Darien Grace
"Alrighty then, boobs up, ass out," Jasmine coached unnecessarily in my ear as we reached the door. I'd been to more than my fair share of these events in the past. I knew the do's and don't's of Greg's parties.
Do get thoroughly fucked up.
Don't wear more clothing than legally required.
Do feel free to go topless whenever the urge arises.
Don't bring anyone pledging the nunnery that was Alpha Epsilon Phi.
They were actually pretty basic guidelines.
I'd been relentless while putting our outfits together for tonight. I hadn't had sex in over two months; I hadn't had an orgasm caused by another human being in over seven. I wasn't surprised though, shitty sex is to be expected when you're banging some one who is about as straight as Clay Aiken.
I was still pissed that I hadn't seen the warning signs, though. Steven had gone to the fucking nail salon nearly three times as often as I did, his hair was always dancing that flawless line between post sex and just styled. He gave killer foot massages and hot fucking damn, the boy could cook. Whatever orgasms I'd been forced to fake during sex, he made up for in the kitchen. Even after I'd found out that he'd been cheating on me for three months with Petre, a Ukrainian basketball player, I hadn't been able to be that pissed because he broke the news to me over chocolate crème brûlée. Chocolate fucking crème brûlée. No. Just, no. I'd almost been tempted to tell him to do it again just so that he'd make me another. I swear it was the best orgasm he'd ever caused.
I was no where near the type to eat my feelings—food just didn't hold that appeal. The Universe had a perverse sense of irony, though. All I'd ingested for the past couple weeks had been frozen cream and excess sugar. I was sure that if I ate another bite of Ben and Jerry's I'd swell up to twice the size of the contestants on the Biggest Loser. I needed a new man in my life, someone who could help me burn calories rather than gain them. Tonight I was going to end my little dry spell and get back into shape for bikini season.
"Jas, remember the rules," I chided, pausing to readjust my black leather, cropped bustier. (I'd made a few phone calls and had arranged for us to have an appointment at my favorite lingerie boutique; the entire back room was made up of racks upon racks of the most hauntingly beautiful leather pieces I'd ever seen.) The bust was generous and padded for success; I knew that it would have every hormone crazed man and, hell, even a few women in the room drooling. The inch and a half leather strips were woven together to expose vast amounts of bare skin all along my upper back and along my ribcage. There was a three inch fringe across the deep v-cut exposing my illusionary cleavage. Throw in a pair of distressed high-waisted shorts, black leather cowboy boots, black stetson, a silver star pin, and a set of leather handcuffs and even Clay Aiken himself wouldn't have been able to turn me down. I'd invested far too much time and energy to end the night unsatisfied.
Stella was screaming at me to just get it in and I was .5 seconds away from grabbing the first frat guy that opened the door and taking him in the hall closet. She was drying up faster than the fucking Sahara. She needed attention, her needs were driving me very near insanity.
Damn, vagina.
"Nothing below an eight and make sure you're able to see straight when we leave. Keep your hand over your cup. Don't take drinks from anyone other than me and keep Jeffery as far away from me as possible."
"Oh come on Dari, you act like this is my first rodeo," she smirked, waggling her eyebrows at me at her lame joke.
"Get new material, Jas, and I'm serious about Jeffery. He gets hands-y when he's drunk and the perv has more STD's than a drag queen." Jeffery was the vice president of Delta Chi and had been trying to get into my pants ever since Greg (Delta Chi's current president) and I broke up halfway through freshman year. I was stubborn and he was persistent. Every time I showed up at the Delta Chi house it was like his RenRadar went off. He just appeared out of nowhere- the stalker Houdini.
"Okay, okay. Jesus. You're acting like my mother."
"Come on now, buttercup. Don't be that way," I smirked, pinching her cheek, "It's time to get thoroughly fucked up," I turned away and hammered my fist against the closed door. The near deafening music washed over us as one of the new pledges answered the door. He was dressed to the nines in black leather lingerie, leather collar and all. I burst out laughing the second I met his mortified chocolate eyes.
"I'd say that it gets easier kid, but that would be a lie," I laughed, patting the poor boy on the shoulder before sauntering off into the crowd.
As I moved, there was this nagging sensation in the back of my mind. Someone was watching me. Plastering on a lazy smirk, I eased my way through the parting crowd. I felt like fucking moses parting the Red Sea. I swear, it's like you throw one temper tantrum and the entire University is terrified to piss you off.
"Renny!" Greg howled, his massive form enveloping mine in a bone crushing hug. I couldn't breathe. Right before I was sure that I'd pass out from oxygen deprivation, he let me go and set me back on my feet. I had to crane my neck to look up at him, the dude was like half giant. I don't know how it was possible but he'd seemed to have grown since the last time I'd seen him. He had the typical high school jock build, muscled all the way up to his ears, short fuzzy buzz cut and a cratering set of dimples set off with soft all american blue eyes.
"Jesus, Greg. If you wanted to feel me up at least put some real effort into it. I know you're more creative than that," I snorted, punching him playfully in one cinderblock arm.
"Ow," I groaned, pursing my lips and glaring up at him.
"Oh come on, Baby Girl, you didn't really expect me to go soft on you."
"A little cushion never hurt anyone, bud."
"Sarcastic till the end, Darien Grace, why did I ever let you go?" he chuckled, planing a large kiss to my forehead, "I'm glad you came."
"Yeah, well free beer," I teased, holding up my red cup, "I'm a broke college kid remember, I'd be fucking stupid to pass it up."
"Broke?"
"Let me stick to the stereotypes for one night, you shit head."
"Alright, alright. One stereotypical college party for the stereotypical college girl," he grinned a wicked glint shining bright in his glazed gaze, "You know what that means then, right?"
"Don't you fucking dare."
"Keg stand! Keg stand! KEG STAND!" Greg's chant was taken up by the party in record shattering time. The entire house was cheering and staring.
"I've seemed to have remembered why we broke up, asshole," I grumbled, rolling my eyes as I braced my hands on the side of the keg, Greg and one of the other DC's helping to keep me stabilized as I called on the muscles I'd developed for this very activity back at the beginning of high school. The room was spinning slightly when they finally let me down; all the blood had gone to my head, beer sitting heavily in my stomach.
"Gregory Davies, are you trying to get me drunk?" I quipped, flashing him a genuine smile.
"Is it working?"
"Oh darling. I'm a marathon runner. That was like taking a jog down the streets."
"To the kitchen then," he chuckled, taking my hand and leading me away from the steadily growing line for the keg in the living room.
The nagging in the back of my mind had intensified and I swore I could feel eyes burning into the back of my skull. It was like the atmosphere in the room had changed and a thrill raced up my spine. No, he couldn't be here— the Darling Professor wouldn't be caught dead in even the slightest bit of leather and that was precisely the reason I'd come. I needed a night to forget about the sexual torture unfolding in the damned classroom. Greg could help me forget. Greg would willing help me forget. It was just going to take a bit of convincing and a hell of a lot of alcohol.