Page 17 of Lilies in Autumn

I pull my pajamas out from my drawer and grab my shower caddy, towel, and shower shoes. Making my way to the door, I say over my shoulder, “I’m not sure who he is, but he seems like a douche canoe, and I hope she stabs him with her Louboutin. I’m going to take a shower and wash this grime off of me. I’ll try to be quiet when I get back in.”

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The communal bathroom at the end of our hall hosts four private water closets and five showers for the thirteen girls that live on this side of the dorm; all of us nestled into six two-bedroom dorm rooms and one single for our RA, Bethany. How they factored in the number of toilets and showers doesn’t sit right with me. What if we all get a massive case of food poisoning and have a mini pandemic in our wing? Will we have to puke in buckets like maidens in the sixteen hundreds?

I check my phone on the way to the bathroom, noting the late hour, and pray that no one is in the bathroom, or if they are, that they aren’t looking for a conversation. Between the leaves in my hair and dirt covering my body, I look like I came back from a stakeout in the bushes. Greyson’s face races through my mind; he looked mortified on my behalf when I fell off his lap and ate shit.

There’s no use wondering over it. Odds are, our meeting will fade into the ether for him, and neither my name nor my face will be recognized if we ever cross paths again. He knew all about girls—sorry, women—like Jordan and Felicity. When he spoke about Felicity, it was obvious he knew her, intimately. I can’t say I’m surprised; her perky chest and beautiful face are hard to miss. She may not have been the… nicest person at the pregame, but she was gorgeous and thin. If that’s his type, then why was he pulling me closer during our entire conversation?

Ugh. I hate that I’m spending this much energy thinking about a guy that probably thought the chubby girl of the party was the easy lay and hungry for affection. His pursuit was nothing more than trying to get a blow job out of the easiest target, and I can’t lose sight of that. This isn’t the first time a hot guy came onto me with the sole purpose of sex; when I was a sophomore in high school, the star linebacker of our football team relentlessly pursued me. When I finally said yes to a date, he made it clear that he expected “at least a hand job” for his trouble, and when I refused to touch his dick, he called me a fat cunt and kicked me out of his car in the movie theater parking lot. I had to Uber home and refused to tell my parents why a different car dropped me off.

The next day, I told everyone in school that he had a tiny dick and smelled like moldy jock straps. Needless to say, he had a difficult time finding a prom date. I don’t think Greyson is like that fuckhead, but I still don’t trust his motives for getting me alone and pulling me onto his lap. Whatever. I need to stop this line of thought and focus on getting the leaves out of my hair.

I push open the bathroom door and peek around, making sure there’s no one here. Setting my shower supplies on the small wooden bench outside of the stall, I turn the water temperature to scalding and close the heavy curtains around me, blocking out the rest of the bathroom in case someone does come in this late. The shower quickly heats up and I step inside, reveling in the feel of the hot water cleansing my body of dirt and embarrassment.

My hands follow the path of my lemon verbena body wash. Running my hands over my chest, my fingers trail the suds over my nipples. Jesus, I can’t help but picture that it’s Greyson’s hands caressing my body. I moan, pinching my nipples and twisting them into peaks, imagining his mouth and teeth and warm breath on my skin.

Moving one hand lower, I pass over my soft stomach and work my hand between my thighs, caressing my fingers over my pussy lips. I’m already soaked, and not from the shower. I may be a virgin, but touching myself, grinding the heel of my palm into my clit until I come, is one of my favorite nighttime activities. My knees nearly give out when I circle my clit, pleasure forming in the base of my spine and radiating out. My fingers work into my opening, tight and hot and so fucking wet from the images I’m conjuring up in my head: Greyson on his knees in front of me, feasting on my lips. Greyson’s big hands grabbing my ass, spanking me for being a bad girl and running away tonight. Greyson above me, shoving himself down my throat, fucking my face with wild need. I move my hand faster, chasing my orgasm until, finally, I come with Greyson’s name on my lips.

He may forget about me easily, but he’ll be the star of every fantasy I have.

Greyson

It’s been three days since I saw my little vixen, and I can’t get her out of my fucking mind. I replay how she left me, a beautiful mess on her knees before jumping up and running faster than an Olympic runner. I didn’t even get her number before she booked it out of the party, something that is pissing me the fuck off. Women don’t run away from me, ever. Her little stunt had cum shooting out of my cock as soon as I grabbed it in the shower that night. Yesterday, the day before, and today, I’ve come thinking about her each time, but I’m not satisfied. No, the only thing that will satisfy me is her under me, above me, or on her knees. Preferably all three positions.

So far, all I know about her is that her name is Ava, her roommate, Celeste, wanted to cut Dante’s balls off and keep them as a souvenir, and she falls a lot. I shouldn’t find her lack of balance attractive, but it stirs every protective instinct I have. She also compared me to a serial killer more than once, so she must be one of those people that get off on Netflix documentaries about murder. I tried to find her on social media, but without a last name, hunting through private profiles made me feel like the psychopath she compared me to.

Not being able to find her on social media hasn’t lessened my need to find her, I just need to change my tactics. I palm my phone, weighing the consequences of sending the text that I know will get me what I want when Dante storms into my room like a bull. The house Dante, Lincoln, or Linc, and I share is fifteen minutes from campus and looks like a fucking McMansion. I laughed when my dad bought it and handed me the keys after he retired from the pros. “Son,” he said. “This is your first investment property. Don’t fuck it up.”

Because of him, Dante and Linc pay shit for rent, and we have a sick, state-of-the-art movie theater and game room. I know I’m privileged; it’s hard not to be aware of it when your dad was one of the most famous baseball players in the country before his retirement. After he retired, he signed on with ESPN and started hosting a few baseball segments. For as long as I can remember, baseball has been part of my life, and all I wanted to do was follow in my dad’s footsteps. Those dreams went to shit when I blew my knee out in high school, but Dad always encouraged me to look at a situation and pivot. Not like my egg donor, who walked away because having a kid didn’t work for her coke habits.

“Bro, just text Felicity and ask her for your little girl’s number.” He shakes his head while looking at the phone in my hand. “While you’re at it, could you ask for Red’s number, too? I’m pretty sure I’m going to marry her.” One thing about Dante, he falls in love quickly and loses interest even faster. The last thing I need is for him to fuck over Ava’s roommate and mess my shit up.

“I don’t know if I’m texting Felicity yet. You know how she is; she’ll see Ava as competition and try to either kill her or me. I can’t deal with her bullshit drama this year.” I won’t deal with it. Last year, Felicity put “dibs” on my dick and tried to ruin the lives of every other girl I fucked. Felicity sucked me off in the bathroom one time and turned it into an exclusive relationship in her warped mind. When she first started her shit, I spoke to her and reminded her that I never promised commitment, let alone monogamy, but she twisted my words and became relentless. Texting her about my vixen is the last fucking thing I want to do. “And I’m also not helping you with Celeste. You’ll fuck up my shit.”

“That’s fucked up, man. She’s my future wife. I won’t hurt her.” Dante’s face transforms into a grimace and tells me that he remembers all the shit Felicity put me through last year. “But that’s fucked, man. What about Jordan? She’s not bad.”

He’s not wrong. Jordan’s relatively chill, but she lives in the Alpha Nu house with Felicity and tends to hang close to her. How those two became friends is beyond me since she’s normal and Felicity is delusional.

“Maybe Linc can ask Jordan? Their families are close. He has Christmas dinner with her, for fuck’s sake.” That’s not a bad idea. Before I can respond, Dante opens his mouth and calls out for Linc.

“LINCOLN!” Dante calls out.

“Dude, what the fuck? I could have just texted him to come up here.” More than likely, Linc was in the kitchen cooking. We may be kings of this school, but we take our shit seriously; our parents would kick our asses if we didn’t. Dante and I are business majors and plan to start our own investment company someday, but Linc is artistic and always creating something, be it food, poetry, or art. He is a culinary arts major and had an internship in Paris last summer at a Michelin-star restaurant. Like I told Ava that night, the culinary arts major was tough, and he would spend hours in the kitchen preparing for his practicals. Dante and I always benefited from his trials, since we were able to eat them every time, but I know it weighed on Linc, especially when he couldn’t get a recipe correct. While Dante and I are on the analytical side, and our large, in-your-face bodies can be intimidating for some girls, Linc is expressive and looks like a model. His pretty-boy good looks, tattoos, and skills in the kitchen mean that he has no problem getting a lot of pussy. Compared to him, I was a choir boy.

Quick footsteps sound on the hardwood floor just before Linc comes into the room. “I just pulled my soufflés out of the oven, and if you broke them, I’ll fucking kill you.” Normal college kids didn’t say shit like this, but Linc was in a league of his own.

“Calm down, Gordon Ramsey. Grey needs a favor.” Linc raises his eyebrow in question, and I roll my eyes at the theatrics of the two of them.

“Fucking Christ, D. I told you I didn’t know what I wanted to do yet.”

“What, are you two trading secrets and braiding each other’s hair up here? What the fuck is going on?”

“Do you remember the girls we saw at the Theta Phi house? The redhead and the curvy brunette in the black dress? I’m trying to get the brunette’s number.”

Linc’s face drops into a frown. “What do you mean? You didn’t ask for it there?”

“I would have if she didn’t run away,” I mumble under my breath.

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