Prologue

The bass beats against my chest like a drum as I push through the swarm of bodies, their heated glances searing into me. My brothers flank me, a smug Penn elbowing me with a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. "Cheer up, Linc. Your mom's just collecting husbands like you collect trophies," he says with a devilish grin, earning an eye roll from Jeremiah and a snort from Graham.

"Fuck off," I mutter, but there's no heat in it. It's our own twisted form of affection. The musk of sweat clings to the air, cloying and thick. As we step inside the throng of St. Charles' elite, the crowd parts—some drawn in, others repelled by us.

"Let's just get this night over with," I say.

As soon as we're fully in view, the crowd parts like some sort of messed-up Red Sea, eyes hungry on us—the Blackwood brothers, campus royalty by virtue of our sports stats and the allure that clings to our name. It's almost laughable, in the darkest sense of humor, how our father, Robert Blackwood, crafted his legacy. Four sons, four different mothers, all knocked up simultaneously as if he was trying to spawn his own twisted version of the four horsemen of the apocalypse. And here I am, the firstborn by mere months, bearing the brunt, the de facto leader of this reluctant cavalry. They buzz around us like flies to rotting fruit, each one wanting a piece, any piece, of the action.

"Looks like the sharks are circling already," Graham scoffs, his gaze locking on a guy across the room, a silent challenge already sparking between them.

"Can't blame them," Penn says, eyes scanning the room before landing on a giggling group nearby. He runs his fingers along the brim of his black baseball hat and flips it around backward before he says, "We are the hottest ticket in this sad excuse for a carnival."

"More like a circus with you as the clown," Jeremiah chimes in, and I can't help but crack a grin. These assholes are my blood, and as messed up as it is, I wouldn't have it any other way.

"God, I need a drink," I grumble, eyeing the makeshift bar set up in the corner.

"Already ahead of you," Penn quips, handing me a red solo cup filled with something that smells like paint thinner. How the fuck did he already get his hands on drinks, and he hasn't even left our side? He raises his own in a mock-toast. "To our dear brother's new stepdaddy—may he toss the ball with you in the backyard, sport."

"Asshole," I shoot back, but the corner of my mouth lifts despite myself. The liquid burns all the way down, offering a momentary distraction from the chaos brewing inside my head.

Laughter erupts from my other brothers at Penn's antics, their voices blending into the chaos of the party. I take another swig; the alcohol stoking the fire in my veins, sharpening my edges. Tonight, I'm anything but my golden boy quarterback facade—I'm just a guy looking for an escape, even if it's at the bottom of a cup or between someone else's thighs.

"Let's find a wall to prop up before your egos collapse the place," I say, steering us away from the fawning crowd that's inching closer, hoping for a brush with campus royalty. We're not really here for them; we're here to forget, even if just for tonight.

Leaning against the wall, the world around me throbs with the beat of some bass-heavy track that shakes the cups in our hands. Neon lights flicker like the pulse of this party's heart, casting shadows over faces eager to indulge in tonight's escape. The air is heavy with the tang of spilled beer and the sharp sweetness of cheap liquor.

"Can't believe these kids think they're invincible," Penn snickers into his cup, his eyes roaming.

"Invincible and invisible are two different things," Jeremiah counters, a smirk playing on his lips as he watches a couple stumble past us, lost in their own boozy bubble.

"Score," Graham says under his breath, not bothering to hide his appreciative glance at the baseball player across the room. His voice carries that edge of hunger, a predator eyeing his prey.

"Easy, tiger." I chuckle, clapping him on the shoulder. "Don't scare him off before you've even pounced."

"Who says I haven't already?" Graham shoots back, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk that's all challenge.

"Boys, boys," Jeremiah drawls, shaking his head with feigned disapproval. "Let's not pretend we're here to play nice."

"Speak for yourself," Penn retorts, throwing Jere a sly grin that doesn't quite reach his hazel eyes. "I'm always nice."

"Right," I scoff, taking another swig from my cup. "And I'm the goddamn Pope."

I sip my drink, letting the now tepid liquid slide down my throat as I scan the sea of bodies gyrating and grinding to the rhythm. They're all here to forget something, to get lost in someone else's skin. Maybe that's what I need too—a distraction to dull the edge of tomorrow's wedding.

That's when I catch her gaze. A pair of eyes locked onto mine from a shadowed corner—wide, almost feral. Blonde hair cascades around her face, framing those crazy eyes that seem to bore into my soul. For a second, I'm intrigued by her unwavering stare. It's like she knows me. I hold her gaze, the corner of my mouth twitching upward involuntarily. She doesn't flinch, doesn't break. Something about her doesn't sit right in my gut.

"Got yourself an admirer?" Penn elbows me, following my line of sight. But before he can comment further, I've already dismissed her. There's a hunger in her look that's too raw, too unguarded. Not tonight. Not ever.

My gaze slides away, restless, hungry for something less…jersey chaser trying to trap you with a baby or two. And there she is. A contrast to the blonde's manic energy, the brunette sits apart from the melee, an island of calm in the storm. Beautiful. Almost effortlessly. Unaware of the effect she has as she laughs at something her friend says. My mind rifles through classes, campus parties, trying to figure out why I'm not recalling who the hell she is.

"Damn." Penn whistles lowly. "Who knew they came packaged like that?"

"Keep it in your pants, Casanova," I mutter, already feeling the pull of a challenge tugging at the corners of my mind.

"Who?" Graham leans in, finally joining the conversation.

"Nobody," I lie, because she is definitely not nobody. She's somebody, and suddenly, she's all I can see. Her gaze hasn't found mine yet, which means I still have the element of surprise. And I intend to use it.

I lean in, my voice a low thrum over the chaos of the party. "Her name—anyone know?" The question is for my brothers, but if someone is eavesdropping and wants to supply it, I'll take it any way I can get it.

"That's Iris," Graham tosses out casually, not taking his eyes off the jock across the room. "Iris Shelby, in my Econ class. She's got brains enough to school everyone."

"Little Miss Summa Cum Laude," Penn quips with that shit-eating grin plastered on his face, "wouldn't mind seeing how she earns those honors."

"Classy as ever," I mutter, rolling my eyes before pushing away from the wall. The guy's humor's darker than a black hole sometimes.

"Where you off to now?" Penn calls after me, but I don't bother answering.

I weave through the throng of bodies, each step taking me closer to Iris. The air's thick with the scent of too much perfume trying to mask the reek of perspiration—a losing battle in this lingering heat of September.

"Lincoln Blackwood," I announce myself, towering over her seated form. It's more of a statement than an introduction.

She tips her head back, locks eyes with me. Her pupils are blown wide, resembling sea-green pools. She's high on something, and it only adds to the allure. "You're fucking big," she says, words heavy with something illicit, "like a giant brute."

"Observant," I retort, smirking down at this sass wrapped in an Ivy League veneer. There's no recognition in her gaze, just a challenge. And damn, do I love a challenge.

"Are you going to tell me who you are?" I question, wondering what sharp retort's going to slip out of her mouth next.

"Someone who doesn't particularly care for football or your campus god status." She bites her lip, and I can tell she's been feigning ignorance. It's a bold move.

"Is that so?" My tone is challenging. I lean in, close enough to catch the hint of her floral, citrus scent. It's fucking intoxicating. "Then why am I getting the feeling you know exactly who I am?"

She matches my intensity, holding my gaze without faltering. "Maybe because most of the school thinks you and your brothers walk on water, quarterback."

I arch an eyebrow at her brazenness, the corner of my mouth quirking up. "You've got a sharp tongue for someone who doesn't really know me."

"Maybe because I don't need to," she fires back with a smirk, her moss-colored eyes glinting with provocation.

"Planning to psychoanalyze me, Miss Shelby?" I tease, tilting my head to meet her gaze.

"Wouldn't need to," she fires back, "your Freudian slips are showing."

"Is that your professional opinion?" I drawl, closing the gap between us.

"Hardly professional," she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Now, are we going to stand here swapping witticisms all night, or is there something more… physical we could be doing to help me destress?"

"Pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?" My voice dips lower, barbed with amusement. "Do tell, Iris, what exactly are you after?"

"Isn't it obvious?" She leans in closer, the scent of her, jasmine and lemon, a heady mix with the alcohol on her breath. "Or do I have to spell it out for St. Charles' star quarterback?"

"Spell away," I challenge, though we both know she's reading me loud and clear.

"Fuck," she says bluntly, tilting her chin up to meet my gaze squarely. "I want to fuck. No bullshit chit-chat. Just a good, hard?—"

"Say no more," I cut in, my hand snaking around her waist. Without another word, I'm propelling us through the sea of bodies, heading for the staircase that leads upstairs. Her laughter rings in my ears, a reckless sound that matches the beat of my racing desire.

The door slams behind us with a thud, echoing our urgency. There's a darkness here that hides all of our secrets. Perfect.

I close the distance, my hands finding her hips, and I spin her around with a firm grip. The suddenness elicits a gasp from her lips, and I revel in the sound.

"Like it rough, do you?" Her voice holds a challenge as she glances over her shoulder at me.

"Only when it's warranted," I reply, bending her over the edge of the bed. My hands trail up her thighs, hiking her skirt up to reveal the delicate lace of her thong. "This what you had in mind?"

"Keep guessing," she retorts, but her breath hitches when I hook my fingers into the band and slide the fabric down her legs, leaving her bare. I pocket the lace before turning all my attention on the bombshell bent over for me.

"Someone's eager," she taunts, casting a glance back over her shoulder. "But if you're not quick about it, quarterback, I'll find someone who is."

"Patience is a virtue," I grunt, fumbling with my belt. In a swift motion, it's undone, and my pants follow, pooling at my ankles. My cock springs free, hard, and aching for her.

"Keep that up," she warns, though there's an edge of anticipation in her voice, "and you'll be wearing my marks for days."

"Promises, promises," I growl, as she works my nerves with this wicked little game of bantering we have going on.

I make quick work of sheathing myself, my hands shaking with need and impatience. The foil packet crinkles as I roll the condom down my length, making sure my frenum piercing isn't snagging, tossing the wrapper aside like an afterthought.

In one fluid motion, I slide a hand between her thighs, gauging her response. She's slick, welcoming, and a low moan escapes her lips as my fingers confirm what her body is already telling me—she's more than ready.

"Fuck, you're so wet for me," I murmur, more to myself than her. There's no need for teasing or coaxing. She's primed, hot, practically dripping for it. And I'm not one to deny what's so eagerly offered.

"Then stop talking and start fucking," Iris shoots back, her voice urgent.

With a grunt, I grip her hip firmly, anchoring her to me as I slide home in one fluid stroke. A raw sound tears from both our throats. It's a perfect fit—tight, warm, overwhelming. Bottoming out inside her, I can't help but groan her name, a deep, guttural sound that won't be tamed.

"Fuck!" she exclaims, ecstasy lacing her voice, her insides clamping around me in sweet, rhythmic contractions.

"Christ, yes," I hiss, setting a punishing pace. My free hand snakes into her chestnut hair, gripping a handful and pulling her head back, exposing the elegant line of her throat. Tension coils within me, every thrust intensifying the storm brewing at my core. Her body responds beautifully, tightening around me, each clench sending sparks along my spine.

"Like that?" I growl into her ear, feeling the vibration of her moans against my palm.

"Harder," she demands, her voice thick with desire.

I comply without hesitation, the force of my body driving into hers matching the chaos of my thoughts. She tightens around me with every push, a delicious indication of her pleasure.

"Touch yourself," I command between labored breaths. "I want to feel your cum on my fucking cock."

Without hesitation, Iris slips a hand between her legs. Her movements are feverish, desperate, seeking that peak. The sight of it ignites something feral within me, and I surge forward, relentless. The slap of skin echoes in my ears, mingling with the music thumping somewhere beyond these walls.

"Like that," she gasps, her voice hitching as she works herself toward a climax. And then she's there, her body seizing up, a vise-like grip around me. A wave of warmth floods through her, soaking us both.

"Exactly like that." Satisfaction roars through me. "Make yourself gush for me, Iris."

"Fuck," I grunt, feeling her tremble beneath me. My movements become frenzied, powered by the raw need to chase my own release.

"Harder," she pants, and I oblige without a second thought, driving into her with a force that borders on reckless. I am nothing but instinct, primal desire fueling each movement.

"Come for me again, Iris," I urge, practically begging her.

Her body responds beautifully, muscles clenching rhythmically around me as she reaches another climax. It's like a fist, gripping me tighter, drawing me deeper into her body. Her sharp cry fills the room, flooding my own system with adrenaline knowing I did my job and got her off first and second.

"Fuck, yes," I hiss, riding out the wave of her orgasm, every pulse of her body pushing me closer to the edge of my own control.

I'm teetering on the edge, breaths ragged, as pleasure coils tight in my gut. With a low growl, I give two final, powerful thrusts, my control snapping. I come hard, filling the condom, every muscle in my body tensing in unison with the pulse of my climax.

"Goddamn, Iris," I breathe out, my voice ragged with satisfaction.

Iris crumples slightly beneath me, her breathing just as labored. The scent of sex hangs heavy between us, mingling with the faint smells of booze and stickiness that permeates the party beyond these walls.

Carefully, I pull back, the sound of our skin parting oddly loud in the quiet room. Holding onto the base of the condom, I ensure nothing is spilled—no trace of this encounter left inside her. The last thing I need is an ‘oh fuck' scare. I'm already stressed enough with life as it is.

"Jesus," she breathes, still sprawled across the bed, her voice a husky note that strokes my senses even now and I just gave everything I had.

"Good?" I manage to ask, panting slightly as I peel off the used protection.

"Better than good," she replies, a smirk playing at the corner of her full lips, a glint of satisfaction in her striking green eyes. She pushes herself up on her elbows, the movement causing her brunette waves to tumble in disarray.

"Modesty isn't your strong suit, is it?" I tease, the sarcasm in my voice sharp.

"Neither is yours," she shoots back, the remnants of her smirk growing into a grin that tells me she's enjoyed more than just the physical aspect of our meeting.

"Touché." I chuckle, tossing the tied-off condom into the trashcan by the nightstand. Fuck, I don't know whose room this even is. Glancing around, I relax when I notice it's one of the guys in my Spanish class, Cannon Fairchild. At least I don't have to worry about any diseases from his room.

She's gathering herself, muscles tensing as she pushes up to a stand, a living sculpture of flushed satisfaction. She looks around, searching for her panties in the darkened room. It's then that the question comes, tossed over her shoulder with casual indifference. "Where'd you throw them?"

"I didn't," I reply, the corner of my mouth twitching upward in an unbidden smirk. My hand pats the pocket of my jeans, where the delicate fabric is now stashed. "Consider it a trophy."

Iris spins, her incredulity painted across those high cheekbones. She scoffs, the sound slicing through the lingering haze of sex. "Whatever," she bites out, sarcasm sharpening every syllable. "Thanks for the quick fuck. You're pretty and can hand out an orgasm, but let's not pretend this was anything more than what it was."

Her dismissal, as she strides past me, is nothing short of theatrical—so much so that I have to suppress the urge to applaud. Instead, I shake my head, a chuckle rumbling deep in my throat.

As the door swings open in front of her, the party sounds flood back in—voices, laughter, the thumping bass of some indie-electronic mashup. But none of that touches me. Not now. Not when I've just exorcized the demons of tomorrow's matrimonial facade with a woman whose fire matches my own.

"Fuck the wedding," I mutter under my breath, my pulse finally slowing.

Yeah, Iris Shelby, you were exactly what I needed.