The second we stepped into Room 308, the air got ten degrees hotter—and not just because the radiator sounded like it was powered by rage.
Jessy tossed his duffel onto the left bed like he was claiming sacred ground. “Mine,” he announced, flopping down with all the grace of a drunk swan. The bedsprings groaned in pain.
I hovered by the right bed like it might infect me. “Fine. Whatever.”
Jessy stretched, shirt already riding up. “Home sweet hell.”
“I’m not talking to you,” I muttered, yanking open my suitcase and pretending not to notice him spreading out like a centerfold.
“That’s what I love about you, Brady. You say that every time, but somehow you always end up talking to me.”
I gritted my teeth. “Only to tell you to shut up.”
“Aww.” He smirked, kicking off his shoes and socks. “It’s cute how you think that’s an insult.”
“You know what is an insult? Your entire personality.”
“And yet, here you are—voluntarily living with me now. Naked brawling really brings people together.”
I ignored him, focused on unpacking my books and color-coded pens like they were holy relics. I needed control. Order. Anything but him.
Then I heard it. The unmistakable rustle of denim hitting the floor.
I turned slowly.
Jessy stood by his bed, completely, utterly, gloriously naked. Again.
“Seriously?!” I squeaked. “What is wrong with you?!”
He stretched his arms over his head, letting everything hang loose and heavy. “What? It’s my room. My bed. My balls. Deal with it.”
“There’s a little thing called decency! Have you heard of it?!”
“Brady,” he said, walking toward his bed with a cocky bounce, “you saw me naked in the shower. You tackled me naked. You wrestled me naked in the hallway. You can’t start acting shy now.”
“That was different!”
He lay down. On his back. Legs spread. Not even a blanket to hide behind. Just... everything.
It was an anatomical tragedy how good he looked. Broad chest. Defined abs. V-line sharp enough to slice me open. And between those ridiculously muscular thighs—yep. Definitely not shy.
I whirled around. “You are a menace.”
“And you’re a coward,” he said lazily. “You’re just mad ‘cause you secretly like the view.”
“I’d rather gouge my eyes out.”
“Then why are you still standing there?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My brain had short-circuited. I turned to my desk and stared at a textbook, willing the pages to distract me from the full-frontal Greek statue lounging five feet away.
Behind me, Jessy let out a contented sigh. “God, this mattress sucks. Good thing I sleep naked. Less friction.”
“Please stop talking.”
But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t.
Within minutes, his breathing slowed. I dared a glance.
Bad move.
He was asleep. Fully exposed. One arm slung over his head, the other across his chest. The light from the window painted golden shadows across every line of his body.
And yep—still fully, unapologetically erect.
I froze.
He shifted slightly. His hips twitched. The muscles in his thighs flexed. His cock—Jesus—twitched too.
Was he dreaming?
I should’ve looked away. Should’ve buried my face in my textbook and thought of tax codes.
Instead, I stared.
My breath hitched. My jeans tightened. My entire nervous system screamed, Red alert! Boner proximity!
No. Nope. This was psychological warfare. This wasn’t attraction. This was trauma.
Still... I couldn’t stop watching. There was something maddening about the way he looked in sleep—less cocky, more raw. And still, somehow, infuriatingly hot.
I stood so fast my chair squeaked.
Nope. I needed air. I needed prayer. I needed a lobotomy.
Around six, Jessy stirred. He stretched like a cat waking from a nap on the hood of a Ferrari.
His morning wood hadn’t deflated. If anything, it had gotten bolder.
He yawned. “Mmm. That was a nap. Did you enjoy the show?”
I turned away, mortified. “Put some pants on, you exhibitionist!”
He scratched his stomach. “Why? You clearly didn’t mind.”
“You were asleep.”
“Oh, were you watching me sleep?” He waggled his eyebrows. “Kinky.”
“I hate you.”
He finally stood and slipped on a pair of black boxer briefs—tight, of course—before pulling on a fitted T-shirt that barely contained his shoulders.
He ruffled his hair. “Time to party.”
I snorted. “Because that’s all you ever do.”
He glanced at me. “And you… studying again? Hot Friday night.”
I muttered, “Some of us care about our future.”
“And some of us have a life,” he said, grabbing cologne and spritzing with reckless abandon. “You could come. Try fun sometime.”
“Pass.”
“You sure? There’ll be music. Booze. Hot boys. Ones who aren’t me.”
I frowned.
He smirked. “What’s the matter? Afraid you’ll end up grinding on me again like you did in the shower?”
“That wasn’t grinding! That was a fight! With fists!”
“Your fist was nowhere near the part of me you grabbed.”
I flushed violently. “That was an accident.”
He leaned down, close again. “Then prove it wasn’t.”
I stared at him. “What?”
“Come to the party. Show me you’re not a boring little prude.”
I scoffed. “I have nothing to prove to you.”
He turned toward the door, shrugging. “Didn’t think you had the balls.”
I launched to my feet. “Fine! I’ll go!”
Jessy paused mid-step. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He looked me up and down. “In that?” His voice dripped with disdain as he pointed to my outfit—khakis and a tucked-in T-shirt.
“These are perfectly—”
“You look like you teach a high school physics class and have a YouTube channel about train safety.”
“Shut up!”
He grinned, all teeth. “Can’t wait to see you let loose.”
He left with a whistle and a sway in his step.
I stared after him, heart pounding, face burning, groin confused.
This wasn’t attraction.
This was vengeance.
And I was about to show him exactly how fun Brady Clark could be.
Chapter 4
The house was already vibrating when we walked in—music pounding through the floorboards, red cups everywhere, sweaty bodies pressed together like it was a rave in a sauna.
I didn’t even hesitate.
“I’m drinking tonight,” I told myself, already heading to the keg like it owed me money.
Jessy followed behind, smug as always, dressed in an open Hawaiian shirt with nothing underneath and low-rise jeans that clung like a threat. “Brady Clark,” he purred. “Look at you. A real boy.”
I filled my cup. “You wish.”
“Just don’t puke in your textbook.”
“I’ll puke on your pillow if you don’t shut up.”
He grinned. “I’d actually love that.”
I ignored him and chugged. Beer wasn’t my thing. But tonight? Tonight it was revenge juice.
I wasn’t gonna let that smug, walking thirst trap win. He thought I couldn’t have fun? I was gonna party so hard my GPA filed a restraining order.
We drifted into the living room—Jessy immediately grabbed attention like he was magnetized. He high-fived two football players, slapped someone’s ass, and started dancing before the chorus even hit.
I stayed near the kitchen and found a girl from our English class—Kayla. Pretty. Friendly. Slightly terrified of fire metaphors.
“Brady?” she said, surprised. “You’re at a party?”
“Yeah,” I grinned, leaning on the counter with the confidence of a guy pretending not to be drunk already. “I have layers.”
She laughed. “So what, is this your alter ego? Party Clark?”
“Party Clark drinks and analyzes symbolism.”
We chatted. She was cool, actually. Smart. Had a killer laugh. And I wasn’t thinking about Jessy at all until—
“Nice shirt, Jessy!” someone yelled.
I turned.
He was shirtless now. Fully shirtless. Spinning a beer bottle on his stomach while a circle of people watched and cheered.
Kayla looked too.
“You guys friends?” she asked.
“No,” I said instantly. “We’re mortal enemies.”
“Oh. Sexy.”
I blinked. “Wait—what?”
Before she could explain, Jessy strutted across the room and plopped down on the couch next to a girl in a sparkly top. He leaned in, said something, made her laugh. His hand touched her knee.
I rolled my eyes and turned back to Kayla. “Anyway—so ‘The Scarlet Letter’ is basically—”
But Kayla wasn’t listening. She was watching Jessy.
“Oh wow,” she whispered. “He’s so hot.”
I looked at her. She looked at him.
And then I panicked.
“I can be hot too,” I blurted.
She turned, startled. “What?”
“I mean, I’m not shirtless or anything, but—do you wanna dance?”
She blinked. “Sure?”
So we danced. Or... I moved my limbs while Kayla actually danced. I was trying not to look at Jessy, but somehow my eyes betrayed me every damn time.
And when I saw him kiss that sparkly girl—mouth on mouth, hands in her hair, tongue and everything—I snapped.
I kissed Kayla.
Hard.
Her eyes went wide. Then she kissed back.
And that’s when I made eye contact with Jessy.
Across the room. Mid-kiss. Still locked on me.
And that bastard smirked.
We kissed our girls, but we weren’t kissing them. Not really.
It was a battle.
A naked war in disguise.
When I pulled away, Kayla looked flushed. “Wow. You’re full of surprises.”
I smiled weakly. “Wanna get another drink?”
But I was spiraling.
I drank more. Then more.
Time fuzzed.
I saw Jessy grinding with someone in the living room.
I tried to do the same with Kayla and knocked over a lamp.
Then I was outside.
Throwing up in a bush.
The world was spinning, and I was pretty sure I was dying.
Then someone’s hand was on my back.
Rubbing it gently.
“Don’t die yet,” came the voice. Familiar. Infuriating. “I haven’t finished ruining your life.”
I groaned. “Jessy?”
“Wow, you’re a genius. Want a sticker?”
I leaned forward, groaning again. “Leave me here.”
“I’d love to. But Principal made me your keeper now, remember?”
I blinked blearily up at him. He was holding a plastic water bottle and looking absurdly hot for someone helping me puke.
He offered the water. “Sip. Not chug. You’ll yack again.”
I sipped.
He crouched beside me. “Jesus, you really committed, huh? You got drunk just to spite me?”
“Not... you,” I mumbled.
He laughed. “Sure.”
Then everything blurred again.
The door to the dorm banged open like a frat party keg. I stumbled in first, one sock half-off, one eye closed, and my balance doing the Harlem Shake.
"Whoa, easy there, champ," Jessy muttered behind me, his hand on my back to keep me from faceplanting.
"I’m not drunk," I said, as I tripped over my own foot. "I’m... gravity-challenged."
Jessy snorted. "Sure. And I’m sober enough to tutor physics."
I staggered toward my bed, tried to sit down, and missed entirely. I landed on the floor with a solid thud, legs flailing in the air like a flipped turtle.
"Hot start," Jessy said, stepping over me.
I kicked off my other sock dramatically. "Too many clothes! Clothes are tyranny!"
Jessy arched a brow. "Don’t let me stop you."
I accepted the challenge. Wobbling upright, I grabbed the hem of my shirt and tugged it over my head. Not gracefully. I got stuck halfway, arms tangled, fabric over my eyes.
"Jessyyy," I whined. "My shirt is attacking me!"
"It saw your dance moves and gave up on life."
I finally freed myself, shirt flying onto his bed. I looked down. "Shirt: gone. Pants: next."
Jessy leaned against his dresser, arms folded, watching like it was his favorite comedy special. "This I gotta see."
I fumbled with my belt like it was a Rubik's cube. "I got this. I'm smooth."
"You’re sweating on the carpet."
"That’s passion, not perspiration."
Finally, I shoved my jeans down. They took my underwear with them. I kicked them off triumphantly, standing there, proud, glorious, and completely nude.
"Victoryyyyy," I declared, arms wide.
Jessy's eyes dragged over me slowly. Then he smirked. "Well damn, Clark. You just turned this G-rated room into an R-rated disaster."
"You jealous?"
"Jealous? Please. If I strip, the room goes X."
I blinked at him. Then pointed. "Do it. Strip duel."
He grinned. "You’re gonna regret that."
With zero shame, Jessy peeled off his shirt—his torso tan and cut and smug. His jeans dropped next, followed by tight boxer-briefs that left nothing to the imagination. Now we were both fully naked, tipsy, and within arm’s reach.
The air got thick.
He took a step closer. "Still wanna fight, drunk boy?"
I wobbled, finger in his face. "I could totally take you. Right now. Naked. In a heartbeat."
He leaned in. "Try me."
I lunged.
Except I misjudged. My foot slipped. And instead of landing a punch, I landed on him.
We crashed onto his bed in a tangle of limbs, my bare chest flattening against his, our legs knotting, skin to skin, everywhere.
"Oof!" he grunted.
"Ugh... your abs are so... aggressive," I groaned.
"And yet your junk’s touching mine. Funny how that worked out."
"Shhh," I mumbled. My head lolled against his shoulder.
I couldn’t move. Could barely think. Everything spun. Everything... tingled.
Jessy’s smirking face was inches from mine. Flushed cheeks. Bedroom eyes. That cocky, infuriating smirk. His skin, still warm from the party, a mix of cedar vanilla bodywash and sweat and... something else. Something good. His thighs against mine, our chests pressed, his breath feathering against my cheek. His hand moved instinctively to my lower back. It stayed there. Our breaths were heavy. The occasional laugh echoing from down the hall. And somewhere, a playlist still thumping.And the faint salt of his skin where my lips brushed his collarbone.
Oh god.
Ohhhh god.
"You comfy up there, Clark?" he whispered.
"Shut up," I breathed. "I’m gonna puke."
"If you do it on me, I swear to god—"
But I didn’t move. Couldn’t. His body was warm. Soft in some places, hard in others. Our hips pressed, and something electric zipped through me.
His fingers moved slowly against my back. Not in a comforting way. More like... curious.
"You're not exactly trying to get up," he murmured.
I mumbled, half asleep. "Too drunk. You’re soft."
"That better not be a diss."
"You smell good."
He chuckled. It vibrated through me.
I buried my face into his shoulder and let go.
Somewhere in the spinning dark, naked on top of my enemy, I fell asleep.
And for the first time all night... I didn’t hate it.
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