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© 2016 by Rowena
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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First Edition: September 2016
nce superstar jock
Abraham Stone notices shy Madison Mills, all hell breaks loose.
He is determined to have her, finally deciding to shed his longtime gold-digging girlfriend, Bethany, in favor of the quiet, unassuming nerd.
But with Abe’s determined desire comes crippling unforeseen consequences.
Jilted Bethany won’t go down without a vicious fight, and in the end, they will all pay for piercing each other’s sphere, one way or another.
Can the athletic alpha convince Madison he’s worth the cost?
A steamy standalone romance novella with a HEA!
8 years ago…
The new boy’s so cute. But there’s a sadness about him that makes me even more curious about him.
He’s too young to have that sort of darkness floating around him, and I can’t think why that would be.
He looks about the same age as me—maybe a year older. So fourteen, maybe?
He’s at that stage where he’s a boy just about to transition into a man.
His arms already look strong.
And the look on his face—it’s way beyond his years and sometimes makes him seem much older than he probably is.
What could possibly be so bad?
I have this crazy thought that if I mustered up the courage and actually introduced myself to him, he might lighten up a bit.
If I smile at him in greeting, he’ll have to smile back, right?
And even if it’s a fake one, if he does it long enough or often enough, he’ll start to feel it, and his sorrow might be temporarily lifted.
‘Fake it till you make it
,’ my mom says sometimes—when it’s obvious her smiles aren’t real and don’t do a whole lot to mask the terror in her eyes.
I know she thinks she’s going to die after all, despite everything.
keep getting tossed
between regret and relief.
As I stand alone in front of my dorm room mirror, brushing my curly brassy tresses, I’m relieved I don’t have far to go to reach my English class.
I don’t have to rush doing my hair or anything because I’ve calculated how long it will take me to get from here to there with time to spare.
But as I glance over at my roommate’s side of the room, regret fills me once more.
I absolutely would’ve preferred a single, but priority went to those who have been here longer, and as a transfer, I ended up getting stuck with a double.
I was apparently ‘lucky’ to get on-campus housing at all, especially since I transferred in the spring semester.
Sure, I could have rented a place outside of school, but that whole process seemed nightmarish to me.
I hate hassle, and this double seemed like the quickest and easiest solution.
Plus, I figured being on campus would help me get acclimated to the new school faster; the orientation period alone won’t cut it.
But every time my roommate, Judy, and I cross paths, I groan inwardly.
Not that she’s terrible or a pain or anything—I just like my own space. I like things arranged the way I like, as quiet as I like, without occasional weird smells and surprise questionable objects showing up in my living space.
I like not having to pretend I didn’t hear the sounds of sex coming from her side of the room as it happened—the lucky guy continually groaning “oh yeah” as the bed also told on them, giving me an idea of the rhythm of his thrusts as it squeaked.
I’d prefer not having to hear Judy moan—even though I could tell she tried to be quiet.
I had wondered if her lover got off on the idea of another girl just a few feet away, a victim of the live suddenly thrust upon her. Maybe it made him feel like he was with two women instead of one. Maybe he likes being watched and listened to—I heard that’s a thing. Maybe they both get turned on by the idea of someone paying rapt attention to their fornication, unable to help their physical reaction to the sounds of it.
I did my best not to let my imagination run away with me and give the guy a face or body, tried hard not to think about his hard, long penis stuffed inside her vagina, driving into it with rhythmic thrusts.
I tried to stop wondering what that feels like—to have a man between your legs, part of him inside of you. The feel of his hard, long organ pushing in and out as his ass contracts with the effort.
Were they completely naked?
Did the guy just have his dick out, otherwise remaining clothed while she lifted up her skirt and pulled her panties aside?
A small part of me wanted to peek, I won’t lie, but the thought made me feel guilty, and the room was dark anyway—I wouldn’t have been able to see much.
I could hear them, though, and my imagination filled in enough blanks to make me slick between my own legs and sort of jealous I didn’t get to feel what it was like myself.
It sounds like it feels so good—not that I have a ton of experience listening to people have sex.
I’ve never actually watched , although I caught a glimpse of it once when a high school classmate emailed me a clip, and I unwittingly opened it since the title and body of the email were misleading—said something about cute, funny puppies. Obviously, my classmate’s sick idea of a joke.
My mom pretty much caught me immediately since the speakers were on and the man and woman were making sounds much like my roommate’s and her temporary lover, although much louder, more exaggerated.
My mom and I had quite a talk after that, and even though the whole thing wasn’t my fault, I felt guilty enough to suppress all curiosity along those lines.
It’s not like I had a boyfriend at the time or anything anyway.
I haven’t had to wonder about sex for years, buried deep in my studies and other concerns—until my roommate reminded me what I was missing two nights ago as she got pounded a few feet away from me, making me touch myself for the first time in a long time as my core tingled with need, moving me to ease the urge.
Judy’s exactly what my mom would have called a bad influence, had I met her earlier.
But I’m not so impressionable now, so I try to be open to her, even though she’s one of those alternative types—sort of goth and emo with her almost all-black wardrobe, dyed black hair, piercings, and tattoos.
Still, I had to have a talk with her about bringing guys over like that, and we agreed not to.
Of course, it’s easiest for me to follow that rule since I never actually had a boyfriend, and I don’t really anticipate picking one up while trying to finish my studies, distraction-free.
Judy seemed cool and understanding about it, and luckily, she leaves pretty early for her first class of the day, and she’s far more social than I am, so she finds other things to do and places to go evenings and weekends. I don’t actually have to deal with her much.
After a few more brushes, I gather my three and a half feet of hair into twists and manipulate it so that it doesn’t look nearly as long as it is.
My hair has never been cut, and though it would be more convenient to have a shorter, more manageable style, my hair is pretty much the last thing I have that reminds me of my mother—besides photos, of course.
I look nothing like her otherwise—she was a creamy-skinned blonde with blue-green eyes, and I have light brown skin with brown eyes and dark, curly locks.
But we both sported thigh-length hair.
I never met my dad, but I imagine he had dark brown skin and brown eyes like mine.
He’s likely responsible for the overall stark difference in looks between my mother and me—why some people thought I was adopted.
He’s probably the reason why my hair curls instead of hanging straight like my mom’s.
But at least I got her growth cycle, and I’m hesitant to get rid of signs of that part of me—that part of her.
I know it’s silly, but it still feels so recent since she left me behind to navigate the world without her.
In some ways, three years is a long time.
In other ways, it’s far too short.
Three years is not nearly enough time to get over the death of your mother.
* * *
at my English class early enough to snatch a seat at the back.
There was a time I didn’t mind sitting at the front of the class, raising my hand frequently to answer questions, but I quickly realized that kind of visibility makes you a target.
No one likes a know-it-all, so I get my A’s quietly these days.
Sitting at the back also gives me a chance to low-key check everyone out as they enter the class.
I try not to make eye contact with anyone, but I produce a small smile when I do because it’s always better to be friendly when given the opportunity, isn’t it?
A few smile back automatically, since we’re built to mirror behavior, but some just stare at me coldly—or through me.
Eventually, I stop watching the influx of my fellow classmates. No doubt, we’ll be forced to introduce ourselves once things settle anyway.
I get lost in my head for a moment, and when I look up again, my eyes collide with bright green ones on the chiseled face of the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in my life.
My breathing immediately changes a bit.
The guy beats me to a friendly smile because my mouth hangs open for a moment, about to release drool, I think.
No way I’m letting that happen.
I quickly gather myself and smile back at him, and it dawns on me who just practically melted my panties with a mere half-smile—Abe “The Babe” Stone. College football star.
I heard about Abraham long before I stepped foot on campus—or rather, read about him during my research on the school.
I doubt any of the straight guys call him by his nickname—it’s obviously one he earned from the quivering ladies of A.U., and now I fully understand why.
Initially, I wasn’t all that impressed with the few photos I saw of him—not that he wasn’t obviously good-looking. He was handsome, no doubt—very symmetrical with a typical athletic bod, so whatever. I could definitely see why some silly-ass girls would give him the nickname; I don’t expect much of shallow ditzes who get so easily swayed by muscles and a player smile.
But in person, Abraham Stone is absolutely magnetic, and it’s immediately clear that his photos don’t do him any real justice.
I keep my eyes downcast while willing my body to return to its usual temperature, trying not to think of how much my physical form just completely betrayed me.
There’s no way he missed me flushing red—my skin’s not dark enough to hide it.
He’ll know I reacted to him like pretty much all the girls, and he’ll think I’m easy like them.
Wait, why should I care if he thinks I’m like anyone else? Why care about his opinion at all?
Besides, a guy like that doesn’t come after a girl like me unless he thinks it’s easy pickings.
A guy like him would totally ruffle the feathers of a girl like me for kicks, running a short countdown in his head for how long it takes to get me into bed.
He has probably already made a bet with himself—
hmm… less than eight hours to wear that one down and have her spread for me.
He probably wouldn’t brag about nailing a girl like me to his friends, though; they wouldn’t be impressed with a plain nerd as a conquest.
You know what? I’m not even sure why I’m thinking these ridiculous thoughts—from what I’ve heard, Abe has a steady girlfriend.
No doubt she’s hot stuff herself—a guy like Abe never has to settle for anything less.
* * *
hairs scrape the floor
, books slam close, and backpacks zip open and closed as everyone gets ready to take off for whatever’s next for them.
I have another class after this—I stacked my classes so they run from morning to early afternoon, so I’m done every day before one, giving me the rest of the day to study, do homework, and prepare for the next day of classes.
Being an introvert really helps with sticking to my goals—there’s no way I’m going to get pulled into some social outing when I’ve got work to do.
Although my mom advised me to keep my eye on the prize at all times, she also advised me to remain open, so don’t get me wrong—I’m not anti-relationships or anything; I’d be happy to pick up a friend I can keep.
Moving around a lot hasn’t done much for me in that area since a lot of friendships tend to be maintained by proximity.
I was close to having a real friend at my last college, but I doubt we’ll be able to continue since I moved to another state, and I’m careful about my time and energy.
I have another chance here, but I’m not exactly a sought-after type; I’ve become pretty badass at being invisible.
The rich deep voice literally stops me in my tracks.
That’s my name, but someone’s not actually talking to me, right? There must be another Madison here.
Still, I turn toward the masculine voice.
I nearly melt on the spot again, and for a moment, I think I must’ve drifted into a daydream on the short walk to my next class.
There’s no way Abe the Babe is right next to me now, looking at me with those gorgeous green eyes of his—there’s no way he just uttered my name.
Not that he hasn’t heard it before—we all had to give a lame introduction in class—but he remembered it after listening to twenty others give theirs?
I actually couldn’t wait until it was his turn, hoping he’d say “Abe the Babe” so I could laugh on the inside, but he didn’t.
I stammer when I finally answer, “Yes.”
Boy, did I underestimate him—he’s not just a pretty face, after all. Anyone can get over a pretty face; this guy has charm for days.
He has this way with familiarity, making me feel like we’re sort of acquainted already, and it’s incredibly disarming.
God, no wonder he has people gushing about him on forums, and again, I feel like an asshole for all my assumptions about other girls earlier.