Page 4 of Deviant Obsession

"It's cozy!"

"It's a crime against fashion is what it is. Look at where we live, for fuck’s sake. Cozy shouldn’t be in your vocabulary." She tosses it onto the growing'absolutely not'pile with dramatic flair. "We're seniors now, babe. Time is running out. This year is your last chance to make some truly questionable decisions before real life kicks in."

I chew on my lip, already knowing I'm fighting a losing battle. "I make plenty of questionable decisions."

"Reading research papers on a Friday night doesn't count." Nat dives back into the closet. "Neither does swooning over Professor Dreamboat in class."

I roll my eyes so forcefully they almost get stuck in the back of my skull. "You managed to go a whole two days without bringing that up."

"Two days too long," she snorts. "It’s my favorite topic." Her voice drops an octave in what I assume is meant to be an impression of Professor Shaw. "Miss Foster, would you care to elaborate?"

I huff. "I hate you."

"You love me. Now strip, you're trying this on for me." She makes a brief exit to her own bedroom before returning triumphant with a scrap of black fabric I've never seen before.

"That's not happening."

"You bet your ass it’s happening. It's your size, and it's perfect." She dangles the dress in front of me. "Come on, those legs deserve a night out."

Twenty minutes later, I'm tugging uselessly at the hem of the miniscule bodycon dress while Nat attacks my face with various brushes and powders. The fabric barely skims mid-thigh, and I swear I can feel a draft in places I'd rather not think about.

"Stop fidgeting," Nat commands, flicking a golden curl over her shoulder and wielding an eyeliner pencil like a weapon. "You look hot as fuck."

"I look like I'm charging by the hour."

"You look like a college senior who's ready to have some fun." She steps back to survey her work, nodding approvingly as if she just painted the Mona Lisa. "Now hold still, I have to do your lips."

By the time we step out of our Uber, my feet are already protesting in the heels Nat insisted would 'complete the look.' Of course, she trots around in her own sky-high stilettos with all the grace of a gazelle-come-supermodel. The frat house looms before us like an ominous gauntlet, music pulsing through its walls hard enough to rattle the windows. Red cups litter the front lawn, and the porch is crowded with people taking smoke breaks or making out against the railing.

"This is a terrible idea," I mutter as Nat drags me toward the door.

"This is the best idea. Now come on, I need a drink."

The interior of the house is a mass of writhing bodies, the air thick with the scent of sweat and cheap beer. Nat immediately starts weaving through the crowd toward what I assume is the kitchen, but I lose sight of her hot pink mini dress in seconds.

Great.

I press myself against the nearest wall, trying to become one with the tacky wallpaper as I survey the room without drawing attention to myself. There's a beer pong tournament happening in one corner, a dance floor that's really just a cleared area in the middle of the room, and various couples testing the structural integrity of the furniture in every direction.

And that's when I feel it—the weight of someone's stare heavy on my skin like a physical touch. My eyes scan the space again for the source and soon lock with a pair of steel blue ones. The owner of those eyes is surrounded by what can only be described as a gaggle of obvious frat bros, red cup in one hand while the other braces against the wall beside him. Everything about his stance screams arrogance, from the way his muscled arms flex beneath his rolled-up sleeves to the predatory tilt of his head.

He whispers something to his friends, and they all turn to look at me. My skin crawls under their collective gaze, especiallywhen one of them elbows the blue-eyed one and whispers something behind his hand.

I need to find Nat. Now.

But before I can peel myself away from the wall, Blue Eyes pushes off from his perch. His friends whoop and holler as he starts making his way through the crowd toward me, prowling like he already knows I'm cornered prey.

My heart leaps into my throat.

Oh shit.

The crowd seems to part for him like he owns the place—which, given the Greek letters on his shirt, he might actually. Each loping step brings him closer, until I can smell his cologne cutting through the stale beer air.

He plants one hand on the wall beside my head, effectively caging me in. "Well, well… What do we have here?"

The smirk playing across his lips makes my stomach flip, though whether from fierce attraction or pure revulsion, I'm not quite sure. Up close, he's devastating with a sharp jawline, perfectly messy dark hair, and those icy eyes dancing with mischief.

It takes me an entire minute to realize I haven’t given him a response, though he doesn’t seem deterred.

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