Page 16 of Faking the Goal

Because lately, orgasms seem to be the only tranquilizer strong enough to knock my brain out after one of those nightmares.

The worse the nightmares get, the hornier I get afterward.

Which is...

Yeah.

Probably something I should unpack with a therapist someday.

But therapy costs money and orgasms are free, so guess which one currently fits my student budget?

And save the judgment for someone who gives a fuck. If getting laid is what finally shuts my brain up long enough for me to sleep without Kirk's hands wrapping around my throat again, then I'm perfectly willing to get fucked six ways to Sunday in the name of a healthy eight hours.

Unfortunately, by the time midnight rolls around, my prospects are looking tragically bleak.

Not because I'm lacking options.

Oh, please.

I've spent the last hour dancing in the middle of a room full of horny college guys, grinding from one body to another while enough hungry eyes follow my ass to qualify as its own fan club. I've already had three guys offer me drinks, two ask for my number, and one particularly optimistic freshman whisper something into my ear that would've been impressive if he hadn't looked twelve.

The problem is me.

I'm picky.

There are plenty of hot guys here. Plenty who are willing. But nobody has managed to make my lady parts stand up and applaud yet, and I'm not taking somebody home just because he possesses a dick and a pulse.

Apparently tonight, my vagina has standards.

Fucking inconvenient timing.

I finish what's left of my drink and accept defeat. Fine. I'll go home, raid the emergency arsenal in my bedside drawer, and let one of my rechargeable friends handle the situation.

At least they never disappoint me.

I'm about to head for the door when my bladder chooses that exact moment to remind me I've spent the last few hours drinking.

"Fuck."

And suddenly finding a bathroom becomes significantly more urgent than finding an orgasm.

I squeeze through the crowd toward the nearest bathroom, only to find it occupied, and the second one downstairs isn't any better. Of fucking course. My bladder has apparently waited until every toilet in the house is being held hostage to declare a state of emergency.

I hurry upstairs, squeezing my thighs together as I weave past a couple making out against the wall, and nearly moan in relief when the first bathroom door I try opens without resistance.

Thank fuck.

I rush inside and shut the door behind me before realizing I'm not alone.

There's a guy standing near the toilet, casually zipping his jeans.

"Oh, shit. Sorry." I stop short and immediately look away. "I thought it was empty. The door wasn't locked."

"My bad." He doesn't sound embarrassed in the slightest. When I glance back, he's already walking toward the sink with an easy smile on his face. "I have a bad habit of forgetting to lock doors."

"Clearly." I chuckle and reach behind me for the knob. "Anyway, sorry for barging in. I'll let you finish whatever—"

The knob turns beneath my hand, but the door doesn't open.