Free James: A College Girl Romance by Sheila Grace

difference .” My thought had always been, “ Really? You want to be the guy who can’t make a woman come? ” I could almost guarantee that there was a segment of the female population—definitely from a certain Ivy League university—that had spent years following college thinking that sex was some sort of cruel punishment from the universe.
    To this day, I couldn’t understand guys who didn’t give a shit if their partners got off. It had nothing to do with love, just basic respect. Besides, more than half the fun—for me at least—was hearing a woman scream, “ Yes, God, YES! ” as her pussy tightened around my dick.
    My buddy Ryan Bennett, no doubt, had always assumed I was one of those pricks who didn’t give a flying fuck about his sexual partners’ gratification, and I felt no obligation to set him straight. I just hoped he was doing right by Alex Reed, seeing as once upon a time ago, he had called me to a luxury hotel on the California coast in the middle of the night to pick her up—shortly after he had deflowered her.
    Granted, he had just found out that the Bennett family patriarch had gone into the hospital with lung cancer. At the time, I had been a grade A asshole and had fucked with her head. Admittedly not one of my better moments.
    I poured a cup of coffee stronger than most humans could stand—or black blood of the earth, as I liked to call it. I took out eggs, some fresh chives, and crème fraîche. Then I began slicing the mushrooms—shitake—before grating some Irish cheddar.
    “ You ? You can cook?”
    I turned around and saw Cass standing in the doorway with a shocked and mildly amused expression. She was wearing one of my dress shirts, which came halfway down to her knees. With her hair wound up in a messy bun, all she needed to complete the schoolteacher-porno was an apple, a pair of glasses, and the platform heels she’d been wearing the night before.
    “Don’t look so surprised,” I chided her. “Coffee?”
    “Definitely.”
    I reached into the cabinet, took out a mug, and poured a cup. When she walked over and took it, I realized that without her Mary Janes, she didn’t even come up to my shoulder. She took a sip and made a face. I pointed to the refrigerator.
    “Cream?” I asked wryly.
    “Hell yes.”
    She walked over to the refrigerator, took out the cream, and poured a generous portion.
    “How did you sleep?” I asked.
    She blushed and raised an eyebrow.
    “Considering I fell asleep in your guest room and woke up in your bed? Your bed is amazing, by the way. … Not that you spend much time in it. I woke up at six and you were gone.”
    “I make it a policy not to stay in bed too long when all I want is to fuck the girl sleeping next to me. Remember—I’m not into necrophilia or anything less than enthusiastic partners.”
    What I failed to mention was the fact that I very much expected Ms. Flynn to be extremely willing given the proper preview to sexual relations. I took out a basket of strawberries.
    “Do you want me to slice those?” she asked.
    I set the basket on the counter and took out a paring knife and a cutting board. While she set to work rinsing and slicing the strawberries, I whisked the eggs and let butter sizzle in the sauté pan. As soon as the strawberries were neatly sliced in small glass bowls, Cass found the flatware and table linens, which she set on the counter with our coffees.
    As soon as the omelet was done, I split it onto two plates, spooned out the crème fraiche, and sprinkled chives over each before placing a plate in front of Cass. I took the seat next to her just as she took a bite of omelet and moaned. Fuck. Here I was at thirty-two years old—a walking erection.
    “Oh, wow. You really can cook.”
    “Fancy scrambled eggs.”
    She turned and stared at me.
    “Modesty? Humility? Self-deprecation?” she gasped dramatically.
    “I wouldn’t get used to it, lovely. A momentary lapse. I really am quite the bastard.”
    She