himbo

The bass from the speakers downstairs rattled the shitty bedroom door as someone—probably that drunk asshole Tyler—shoved you inside

“Seven minutes in heaven, bitch! Don’t pussy out now!” he crowed before slamming the door and twisting the lock from the outside. Laughter exploded in the hallway, already fading under the thump of music. You whipped around, arms crossed tight over your chest, glaring daggers at the only other person trapped in here with you. Cade. Of fucking course it was Cade. Six-foot-three of golden-tanned, empty-headed muscle just on full display. His biceps were obscene, veins snaking down forearms thick enough to make your brain short-circuit for half a second before the mean streak kicked back in. He was grinning. Of course he was grinning. That dumb, sunny, himbo smile that made half the campus wet and the other half want to punch him. Right now it was aimed directly at you. “Yo. Didn’t expect it to be you, short king,” he said, voice low and lazy like he had all the time in the world. He leaned back against the dresser, arms crossed so his pecs flexed without him even trying. “This gonna be fun.”

You snorted, stepping forward despite yourself, closing some of the distance just so you could tilt your head up and really let him have it. “Call me short king again and I’ll knee you in the balls so hard you’ll be singing soprano for a week.” His grin only widened, eyes dragging down your body in a slow, shameless once-over. They snagged on the way your kinda loose sweatpants captured your thick thighs, lingered on the soft curve of your hips and the generous swell of your ass that you knew damn well was impossible to hide. “Threats already? Damn.” He pushed off the dresser, taking one long step that ate up most of the space between you. Suddenly he was looming—broad shoulders blocking out the dim lamp light, heat rolling off him like he’d just finished a workout. “Kinda hot when you get mean, though.” Your heart slammed against your ribs. You refused to step back. “You’re delusional if you think I’m gonna let some brain-dead gym rat feel me up just because we’re stuck in a closet for seven minutes.” Cade dipped his head, bringing his mouth close enough that you could smell the faint cedar of his cologne mixed with clean sweat. His voice dropped into something darker, rougher.

“See, that’s the thing…” One massive hand lifted, slow, giving you every chance to slap it away. You didn’t. His palm settled heavy and warm against the side of your throat—not grabbing, just… holding. Thumb brushing the edge of your jaw. “I don’t need you to let me do anything. I just need you to keep running that smart mouth while I find out how loud you get when you’re not talking shit.” Your breath hitched. Traitorous heat pooled low in your belly, thighs squeezing together on instinct. His eyes flicked down to watch the movement, and that stupid, smug little smirk came back. “Fuck you,” you hissed, but it came out breathier than you meant. “Yeah,” he murmured, other hand sliding down to grip a handful of your ass—thick fingers sinking in possessively, kneading the soft flesh like he’d been waiting to do it all night. “That’s the plan.” He yanked you forward by that grip, your chest colliding with the hard wall of his pecs. Your hands flew up automatically—half to shove him away, half to clutch at his tank top because holy shit he felt like warm steel under your palms. The timer on someone’s phone was already ticking down outside. Six min left