Adrian Lessons (25 page)
Authors: L.A. Rose
“I’d rather stay naked in bed with you forever,” he says. And I can’t argue with him.
After our forever, I bring it up again during our seafood lunch in a small local restaurant. “There’s probably some poor girl out there who has no idea where her G-spot is. Shouldn’t we help out!”
Adrian raises an eyebrow. “The G-spot is on the first page of the FAQ.”
And finally, that evening, when we’re watching the sun spray orange streaks through the wispy clouds from our porch, waiting for the last strains of light to dip behind the ocean, I carry his laptop out and deposit it on his legs.
“Check it,” I order.
“Did you send me something again?”
“I’ve never submitted anything,” I argue. “It was just some poor lost soul who needed to know whether or not having sex upside-down was possible. Or who had a personal curiosity about what it was like to screw in a movie theater while watching IMAX porn.”
He grins. “I knew it was worth it to rent out that movie theater.”
“Just shut up and check your email.”
He scrolls through the top few emails until he finds the one he’s looking for. I wring my hands as he reads it silently.
Dear Sex King,
I’m in love with my boyfriend. Completely. He’s the Catwoman to my Batman (or vice versa), the peanut butter to my fluff. Not to mention he’s the actual world’s sexiest man and I’m kind of hoping we have another nice long round of beach sex after he reads a certain email tonight.
But I really am in love with him. It surprises me how much I am, every day. How much I can’t get him out of my head. How much I don’t want to. How he knows the exact kind of Ben & Jerry’s to buy when I’m panicking about whether or not I’ll be able to finish a paper on time. How he could have any girl in the world, any girl at all, and he chose me. Me! You obviously don’t know me at all, Sex King, but I’m not the pick of the litter. I’m pretty weird, and I’m not beautiful. But he chose me.
The only problem is that I have no idea how to tell him. I’ve developed some kind of mental block. Every time I try, I end up spewing out some kind of nonsense. So I wanted to ask you, since I have a feeling you’d know—how should I tell him that I’m in love with him?
Sincerely,
No Longer High and Dry
When he turns to me, his eyes have such depth and emotion that I know I said what I wanted to say.
~6,513 ORGASMS LATER~
ADRIAN
Hey there. Adrian here.
I hope you’ve enjoyed your voyeuristic excursion into my life, you goddamn weirdo.
Of course, I couldn’t have shared all this with just anyone. But I felt like I could trust you.
Which is why I’m going to ask for your advice.
See, I have this ring. It’s a pretty nice one, too—six-carat. Belonged to my mom. Just had it resized and polished. And it’s been burning a hole in my pocket for the last couple months.
I’ve tried a few times. Took her out to dinner, but couldn’t work up the courage. Put my hand in my pocket while we were sailing off the coast of California, but I froze up. Turns out proposing to the love of your life is a lot more difficult than how they make it look in the movies.
So, I was wondering.
How do you think I should ask her to marry me?
~THE END~
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JAMES GAMES
, coming
September 20
th
, 2014!
Every year, the girls of Phi Delphi, Fiona Arlett’s dream sorority, hold a competition.
The prize?
James Reid, king size bar of eye candy and famous actor turned haughty undergrad.
The rules?
No girl but the winner can touch him.
The problem?
Fiona miiight have unknowingly banged his brains out last week.
Losing the competition may mean wearing a chicken suit to the sexiest Halloween costume contest, but she’d rather have feathers up her butt than let the truth out.
Unfortunately, she and James have lots in common and more chemistry than the science wing. Soon they’re sneaking around behind the backs of UCSD’s hottest and most vengeful girls.
If they find out?
Fiona’s screwed.
~
Life is all about making choices.
At this particular moment, my choice is between A: jumping naked into a bush from a second-story window and B: getting torn to shreds by a gorgeous girl in Prada.
The devil really does wear it.
Text from roommate, Iris:
Amber says that if you’re not downstairs in 3.5333 seconds she’s coming to get you.
It’s funny how jumping out of a window suddenly becomes a good idea when you’re drunk. I run one finger under the sill. Mildew. That’s the problem with frat houses. No upkeep. Dust and mold and debauchery piling up everywhere.
Text from Iris:
Don’t jump out the window
.
Even the music pulsing from the living room has dimmed. The mockingbird in the tree across the yard has shut up. Anticipation is as thick in the air as pot smoke. He’s coming. He’s selected this particular house party on this particular night to attend, and we’re all more important because of it.
Text from Iris:
Okay, no, she’s leaving to find you. Window is best option. Tuck and roll
.
I squint at the bush. Maybe it’s the darkness and the drunkenness, but it doesn’t look too uncomfortable. I bet California hobos sleep there all the time. With any luck, not right now.
I close my eyes and count to twenty.
On twenty-one, someone pounds on the bedroom door.
“Uh, we’re having hot drunk sex in here,” I grunt in my best impression of a wasted frat boy.
“Fiona, I know that’s you. Open the door or I’m breaking it down. This is not behavior worthy of our sisterhood.”
Neither is breaking down doors, but that’s not going to stop her. Keeping my eyes shut, I imagine the bush as a large, comfortable creature, somewhere between the Cookie Monster and the Pillsbury Doughboy, waiting to catch me with open arms. No Prada in sight. I swing my other bare leg over the sill and jump the only way I know how—all at once.
I’m falling and pinwheeling and realizing at the worst possible moment that I forgot to take off my stripper heels, and then the bush catches me. Except it’s less Pillsbury Doughboy and more Hardbury Muscleman. And it’s less of a catch and more of a smashing both of us into the ground.
“Fuck,” someone groans beneath me. It’s not a bush, it’s a man, and to my endless regret, it’s not the first time I’ve straddled him naked.
James Reid.
Even with my life in dire peril, the sensation of his body beneath me turns my thighs to jelly. His dark blonde hair is swept off his forehead, his eyes a reminder of what the clear sky looks like when it’s noon in Colorado. My hands are on the hard contours of his chest, my nose inches from his shocked expression, and thanks to the positioning of my ladyparts, I can feel exactly what happens when he notices how very naked I am.
“Are you okay?” he asks, which is not the first thing I expected to hear from the mouth of doesn’t-care-about-nobody, too-good-for-everybody James Reid.
“Since you caught me, yes,” I manage.
He nods, still beneath me, the damp grass soaking into my knees. “Good. Now get the fuck off and try not to fall out of the sky next time someone’s walking below you.”
There it is. The assholery he’s famous for, the kind the press loves to burn him for but he still gets away with it because he’s such a damn fine actor. And because he’s so damn fine.
I’m about to tell him exactly why I’ve plotted his murder eight different ways since last week when Amber, the beautiful, the Prada-wearing, the terror-spreading Phi Delta queen, sticks her head out the window.
If she sees me naked on top of James Reid in the beer-soaked grass, she will break several world records in how quickly it takes to decapitate someone.
And that someone will be me.
I spin James in front of me and shove him into the bush. Fortunately, there are no thorns or hobos. Just facefuls of branches and leaves. James is too stunned to speak—it’s not every day that a world-famous actor gets shoved into a bush by a naked college freshman—and I take advantage of his silence, pushing him into the dirt on his back and covering his mouth with my hand.
“Fiona?” Amber yells above us, blood in her voice.
I took further advantage of James’s involuntary silence to tell him off. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me who you were last week. Do you have any idea how much trouble you got me into?” I hiss just loudly enough for him to hear.
“Are you down there, Fiona? Everyone’s waiting for you.”
I stab my thumb upwards. “Do you hear that? That is the sound of my death. If she finds out I slept with you, I am fucked. And not the good kind.”
Amber finally lets out a frustrated grunt and lets the window slam shut. I take my hand from James’s mouth. He sits up slowly, still cover-photo gorgeous even with twigs in his hair. His eyes are burning, and when he opens his mouth, I know that I’m about to get it.
Instead, he kisses me.
Hard, like fire, like a whiplash, his lips sear into mine, knocking the breath from me. Like lightning he has me on my back, pinning me into the dirt like how I had him barely seconds ago. His mouth ranges over my neck, toward my breasts, and as my head falls back and I gasp, as I fumble to feel him with my free hand and we tear at each other like two starving lions finally loosed, I realize that life really is all about choices.
At this particular moment, my choice is between A: getting hazed to death and B: getting it on with James Reid. Again.
Then again, sometimes your body makes choices for you.
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