The Boy Next Door Read online

“Nope!” she responds without even glancing in their direction, “I’ll catch you in an hour.”

  “An hour?” I grumble, nipping at her earlobe, “is that it?”

  Her lips twitch. “Make it two,” she corrects, slamming the door shut without waiting for a response.

  The moment we’re shuttered away in her tiny dorm room, we tear at our clothing as if starving for one another. Jackets are the first to be shed. Then shirts and her bra. Shoes and socks come next. Somewhere in the mix, jeans and leggings are added to the pile. It’s a frenzy of fabric thrown in every direction until we’re both stripped bare and falling onto the single twin bed.

  Alyssa chuckles as my mouth lands on hers. She opens immediately until our tongues can tangle. It’s like this every damn time. It never gets old. I’m so fucking hot for this girl. After we got together earlier this year, I half-expected that we would screw a couple of times before monotony set in. If I’m being completely honest, I’d secretly hoped for it. All I really wanted was to fuck Alyssa out of my system so I could move on, and she’d stop lurking in the back of my brain.

  But that hasn’t occurred. If anything, it’s been the complete opposite. I can’t get enough of her. The more I have, the more I want. It’s a vicious cycle I can’t seem to break. Hands down, being inside her body is the best damn feeling in the world.

  Nothing else compares.

  Hot licks of need spike through my veins, making me impatient. With the way I’m feeling, there’s no time for foreplay. Alyssa understands this and widens her thighs until I can settle between them. As I thrust my tongue inside her mouth, my dick sinks simultaneously inside her.

  An appreciative groan rumbles up from deep in my chest. There is no greater feeling than her welcoming heat squeezing me tight. She always laughs when I tell her how much I love her pussy. The truth is that I fucking revere it.

  Eight strokes later and I’m coming with a vengeance.

  Thankfully, she’s right there with me.

  Half a year later, and every time feels like the first. How the hell will I ever get enough of this girl?

  Her teeth sink into her lower lip to stifle her moans. I keep my gaze pinned to hers and watch as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over her delicate features. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything as beautiful as the look on Alyssa’s face when she orgasms. Her ecstasy only intensifies my own. I’m ashamed to admit that in the past, it was my satisfaction that came first. I’ve always been a selfish bastard when it came to sex. As long as I got my rocks off, it was all good.

  Alyssa changed that. Her pleasure means everything to me. It’s my first priority.

  With a huff of exhaustion, my muscles loosen, and I collapse on top of her. Slender arms slip around my neck as she drags me close.

  A chuckle fills my ears as her body shakes with silent laughter. “More than an hour, hmmm?”

  Yeah...that didn’t go according to plan. I’m lucky if that lasted five minutes.

  Maybe four.

  “That was round one,” I grunt. “I’ve got a few more left inside me.”

  “Well,” her lips feather across the side of my face, “I certainly hope so.”

  “Give me a few minutes to recover, and then I’ll be ready to go.” I roll to my side and take her with me, which is no easy feat in the narrow bed. Somehow, we manage to switch positions so that my back is to the mattress, and her naked body is sprawled across my chest.

  Lying here with her in my arms is the second-best feeling. As our harsh breathing fills the dorm room, an unexpected contentment settles over me. I wrack my brain, trying to remember the last time I felt this at peace. As if all was right in the world.

  But I can’t.

  I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this.

  If so, it was when I was a kid, around four years old before Mom decided to cut and run. As soon as that ugly thought mushrooms up in my consciousness, I squash it and blink back to the here and now. Alyssa grazes my chest with her fingers before lazily circling my nipple. I glance down, surprised to find her watching me from beneath her lashes. There’s a sleepy look in her eyes and a softening around her mouth as if she doesn’t have a care in the world.

  At this precise moment, I feel the same. The crack she’s managed to find in my heart opens wider.

  Our gazes lock and hold as she whispers, “I love you.”

  And just like that, those feelings of peace and contentment vanish into thin air as if they had been a figment of my imagination the entire time. Everything inside me stills as my breath gets clogged at the back of my throat. It’s as if I’m being suffocated from the inside out. My heart thumps a painful staccato, filling my ears like the roar of the ocean until it drowns out everything else.

  There’s a hopeful look on Alyssa’s face. I open my mouth to say something.

  Anything.

  But nothing comes out.

  One heartbeat passes.

  Then another.

  The happiness filling her eyes drains away before dying an agonizing death.

  As much as I want to echo the sentiment, the words refuse to budge from my lips. Instead, my mouth turns cottony. Deep down, I knew this conversation was inevitable, and I’d even hoped I would be able to parrot it back to her.

  But I can’t do it.

  When I remain mute, she turns her head away before resting her cheek against my chest so I’m no longer able to see her expression. The movement isn’t nearly quick enough for me to miss the pain my silence has caused.

  Chapter Seven

  Alyssa

  One week later...

  Seated on the floor of the studio, I cross one leg over the other and fold my upper body to my thighs, stretching my arms until they can sweep across the wood. Gradually I inhale, filling my lungs with oxygen and expanding my chest to capacity. I hold it for a couple of seconds before forcing every molecule from my body. Repeating the process, I focus on my breathing. I can almost feel the breakdown of lactic acid that had built up in my muscles during the intense sixty-minute rehearsal. After a few more deep breaths, I sit up and shift my legs before crossing the left over the right and bending forward to deepen the exercise. Once my calves and thighs have been properly stretched, I extend my legs in front of me and fold at the waist before widening them and moving through a second series of exercises.

  Francois Dupre, our instructor, is a French import. His pedigree is impressive. He’s classically trained, has danced as the lead with the French Ballet, and traveled the world. Most of the female dancers have a massive crush on him. A few of the males do as well. I can’t blame them. He’s dreamy with black wavy hair and intelligent cocoa-colored eyes. His body is long, lean, and muscular from years of rigorous training.

  As if he hasn’t already commanded everyone’s attention, he claps his hands. “Excellent work,” he says in lightly accented English. “We meet again on Friday.”

  A few sighs escape as three girls pop gracefully to their feet before rushing toward him. Once he’s flanked on all sides, tittering laughter rings throughout the spacious room.

  I glance at Zoe, who is finishing up her stretches beside me, and roll my eyes. “What a bunch of whores,” I mutter under my breath.

  The corners of her lips tremble before she spears a glance toward the growing swarm outfitted in Lycra. “Apparently, they haven’t figured out that Monsieur Dupre has no interest in someone with lady parts.”

  I snort and shrug. “Perhaps they’re hoping to persuade him differently?”

  “It won’t work.” She leans toward me before admitting, “I already tried.”

  “You did not!” I gasp.

  “Of course, I did.” Her gaze slices to him as she lifts a slim shoulder. “I mean, come on. Just look at the man.” Her voice turns wistful. “Can you even imagine what he looks like beneath his clothes?”

  An image of Colton pops into my head. As delicious as Monsieur Dupre is, I only have eyes for one man. And it’s not our dance instructor. “He turne
d you down?”

  “Yup. He said his boyfriend would have a problem with it,” she admits with a laugh. “I told him that I’d be more than happy to be the star of that little show.”

  “Shut up!” I swat her arm as my eyes pop wide. “You didn’t!”

  “Please, girl. You know me better than that.” She grins and shoots another glance in our teachers’ direction. “Do you have any idea how hot that would be?”

  Umm...maybe?

  “Anyway,” she continues blithely, “it was a no-go.”

  I rise to my feet and extend my arms above my head before bending to the left, holding the pose, and then repeating it on the other side until my muscles feel limber.

  Zoe slips off her beaten-up shoes before stuffing them inside her dance bag. I do the same, grabbing a bottle of water and lifting it to my lips. Once the container has been drained, I stuff it in the bag and pull on an oversized T-shirt. Black leggings come next before shoving my feet into a pair of boots and stuffing my arms into my jacket. “Ready to go?”

  The willowy brunette nods as we wave to our instructor, who is still surrounded by a handful of students, and exit the studio. Even though I’m tired from a full hour of dancing, I feel revitalized. My muscles are fatigued and pliable.

  No matter what happens in my life, dance is the one thing I can count on. When my parents went through a rough patch and were at each other’s throats, dance is what got me through the hard times. If I couldn’t escape to the studio, I was able to shove earbuds in, crank up the music, and lose myself in the choreography while locked in my bedroom.

  What would I do if I couldn’t dance?

  Who would I be without it?

  I don’t have an answer to that. It’s such an integral part of who I am.

  Even though I’m nowhere near good enough to dance professionally, my dream is to one day open my own studio. During high school, I started teaching ballet and jazz classes. It’s something I enjoy. I’ve been lucky to find an academy here in town where I can pick up a few classes to teach on the weekends.

  Am I under the delusion that it will make me rich?

  Nope, but I don’t care. Dance makes me happy.

  As we move through the crowded corridor, Zoe chatters about the upcoming annual showcase. Each performer choreographs a three-minute routine to highlight their talent. Wesley has a fierce program with dancers from around the world. Guest instructors are brought in from the most prestigious programs and academies. A number of students go on to perform in companies, on Broadway, or dancing backup. I feel fortunate to be here, studying alongside and learning from such a talented group of people.

  “Hey, you want to grab lunch?” she asks. “After such a grueling rehearsal, I’m starving.”

  I pull on my fingerless gloves. “Sure. I could eat.” Truth be told, I can always eat. It’s a continuous battle.

  What can I say? I’m part Italian and have a serious love affair with pasta. And chicken parmesan. One day, it will be my downfall.

  As we push through the glass doors into the bright January sunshine, my phone chimes with an incoming message. I slip the cell from the pocket of my white puffer jacket and glance at the screen.

  My heartbeat quickens as Colton’s name pops up.

  Six months.

  It seems almost unbelievable that we’ve been together that long. Last week, unable to hold the feelings inside any longer, I’d dropped the I love you bomb after sex. I couldn’t help myself. It had needed to be said, and I’d wanted Colton to know how much he meant to me.

  It had been disappointing when he didn’t return the sentiment, but it’s fine. I know he cares. He shows me in a hundred different ways each and every day. Little things that make my heart beat into overdrive—like opening the car door for me, stroking his fingers gently through my hair, clasping my hand when we walk across campus, or turning up at my dorm in the morning with a steaming cup of coffee.

  Even though we’ve been together for half a year, we’re still taking baby steps. At some point in the not-so-distant future, I’m hoping Colton will come to the realization that what we have is special, and he loves me. Just like football, it’s all about the long game with Colton. I’m nothing if not patient and persistent.

  I swipe my finger across the screen as my gaze skims over the message. Zoe and I jog down the cement stairs until we’re in front of the William Dutton Fine Arts building. It takes a moment for his words to sink in. As they do, my footsteps falter, and I stumble to a halt. My attention stays glued to the text as all of the oxygen evaporates from my lungs, leaving me to feel as if the wind has been knocked from my body.

  “Alyssa?” With her brows pinched together, Zoe swings around before hoisting the strap of her bag onto her slender shoulder. “Are you coming?”

  People knock into me in their haste to flee the building. A few grumble and tell me to get out of the way. When I remain silent, Zoe’s fingers lock around my wrist before she drags me off the busy pathway and out of the rush of student traffic.

  She waves a hand in front of my face to capture my attention as concern floods her voice. “Alyssa?”

  I blink and refocus on the words—willing them to morph into something else—before giving my head a little shake.

  This has to be a joke.

  “Are you all right?” Zoe’s voice softens as she searches my face for an indication as to why I’ve fallen into a semi-catatonic state.

  Even though I’m splintering apart on the inside, I force myself to remain calm. “Um, sorry to bale,” I mumble, unable to stop staring at the screen. It’s like a horrific car accident I’m unable to look away from. “There’s something I need to take care of. Go on without me, okay?”

  Her lips sink further into a frown as she shifts her weight and cocks her head. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah.” I glance up as my head continues to spin. “Sorry to flake on you like this.”

  “I don’t know what’s going on, but if you need backup, I’d be more than happy to tag along. I’ve got nothing better going on.”

  Her offer brings a slight smile to my face as I shake my head. “Thanks, but no.”

  “All right,” she says, sounding dubious, “if you’re sure.”

  “I am,” I reiterate.

  “I’ll see you on Friday?”

  “Yup.” Barely am I aware of Zoe walking away and leaving me alone. Instead of reading over the message again, I stab the call button and hold the phone to my ear. A pit the size of Texas settles in my belly as it goes straight to voicemail.

  What the fuck?

  Is Colton really doing this to me?

  After six months together, it seems almost unfathomable. Anger crashes over me as I stab the red end button and hit redial. When it goes straight to voicemail for a second time, I realize with a sinking heart that he has no intention of picking up my calls.

  He’s really doing this.

  It’s as if he lit a match, threw it over his shoulder, and burned our relationship to the ground.

  And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

  Chapter Eight

  Colton

  With my elbows perched on my knees, I sit on the bench in the locker room and stare sightlessly at my clasped hands. They’re clenched so tightly together that the knuckles have turned bone white.

  Did I do the right thing?

  Or was it all a fucking mistake? One I can’t take back, because let’s face it, there’s no way to smooth over a situation when you break up with someone through text. That’s signed, sealed, and delivered.

  Here’s what I know—relief flooded through me as soon as I hit the send button.

  That’s got to mean something...right?

  I straighten my shoulders, all the while trying to convince myself that I did what needed to be done. That, unfortunately, doesn’t stop the self-doubt from mushrooming up inside me. I feel like the world’s biggest asshole for handling it in this manner. I damn well know that Alyssa didn’t deserve
this, but I also realize there’s no way I could have pulled the trigger if I’d stood in front of her and forced myself to look her in the eye.

  So, yeah...I pussied out and shot her a text instead. And now, I’m acting like a little bitch by not picking up her calls or responding to her messages. She’s attempted to contact me half a dozen times, asking what the hell is going on. Each one has escalated in both tone and disbelief. I can barely stand to read or listen to them. Her pain is palpable.

  A heavy hand lands on my shoulder and knocks me from those thoughts. Blinking away the melancholy, I glance at Beck as he loiters beside me. He’s already dressed and itching to leave, and here I am, sitting with a towel draped around my hips. I drag a hand over my face and attempt to pull my shit together.

  “Everything good?”

  The two of us have been friends since elementary school. We played on Pop Warner football teams together, then in high school, and now in college. Beck is one of the most talented quarterbacks in the country. He’s been breaking state and NCAA records for years. Even as a sophomore, there’s no doubt in my mind that he’ll end up playing in the NFL. If Beck had his way, he would enter the draft next year, but his father has other ideas. And in the Hollingsworth household, Archibald rules the roost.

  I shrug off his hand. “Yup.”

  My world is only imploding...no biggie. Although, it’s by my own hand, so I’m not sure if that’s something I can complain about.

  “Then move your ass, and let’s go. Collins is having a little get-together. I need to chill out for a while.”

  A party?

  No, thanks. There’s no way I can deal with a large group of people right now. Not with all this emotion ripping me up inside.

  “Go on without me,” I mumble, reluctant to reveal what’s really going on. “I’ve got some shit to take care of.”

  He smirks. “Is that what we’re calling getting laid nowadays?”

  It’s doubtful that will be happening any time soon. Instead of forcing out the words, I rise to my feet and yank a pair of boxers out of my locker before dragging them up my thighs. Joggers and a red Wildcats T-shirt come next. Once dressed, I grab my sweatshirt and athletic bag, ready to take off. All I want to do is go home and lick my wounds in private. Sure, it’s a self-inflicted injury, but that doesn’t make a damn bit of difference. Beck and I are the last ones to leave as he pushes out through the heavy locker room door. I follow behind, sucked back into the chaotic whirl of my thoughts.