Page 55 of Courting Clemson

“Can’t say that I’ve ever been.”

“Okay, I need to do one more thing before leaving for the day,” he said. “Since Grace is still gone, why don’t I come over to your place? I’ll bring takeout.”

I thought the plan sounded perfect.

Luke said he would call when he was on his way and estimated between six and seven. We hung up, and I took a good look around the living room and panicked. The place was a complete mess, and I couldn’t remember the last time someone used the vacuum.

So, in a crazed whirlwind, I set to cleaning the little rental and getting as much done as I could before stopping to shower and get ready. I was never a big fan of makeup, but after a few coats of mascara and some lip oil, I looked pretty good. The house was presentable at least, and I paced back and forth from the kitchen to the front door waiting for him to arrive.

It was the height of the summer now, and even though we enjoyed the daily breeze from being so close to the ocean, it was hot. I wore cut-off denim shorts and a cute little corset-style tank top. My legs looked incredibly long and toned in the short shorts, and the whole outfit seemed perfect for a night around the house.

I knew I’d made the right choice when I answered the door and watched Luke give me a head-to-toe sweep with very hungry eyes.

“Jesus, Clemson,” he muttered and stepped closer for a long, intimate hug.

I leaned back, smiling. “What?” My anxiety tried to rear its nasty head, but I stuffed it down with a forced smile and waited for his response.

“Please don’t wear those shorts outside of my presence. I’m feeling very…” He paused for a long moment and took an obvious second look around the backside of my body at my ass. “Territorial,” he finally breathed out.

My grin grew wider at his admission. Normally I wouldn’t stand for this possessive type of request, but I was getting used to honest, unfiltered reactions where Luke was concerned. Instead of a red flag, it appeared more like an endearing quality that I wanted to capture in a jar for all the times I felt insecure.

“Noted,” I said simply and couldn’t make my damn smile settle down.

To change the topic, I asked, “What did you bring? It smells so good, I want to tear into those bags.”

He looked sheepish for a few beats. There was a look I hadn’t seen on his face before. Even that was attractive on him, and I couldn’t stand wishy-washy men.

“I took a chance and got Greek. I have no idea if you like it, but it’s all pretty healthy, and this place has the freshest ingredients. I think you’ll like it,” he said, pitching his dinner choice like I imagined he did an ad campaign. Pointing out all the positives and planting a seed of how I should feel about his choice with enticing and suggestive words.

“You’re pretty clever, Mr. Allen. You know that?” I teased while we sat down at my little breakfast bar.

He looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Your advertising genius is showing, and you don’t even know you’re doing it. I’m pretty convinced I love Greek food—and I’ve never had it—just from the way you described it.”

Nodding in understanding, he said, “Ahh, you’re right. Occupational hazard.”

We loaded our plates and dug in, and he was right. The food was exceptional. We talked a lot about his job, how he ended up in advertising, and a little about the future. Not our future, necessarily, but where he would like to see his career go and what he was doing to ensure that path opened up for him.

There was a lot to learn from this guy. I listened to what he said, not just because he was smart and successful, but because he was really interesting and funny. He loaded the conversation with little stories about the team that worked for him, and by the time our meal was done, I felt like I knew the men and women that worked for him too.

We decided to watch a movie and cuddled on the sofa while it played. Luke was obsessed with my long hair and always had his fingers in it in one way or another. I moaned out loud when he massaged my scalp during a slow part of the movie. I wanted his hands all over, not just in my hair.

“That feels so good. You’re giving me goosebumps,” I muttered into the dark room.

“You should let me give you a massage sometime. These hands are magic.” He grinned while spreading his big palms in front of us and wiggling his fingers.

“Oh, I imagine they are. Just from what I’ve felt so far,” I replied and couldn’t miss the flood of arousal rushing to my pussy.

With very little convincing, I agreed to a massage. Really, who didn’t want a massage when someone offered it? Even if it led to fooling around, which I was damn sure it would, I was completely on board with it.

“You’re not going to believe this,” I began, “but I actually have a massage table.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I had a shoulder injury in high school,” I explained, “and it flares up now and then. Not the area of the body to hurt as a swimmer, as you can imagine.”

“Where is it? Is it easy to set up?” he asked, completely on board for doing this the right way.

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