarterback hands.
