Zeb

ZEB

Midterm? Chapters?

I was listening to every word out of her perfect mouth, but I
wasn’t hearing her words. All I heard was my brain and my dick both saying mine.

I’d showered and left practice with the guys, heading to the
cafeteria to eat a few burgers and a plate of spaghetti, but I’d had to duck
out early to make it to the library in time for my required tutoring session. I
was pleasantly surprised that my genetics tutor wasn’t Cameron, a guy, but
Cammie, a gorgeous girl.

She’d been right when she said everyone was looking at me. They
were. I didn’t ever come to the library. I may have been inside once freshman
year during the orientation tour, but not since. Fuck, had I been missing out.
I was Zeb Wilder, the university’s quarterback. I led the team the past two
years–yup, even as a freshman–to winning our bowl games and was working toward
the same this year, too.

I had the arm and the charm as my teammates liked to say.

Except there hadn’t been a girl on campus in the two years I’d
been here who I’d wanted to charm like I did Cammie.

Why? Because no one seemed to fucking see what I did when I went
to the table listed on my tutor sheet I’d gotten in my email sent from my
coach. While I wasn’t doing all that great in my genetics class, I hadn’t
wanted a tutor. Coach insisted. He wanted me to stay focused, stay eligible to
play. A solid midterm grade would ensure that.

Boy, had he fucked up.

Because Cameron was fucking gorgeous and all I wanted to do was to
get her to smile. Get her to blush. Get her to kiss me. Get her to scream my
fucking name as I made her come.

The best thing of all? She had no idea who I was. She was stumped
about people staring at me. She didn’t know it, but it happened wherever I
went. I got fist bumps, bro hugs, and ladies saying hi and batting their fake
eyelashes at me. The first semester, it had been cool, especially being the
youngest of nine in my family.

I got attention here at college. People saw me as the guy who was
winning games, not the youngest Wilder brother. Not the little kid. Here on
campus, I was the man. Then it got old. Real old, with people thinking
because I was the face of the football team, the guy who’d singlehandedly
brought wins and bowl trophies back to Montana, that they deserved a piece of
me.

Cammie didn’t seem to care that I played football. I didn’t even
think she knew I did even though I was wearing my football hoodie.

She was settled in one of the uncomfortable wood chairs with books
and papers piled around her. Her laptop was open, but the screen was dark. She
seemed dwarfed behind it all, making it very clear that she was small.
Breakable.

Her thick glasses didn’t hide her bright blue eyes, round face,
pert nose, and narrow but full fuck-me lips. She didn’t have on a lick of
makeup and her hair was piled on her head in a way that indicated she may have
slept with it like that. It was long, wild, and I had to wonder how far it fell
down over her shoulders. Would it brush her nipples–nipples that were hard
little points against her white shirt?

Her gray cardigan was thick and soft, perfect for this cold
weather we were having, but it looked like something my size. That only made my
dick go hard thinking about her wearing my clothes, and only my clothes.

And the pencil she’d lost in her hair? Cute as fuck.

I was fucked. F.U.C.K.E.D. I didn’t give a shit about genetics or
football or anything but learning more about her. I wanted to study Cammie.