Cal: Just about to leave. I’ll see you in an hour. Sooner if I push the gas.

Grey: Don’t do that! Be safe. Two hands on the wheel. Melody and Jemma are picking up my slack, so there’s no rush.

Cal: Alright. Be there in an hour.

Grey: I can’t wait to see you.

Cal: Me either.

Calvin

I pull at my necktie as I take the steps to Grey’s front door, tugging it back and forth to tighten the knot I’d loosened on the way over so I could breathe.

It’s a white silk tie with white embroidered flowers, a tie my sister picked out when I told her what I was doing, and who I was doing it with. It’s also the color of Greyson’s dress.

Maybe the guys are right; I am fucking pussy whipped.

But I swear, when Grey finally opens that door, I don’t give one shit what anyone says. They can bench me or filet me alive or kick me off the team, for all the fucks I care.

Because Greyson is stunning.

And the look she’s giving me right now has me standing twenty feet tall.

Greyson

For a moment, we just stare at one another.

It’s me who moves first, opening the door wide enough for Cal to step through, up into the living room.

He looks so handsome. Black pleated dress pants, crisp black shirt, tailored black jacket, and a glaringly white embroidered tie that matches my dress perfectly.

I want to touch him.

“Jesus, babe, let me look at you,” he says with a strained voice, stepping farther into the room. “You are so beautiful.”

“I feel beautiful.” I give a pleased little twirl, and my skirt flares up around my hips. His eyes go to my bare legs, and I bite back a smile as I say, “I need a hug or something.”

Or something.

Cal smiles, shrugs off his suit coat, lays it neatly over a kitchen chair, and wraps his arms around my waist after I step into his outstretched arms. I lean into the embrace¸ mindful not to get makeup on his shirt.

My lips graze his jaw, tattooing his skin with plum lip prints, and I draw back, fingering his tie. It matches my dress.

I gasp with delight. “Wherever did you find this?”

“Tabitha.” He rolls his eyes. “She literally lost her shit when I asked for her help. It made her whole year. But then my mom got all weird because I didn’t call her first. It was a whole thing I’d rather not talk about,” he jokes. “Tabitha had it rush shipped to school. She can’t believe I’m going to a sorority formal and wants to meet the girl putting up with my bullshit for an entire night—her words, not mine.”

“Well, thank your sister for me because you look… Is it possible that you got more handsome since the last time I saw you? How am I going to keep my hands to myself?”

“You don’t have to keep your hands to yourself,” he jokes.

“Okay. I won’t.”

“In that case, I guess I’ll have to send my sister a bouquet to thank her for making me irresistible.”

“Maybe you should.”

We stare at each other until I’m itching to run my fingers down his chest. Instead, I flex them and state the obvious. “We should go. Melody is covering for me, and I can’t leave her hanging or she’ll kill me. I promised I’d be there by five thirty.”

Calvin

When she’s not leaning in to hug or shake someone’s hand, Greyson’s arm is looped through mine, her hand clasping my tricep as we stand at the head of a receiving line, enthusiastically greeting the Gala’s arriving guests: sorority alumnae, her sorority sisters, and their dates.

I cannot stop giving her sidelong glances, for she is truly a vision.

It’s over an hour before we’re “alone” and Greyson can take a break from her hostess duties. I set my beer glass on a nearby table, and we wordlessly move out onto the hardwood dance floor. I pull her in close, and her fingers snake under my suit jacket, clasping at the small of my back.

I want to kiss her so badly right now, but it’s not the time or place. I settle for resting my lips on her neck, just below the white flower she has pinned there, running my hands up and down her spine.

We dance like this through one song, then another. I’ve never been more grateful to hear a bunch of cheesy slow songs in my life.

Because somehow… we just fit.

And fuck if it doesn’t feel amazing.

Greyson

At this point, I don’t even think we’re moving. Cal’s nose is buried in my hair, his fingers are stroking my back, and when the chords from the next slow ballad begin, I don’t even care that I have responsibilities to see to.

Just one more song, and I’ll go pull the silent auction bid cards.

One more.

Or two. I can afford two more songs.

My hands find their way up the front of his shirt, resisting the urge to pop open the row of black onyx buttons one at a time. Those same hands wrap around his neck, resting there so my delicate fingers can rake through the curly hair just above his starched black collar.

Cal kisses my temple and tightens his hold, his hot breath on my neck throughout the song.

I continue stroking his hair. He rubs my back in a light caress.

I’m sure we look ridiculous just standing here, barely dancing, but I still feel like I’m floating on air.

“I don’t know if I mentioned it¸ but thank you for coming tonight,” I aimlessly twirl a piece of his hair around my finger.

His voice is a hum next to my ear. “You’ve only mentioned it four or five times. But for the record, there’s no other place I’d rather be.”

I whisper against his skin. “I won’t ever take you for granted, Cal. I know the sacrifice you made to be here tonight.”

“I know.”

I arch back and cock my head at him. “Is your sister horrified you’re at a sorority formal?”

His mouth curls up into a smirk. “I wouldn’t say horrified; I’d call it shocked. I mean, I’m not really the type to, you know…”

I nod. “I know.” We sway to the music, and his hands rest on my hips. “Speaking of types, what is yours?”

“Oh, gee, let me think,” he laughs. “Blonde hair, hazel eyes, infectious smile…”

I nuzzle our noses.

Sick, I know.

“You think I have an infectious smile?” I smile at him.

“And kissable lips.”

“Ooh! Now that I like the sound of.” I release my fingers from his silky mop of hair, trail them over his shoulders and down over his firm pecs, and give them a squeeze. He puckers his lips, and I touch my trout pout to his—briefly, so I don’t smear my lipstick.

Cal rolls his head to the side and groans. Loudly. “I want to, ugh. So bad.”

Laughing, I press my lips to his for another quick kiss. “Want to what?”

“Never mind. I’ll sound like a dog in heat if I say it.”

My heartbeat quickens. “Say it anyway,” I plead.

He hesitates. “I want to stick my fucking tongue down your throat.”