It’s loud. Chaotic.

Exhilarating.

My heart pounds as one Iowa wrestler after another fights for victory in the center ring. The lightweights Gunderson and Pitwell. Bower. Middleweights. Some insanely good-looking Hispanic named Diego Rodriguez.

Zeke Daniels.

The crowd goes bat-shit crazy when Oz begins the warm-up set for his match, the cheers deafeningly loud while he goes about the simple stretching of his hamstrings. Arms. Bending at the waist and touching his toes.

My hungry eyes fly to his fantastic…round…squatter’s…ass. That ass. Those thick, powerful thighs.

Without even thinking, I lick my lips, the blush creeping up my chest, neck, and cheeks as Oz goes through the groom check. I press my hands to my face to cool it and resist fanning myself with the program we were handed on the way in.

“You should see yourself right now.” Allison laughs. “Seriously. You look like you want to rip your sweater off.”

I want to point out that my cardigan is cotton, not a sweater, but the words get caught in my throat because I do—I do want to rip it off. I’m burning up, and it’s not from the temperature of the auditorium.

Anxiously, I watch the match begin, hear the ref’s whistle blow from a false start. They begin again. Hand fight. Grapple. A few hips are thrown before Oz gets his opponent in a headlock—then in seconds they’re both on the ground.

It looks like they’re fish flopping around, and—

“Does it bother you that everyone can see his balls through that singlet?” Allison asks.

“Oh my god, Allison, you can’t just say shit like that!”

“What! Why? I’m just saying what you’re thinking. Be honest. I mean…that junk is right. There.”

“Right, but I don’t need to hear about it.” Because now all I’m going to be doing is looking at it.

“Face it, James: every girl in here is checking out his cock-a-doodle-do.”

A nervous, inappropriate laugh bubbles up within my throat and I’m helpless to stop it. “Stop it Allison!”

My roommate bumps me with her hip. “You’re so cute when you get all hot and bothered. That’s it, isn’t it? You want him to make sex with you and this gets you all turned on.”

Make sex with me?

I give one jerky nod because if I’m being honest, yes—I totally want him to make sex with me.

“Shit. I should totally text Parker and see where he’s at. I’m getting horny.”

“Um…”

“Calm down.” She shoots me a look, typing furiously on her cell. “Not from staring at your boyfriend, from the room full of peen.” A shrug, as if that explains everything. “I’m a hormonal teenager stuck inside a twenty-one-year-old body, James.”

Evidently, so am I.

Sebastian

I’m drenched with sweat.

Hot.

Keyed up, I walk, arms braced behind my head, circling the mat at a slow pace to cool off. Slow my heart rate.

Every match is a high akin to riding a shockwave of adrenaline and testosterone, my body conditioned, primed to perfection, and powered on high, slow to decompress.

So I walk.

Out of the locker room, hair still damp from a quick shower, I pace the long corridor of the athletics building. Return to the gym and avoid the custodians rolling up the equipment, despite the crowd.

I walk, measuring every step. Sidestep school spirit and concession debris—poster board signs, foam fingers, streamers, popcorn.

Measure every cleansing breath, until—

James.

She’s being led through the throng of fans by blonde-haired Fuck Buddy—sorry, Allison—who’s strong-arming my…who’s strong-arming James by the forearm. ‘Led’ is too loose a term; she’s being hauled toward me, and grudgingly.

I slow my gait and grin. Chug from the water bottle clenched in my grip.

Watch as Allison gives her one final nudge. Jameson stumbles forward, head hanging low, pulling at the yellow cardigan layered over her black Iowa tee shirt. Snug boot-cut jeans. A low, sleek ponytail draped over her left shoulder secured by a thin yellow ribbon. A ribbon tied with a prim little bow.

A fucking bow.

I hone in on that bow, dissect it in the most erotic way possible.

Something about it suddenly makes me fucking stupid. Gets me hot in a way no tight, low-cut top or skimpy panties could. I imagine untying that bow and watching it drift to the floor; I imagine dragging it across her bare breasts.

A startling surge of adrenaline comes back full force and before either of us know it, I’m pushing through the crowd, closing the distance between us. My arms wrap around her narrow waist. I effortlessly sweep her off the ground. Twirl her around. Press my mouth over her startled lips. They’re warm and pouty and juicy—exactly how I like them.

I suck on her lower lip and tug with a growl.

My hands crave her, itching to roam her body. Run under her conservative sweater. Untie that carefully tied ribbon.

Instead, I lower Jameson until her feet are planted firmly on the ground.

“Woo, oh boy!” Jameson fans herself with the program in her hand. “Rule number twelve: no manhandling in public. You have no self-control.” She breathes.

“Good luck with that one,” I quip, going in for another kiss, because there’s just something about Jameson Clark I can’t keep off my damn mind. I cannot stop thinking about her. Cannot keep my hands from touching her.

Literally.