Free Beneath The Skin (A College Obsession Romance) by Daryl Banner

Is it really that big a deal to win this fight? Was it a mistake to bring him here?
    The warmth growing between my thighs would suggest it isn’t.
    And the heart palpitations his crystalline eyes alone are inspiring within me surely don’t scream “mistake”.
    I can’t deny how fucking sexy he is or what he’s doing to me … even if he makes me mad as hell with his juvenile reasoning.
    “Is that what this is?” he says suddenly, giving a glance back at the work, then returning his intense gaze to me. “You think I objectify women?”
    I glare at him, wordless and fuming.
    “So, wait,” he goes on, gripping his temple. “You think I … You think I just take advantage of their bodies and, like …” He sighs, squinting at me with a hundred thoughts. Then, something seems to occur to him, and a smile works onto his face. He drops his hands and begins to circle around the display once again. “Alright. Fine, okay. I ‘objectify women’, you’re implying. Alright, alright …”
    I watch him as he slowly stalks around my work of art, as if giving it a new consideration.
    “You know,” he blurts suddenly, “I would let you objectify me … if you wanted.”
    I lift a questioning eyebrow.
    “Yep,” he says, answering some question my eyes apparently asked. He arrives finally at my other side, gently looking up at me with his forehead wrinkled and his dimples pushed out with a cheeky smirk. “I’d let you have your way with me.”
    “Would you?”
    “Yes, ma’am, I sure would.”
    His Texan accent plays as thick as barbeque sauce into those words, and maybe it’s his sudden change in mood—or mine—that inspires my next action. Without thinking, I grab his ass and pull him towards me. He stumbles for a second, his eyes flapping open with surprise, and then he’s inches from my face. Our breath falls upon one another in hot, jagged torrents.
    He was definitely not expecting that.
    To be honest, neither was I.
    “You … want to be my object?” I murmur, attempting not to admire how firm his ass is, even through his loose, low-hanging jeans.
    He bites his lip, as if to stop himself from grinning further. “You know that’s what I want, girl. If you wanna take charge … if that’s your thing, I’ll fuckin’ let you. I’m yours to play with.”
    Even he has to take deeper breaths between his sentences. His eyes shimmer with excitement as his face creases with the amusement of about a hundred wicked ideas that I’m glad I don’t know—despite having a certainty in my gut of where each and every one of those wicked ideas of his leads.
    I lift my chin, defiant and ready to put this camera boy right where he belongs. “Take off your jeans.”
    The whites of his eyes flash. “H-Here?”
    “Take off your jeans.”
    Without pulling his face away from mine, his fingers leap to the buttons of his jeans and he fumbles, prying them open and letting them drop to the floor. Right here in front of these tall glass walls. Right here in front of the whole damn Abernathy street, despite there being no one outside yet to observe the show. The buckle of his belt slaps the tile so loud, it rings like a bell throughout the gallery. He steps out of them and kicks them to the side.
    “Shirt,” I order next.
    He glances nervously at the glass walls, then swallows and laughs away his hesitance. “I took off mine. When do you take off yours?”
    “We’re making you into my object, remember?” I lick my own lips, pulling his eyes straight to them. Then I tilt my head, all my dark hair shifting with it. “Shirt, camera boy.”
    He has fun with the removing of his shirt, still thinking he’s got a grip on our little scene. He grasps the bottom of it tightly, turning the maneuver into a little dance without music, then pulls it over his head and casts it to the side with a flex of his bicep.
    I would be lying if I said that Brant isn’t one of the hottest guys I’ve ever seen. His slender, V-shaped,