Sweet as Syn

3: SYN-Welcome to the Playboy Brownstone

My belly coils when the sound of knuckles hitting wood pulls me from the recorded lecture on my laptop. Did Tori forget her key again? No, she would be banging this door to the ground and screaming my name while doing it. This was a gentle knock, not an angry one.

Still, I brace myself, wincing as I open the door. Now, my chest, throat and toes coil along with my belly.

Greyson Decker is outside my dorm.

"Hi," he exclaims a little too enthusiastically before twisting his face like he was just as weirded out by the greeting. Then he fixes a glower on me like it was my fault for his sudden slip in personality.

My first thought is that he's here for one of my roommates. What other logical reason could there be? It's not like he'd go out of his way to find the psycho bitch who... Well, let's not rehash what I did. What I said. It was like I finally found my voice and then couldn't shut it for shit. Crotchless panties? Please, kill me now.

"Uh..." I'm a little afraid to say words. Who knows what'll come out. "What do you want?"

"You." His response is so easy, so sure.

I could keep a solid poker face but there was no hiding the pulse slamming against my throat. Of course that's where his gaze roamed to.

While he eyed my neck like he was considering slashing it, I decided I'd check him out if it was the last thing I was going to see. Seriously, no one should look so hot in sweat shorts and a white Tee. But his thick thighs fill all the space in the shorts and his abs are trying to pop out and wave to me as he flexes them. Ugh. This dude is so freakishly gorgeous, I want to dropkick him in his face.

And then he meets my eye and I'm faced with the muzzle of two guns aimed right for me; gunmetal eyes that make your heart skip too many beats to be considered safe. And I know they change color based on his mood, like one of those mood charms that were cool when I was a kid. Because the other day, after I surprise attacked his face with my mouth, his irises deepened into a charcoal grey. It was like he was trying to suck me up into the deep abyss of his soul. He is intense, to say the least.

"What, did your testicles inflate too big it became hard to walk again?" I ask rhetorically but pause in case he wants to respond. He doesn't. He lets me have the floor. "Which might somehow explain how you ended up on my doorstep. It's okay, Greyson, nothing to be embarrassed about. Happens to the best of us." He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe, making himself comfortable. Completely unphased. "Is it my ball-busting services you're in need of to level out your testosterone? Because in that case, I'd be happy to help."

Oh, and I'm kind of a sarcastic asshole, apparently. I guess that's what years of holding your tongue will do. Or maybe it's just because I'm a tad bit mortified for practically molesting him on the staircase. But Greyson doesn't seem to mind. My sass is rewarded with a dirty, sexy tilt of his lip. It's not a smile, but it makes my heart do a million somersaults in my chest. He's standing there taking my beating, allowing me to go off about his balls again. Can't I just shut the frig up around this guy?

When he's sure I'm done, he finally cuts in and decides to end my misery. "Nah, my balls are doing just fine, and I'd like to keep 'em that way. I came prepared though. Wore a jockstrap just for you." He punctuates that by hooking his thumb into his waistband as if he was planning on showing off the athletic cup. I quickly shut my eyes before I could see anything. "I'm kidding, little one. Open your eyes and go grab your shit. I'm taking you to game night at my house."

Excuse me? Is this guy for real? Greyson Decker is a god at Boston College. Of course I couldn't have had my most humiliating moment with just your average Joe. I pick a guy who I'll be sharing a field with for the next two years. One who everyone and their mothers seem to know and love. Superb. I was aware that BC had a couple NFL prospects, and I felt like a class A idiot for not recognizing him. There's even a damn picture blown up in the gym of him hugging the ball, trudging down the field with two guys on his heels and another around his waist. It's like he's got all this chaos around him, all these men trying to pull him down, and he's cool as a cucumber, holding his precious ball and taking a stroll to the end zone.