Charlotte and the Seven Frat Brothers
Author
Jessica Carter
Reads
8.0M
Chapters
71
Charlotte just wants a normal senior year of college before she goes off to her dream job in LA. But when the dorms are filled to capacity, she's assigned to live in a frat house! To her surprise, Charlotte finds herself on a journey of self-discovery, finding business intrigue, friends, love, and a sense of self in the most unlikely company.
Age Rating: 16+
Roadkill In Front Of Gods
CHARLOTTE
“Bang, Bang, Bang!”
I’ve been knocking on the front door of Croakington Frat house for the last ten minutes and no one’s opened the damn door. They were supposed to know I was coming.
I still can’t quite believe this is my new home.
The admin at my illustrious college screwed up and there are no dorm rooms left, so this is their solution, me living in a frat house for my senior year.
Guess I’ll try the back door.
With a sigh, I drag my suitcase around the side of the house.
I’m walking along the backyard fence looking for a gate when I hear a loud GRUNT.
Then a few more.
Low groans, sharp exhales, even a breathy moan or two.
Oh yeah, right there... push it harder... don’t stop... More!
My cheeks heat instantly. Oh my god—did I just stumble onto frat house orgy hookup hour?
I wouldn’t put it past this crew. They’re known as the hottest guys on campus. Frankly, I was surprised when I arrived that there wasn’t a line of women waiting to get in like it was a sex club.
I push my suitcase against the fence and then climb up on it so I can see over.
What I see looks like every college girl’s fantasy sprung to life right in front of me. In the backyard, the seven hot football players of Croakington House are working out.
Most of them have ditched shirts entirely and their bodies glisten under the late-afternoon sun as sweat slides down chiseled abs, catching on sharp hip bones.
One guy drops into perfect pushups, his back rippling with controlled power. Another pounds out squats, thighs straining, sweat dripping from his jawline to his collarbone. Two of them face off in the grass, sparring with quick jabs and grins, their torsos twisting, sweat flying in the air.
Heat curls in my belly as I watch, desire building with every grunt and glimmer of sweat.
And then I see him—Chase Tucker.
The quarterback, the leader, the unquestioned alpha of this crew.
He grips a bar and knocks out pullups, biceps bulging, veins standing out in stark relief as his shoulders rise and fall.
He has a body sculpted by the football gods. Or his strength coach. Sharp blue eyes and messy dark hair complete the annoyingly handsome picture. Chase Tucker knows exactly how attractive he is. And worse, he knows how to use it.
And he’s why living here isn’t a single-college-girl-dream come true for me. You see, Chase and I have a history.
Ancient history, aka, middle school history.
He was my first real crush in middle school—the kind of crush where I doodled his name in the margins of my notebooks and forgot how to speak English when I saw him in the hall. And he liked me too.
Or so I thought.
Then high school happened, and that sweet boy morphed into an arrogant jock with too much swagger and too many cheerleaders orbiting around him. By college, he was every inch the entitled, untouchable quarterback god everyone warned me about.
And so, I hate him while every other girl on campus worships him. I know the real Chase and I know it’s so much better than whatever golden-boy character he’s playing these days. Maybe someday he’ll drop the act and we can be friends again.
But, for now, I can’t deny he’s nice to look at.
He’s moved from pullups to situps now. The muscles of his stomach flex and ripple and his short shorts ride up his thick thighs, revealing more bronzed skin. Every grunt he lets out is low, rough, and far too suggestive, sending shivers down my spine.
Damn it, body, stop acting like this! We hate him!
But my body ain’t listening to me. Chase is the one working out, but I’m the one panting.
I grip the fence tighter, knuckles whitening. I should climb down, avert my gaze, pretend I didn’t just turn into the creepiest peeping tom alive—but I’m frozen in place. I don’t think I’ve even blinked in a minute.
Then it happens. A bead of sweat slides down between his pecs, further past his abs, and vanishes into the waistband of his shorts, causing me to let out an audible moan.
I clasp my hand over my mouth, but it’s too late.
Every guy in the yard has stopped working out, muscles stopped in mid-motion.
In perfect sync, they all turn their heads toward me, wanting to see what just made that noise. Seven pairs of eyes stare at me.
“We’ve got another one,” one of the guys says with a laugh.
Panic seizes me and I try to turn, but my suitcase wobbles and I lose my balance. I reach for a tree branch, miss, and somehow topple over the fence. I hit the grass with a thud, my skirt riding up, the breath knocked from my lungs, sprawled on my back like a starfish.
I look up to see seven impossibly gorgeous, shirtless guys looming over me in a circle, like I’ve died and gone to steamy sportswear heaven.
But I’m not dead. Honestly, I almost wish I were—that would be less humiliating than this.
Instead, I’ve just made the most mortifying entrance of all time, sprawled out like roadkill in front of seven gods with abs.
I clear my throat, forcing a wobbly smile. “Hi. I’m Charlotte… your new roommate.”
