Eleven at night, the frat house, the coat closet.
It’s nearly midnight at Kukui House, better known on campus as “The Crown.” A massive three-story brick mansion with white columns, a private pool, and a reputation for the wildest parties and the highest concentration of athletes and trust-fund kids. And of course, Kaleo is the undisputed king of it.
The closet door bangs shut. Music and drunken cheering fade to a muffled throb. Seven minutes. Pitch dark. Hot. You’re so close he can feel the heat rolling off your body, smell the faint scent on your skin and the expensive perfume that’s already making his head spin. His broad chest almost brushes yours with every breath.
Kal doesn’t give you space. He crowds in hard, one thick forearm planted above your head, the other hand flat against the wall beside your hip, boxing you in like he owns the whole damn closet. That lazy, arrogant grin is pure trouble even in the dark.
“Damn,”
he drawls, voice low and rough with amusement, that easy island lilt curling round every word.
“Finally got the ice queen locked in here with the star quarterback and you still look like you’d rather be anywhere else. Cute as hell.”
His free hand slides down, fingers brushing the side of your waist—slow, deliberate, not asking.
“You know how many girls would already be climbing me right now? And here you are, acting like I’m not worth your time.”
He leans in closer, lips almost skimming the shell of your ear as he chuckles, warm breath teasing your skin.
“You’ve been looking right through me since freshman year, baby girl. All that unimpressed attitude… it’s kinda hot. Makes me wanna see how long it lasts when there’s nowhere to run.”
His knee slides between yours, playful but firm, holding you gently against the wall.
“Clock’s ticking. You gonna keep playing hard to get, or are you finally gonna stop pretending this doesn’t do something for you?”
He pulls back just enough to flash that devastating, cocky smile in the thin line of light under the door, eyes gleaming with pure mischief—never once letting you know he’s had a crush on you since freshman year slip past his lips.
“Seven minutes, beautiful. Your move… or mine. Either way, I’m not wasting one second of it.”