Page 62 of The Trade

“Stop what?” Her eyes dart around the room nervously, ensuring we’re not the center of anyone’s attention.

“Stop making me want you.”

She scoffs. “I’m just sitting here, minding my own business, working.”

“True,” I say, my voice lowering to a sultry whisper. “And I’m just sitting here, watching you work. It’s not my fault you look so damn good . . . even when you’re wearing that godforsaken sweatshirt.”

Rolling her eyes, she shoves my hand away from her thigh. “You love this sweatshirt.”

I chuckle, leaning back in my chair. “Well, it is growing on me. Just a little.”

She shakes her head, the corners of her lips pulling up into a smile as she shifts back into work mode. I can’t help but watch her for another moment, letting my eyes roam over her from head to toe, lingering on all my most-loved spots.

The sweater might be concealing her figure right now, but damn . . . I know what lies beneath the surface. Jade’s body is a fucking masterpiece—her soft thighs, her supple hips, the gentle dip in her waist, the swell of her breasts, and that beautiful face of hers. She’s filled with all my favorite curves, slopes, freckles, and marks.

But here’s the real kicker: her body isn’t even the most attractive part about her. Not for me. And not by a long shot.

18

JADE

The past fivedays were a blur of libraries, term papers, and far too much caffeine.

While West busied himself with catching up on his reading, I juggled my course assignments. Our first week of dating was far from romantic. But we decided to study together anyway, working to blend our relationship into our daily lives.

Honestly, it’s nice to have a built-in study partner, albeit one who revels in distracting me. West has a knack for derailing my focus, be it by tracing an imaginary line on my thighs, fiddling with the ends of my hair, or sneaking in a quick kiss when I least expect it.

Yes, it’s distracting, but it’s also incredibly reassuring. It feels nice, being wanted so blatantly, so openly.

And West never misses an opportunity to compliment me. He showers me with praises, asserting that I have a “perfect fucking body.” But it doesn’t end there. He thinks I’m smart, funny, talented, and he ensures I know it. He feeds my ego, and I, shamelessly, lap it all up.

I know our relationship is still so fresh, but I like that there are no guessing games when it comes to his feelings. He’s not pretending to be aloof, or cool, or coy. And that’s probably my favorite thing about him—that he’s unapologetically himself.

He’s honest and straightforward. In my mind, he’s the complete fucking package. Actually, he’s everything I never knew I needed.

Before West, I always avoided dating athletes, thanks to Mica’s less-than-ideal dating habits. My brother, for all his good traits, is pretty lousy at being a boyfriend. Football is his world, and his relationships have always taken the back seat.

But Mica is just one guy, and his actions don’t reflect every athlete. West is the proof of that.

Or at least, that’s what I’m hoping.

When Friday night finally arrives, my heart is hammering with excitement. The sound of three loud knocks sends me vaulting off the couch and hurtling toward the door. As I wrench it open, the sight of my brother’s familiar, broad grin smacks me with a sense of homey comfort.

“Ace!” I nearly shout, a surge of joy lighting up my features.

He envelops me in a fleeting hug, his laughter rumbling low in his chest. “Lil, you look so much older every time I see you.”

“Congrats, you’ve got the basic concept of time down pat.”

He steps inside, scoffing as he shrugs off his duffel bag. “You’ve changed, Lil. You’re more ... cynical. I suppose we have college to blame for that.”

“Well, you definitely played a part in that evolution.”

His gaze sweeps the living room, his grin broadening at the sight of my Bobcats posters plastered on the walls. He jabs me lightly with his elbow, a twinkle in his eyes. “I see your taste in decor hasn’t evolved much, though.”

“Hey, that’s unfair,” I argue, feigning offense. “Shannon’s added her feminine touch to the place—plants, candles, and some other shit.”

“So, she’s giving you a crash course in being a girl, is she?”

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