Sorry, I Only Date College Boys

Four years ago, he dragged on his postsex cigarette. "I'm getting engaged. Be a good girl. Don't make a scene." A mocking smirk twisted his lips. "Four years.

Time I switch up my palate." I took the payout. Boarded a oneway flight. Never looked back. Four years later. The corporate buyout clears. The new CEO? Him.

He corners me in a dim stairwell. Shoves a hotel keycard into my palm. "Round two?" His voice drops, vibrating with dark temptation. A cold laugh escapes my throat.

I jam the plastic back into his tailored pocket. "Sorry. I only hook up with college boys now." Chapter 1 I never expected to see Roman again.

He commanded the head of the table, radiating a quiet, oldmoney elegance while surrounded by cheap suits and desperate laughter.

Craig yanked my arm, dragging me toward the front. "Briar, this is the man signing our paychecks now. Face time.

Let's go." My fingers turned to ice against my champagne flute. "Sir, this is our Planning Director. Ivy League grad.

Absolute shark in the boardroom—" Roman finally lifted his gaze. His gaze swept across my face. It stalled for a fraction of a second.

Then moved away. "Is she?" He let out a low, breathy chuckle.

He wasn't buying the polished corporate packaging, because the Briar he remembered was just a trailer park girl who couldn't even afford tuition. Craig nudged my ribs. "Briar.

Toast the man." I ground my teeth. I raised my glass— "Skip it." His voice sliced through the chatter. "She's allergic." My lungs seized. A memory slammed into me.

Years ago, his frat brothers had been pushing shots on him. I panicked, swiped a glass out of his hand, and downed the cheap liquor. My face immediately flushed hot.

He'd pinched my burning cheek, a smirk playing on his lips. "Idiot. One sip and you look like this? It's an allergy.

Don't touch a drop when I'm not around to watch you." Craig blinked, his smile faltering. "You two… know each other?" Roman stayed silent.

He'd never claim our dirty little secret, and I sure as hell wouldn't. I forced a bright, plastic smile. "His family's foundation funded my scholarship.

I owe him everything." I swallowed the champagne in one burning gulp. "To you." He frowned slightly. Truth is, I had drunk plenty since he left, so my tolerance had built up.

I wasn't that fragile little girl anymore. His eyes darkened. He shifted his attention back to Craig. "Briar's stubborn.

Keep an eye on her, Craig." Craig nodded frantically. "Of course, of course. She's a star player." I didn't stick around for the rest. I excused myself. I bolted for the restroom.

The second I hit the hallway, Tara and the vultures swarmed me. "Briar! You know him? How?" "Word is he's engaged to Giselle, the Su family heiress.

When's the wedding?" "No idea." I shook my head, rubbing my temples. "I just got a check from his family's charity back in the day." I was still reeling.

Roman taking over a tech firm made zero sense. Harrington had his life mapped out—politics, old legacy money. Why pivot to corporate buyouts?

The girls wouldn't quit. "Was he this hot in college? Did he date? I bet girls threw themselves at him." I glanced back down the hall.

Through the glass doors, his silhouette dominated the room. Years passed, and he still pulled all the gravity in the room. Another memory bled through.

Roman and Harrington pulling up to my rundown hometown for some charity photo op.

Earl was blackout drunk again, ripping my textbooks to shreds, his spit flying as he screamed at me to drop out and marry the local mechanic.

My chest caved in as I knelt in the dirt, my trembling hands frantically gathering torn pages. My throat locked, unable to breathe under a crushing wave of pure panic.

I looked up to see a boy standing by a sleek, black town car, staring down at me and frowning. He wore pristine, starkwhite Converse that mocked the filthy mud beneath our feet.

I instinctively curled my toes, trying to hide my ducttaped sneakers. I'd never seen a boy look like that. Like he stepped right out of a magazine. Untouchable.

Chapter 2 Harrington took me in for the PR optics. I rode in the back of his leatherscented SUV, watching the crumbling trailers of my hometown fade into sprawling, gated estates.

Roman scowled the entire ride. He thought throwing a check at the problem was enough, a nuisance he now had to look at.

He didn't realize Earl would drink every single cent of that payout before I was inevitably shipped off to live at the estate.

Harrington and Jacqueline were never home, leaving the sprawling mansion entirely to Roman, the housekeeper Helen, and me.

Day one, he lobbed a pair of brandnew Nikes at my chest. "Don't track mud on the marble." They were a size too small, but I crammed my bruised toes into them anyway, swallowing the sharp pinch of blisters day after day because they were the nicest things I owned.

He ruled the private high school. Valedictorian, star athlete, the untouchable golden boy with a face that girls obsessed over. We existed in entirely different stratospheres.

When I saw him in the halls, I ducked my head and walked faster since he'd made the rules clear—I didn't know him. He was obsessed with Giselle, the pristine prom queen.

They matched perfectly with old money, flawless genes, a pairing even the teachers fawned over.

I boarded at school, only returning to the estate on holidays to sleep in a cramped storage room next to Helen's quarters.

I made myself invisible, scrubbing his cleats, ironing his shirts, bringing him black coffee to prove my worth. One wrong move, and they'd send me back to Earl.

I felt like a rat scurrying through a mansion, watching his perfect life through a crack in the wall. Until I caught him in the attic.

Thick smoke curling from his lips, the muffled, heavy breathing of a dirty video glowing on his laptop screen. The golden boy had shadows.

His friends caught me carrying laundry once.

Reed squinted at me. "Who's the stray?" I tightened my grip on the plastic basket. "I'm the new maid." Reed snickered. "Damn, your maid is kind of a smoke show.

Giving major innocentbutfreaky vibes. Looks just like the blonde in that video. Look at the rack on her—" Roman's fist shattered Reed's jaw.

Bone cracked. "Back the fuck off!" It was the first time I saw him lose control, but he wasn't defending me.

Giselle had just dumped him to pack up for an elite university in London, while Roman was chained to a local Ivy to groom his political legacy. He was spiraling.

That night, he locked himself in the sweltering attic for hours.

I pushed the heavy oak door open to find the room pitch black, a single slice of moonlight slashing across the dusty floorboards.

He stared at me, his hollow gaze pinning me to the wood. "Briar. You're curious too, aren't you? Let's find out." He backed me into the frayed fabric of the old sofa, caging me in.

His body heat radiated through my thin cotton shirt as his lips branded my jaw, burning hot. His scorching palms pinned my wrists down.

I clamped my teeth into my bottom lip, swallowing a sharp gasp as a tear of pain ripped through me. I didn't know if I was terrified or quietly relieved.

The untouchable golden boy was finally crashing down into my arms. It became a filthy habit. The deserted roof, the plush rug in Harrington's study, the stifling heat of the attic.

The edges of his cruelty began to blur.

He'd trace my spine with a trembling finger, asking if I was hurting, a broken exhale escaping his lips as he pulled me flush against his chest, striking a match for a cigarette in the dark.

He'd bury his face in my hair, inhaling deeply. "Such a good girl." We ended up at the same university in the city.

Chapter 3 Without his family watching, Roman stopped holding back. His appetite was intense, leaving me hollowed out every time, my muscles trembling, my lungs gasping for air.

He threw money at me, enough to cover tuition, enough to live comfortably. I seized it, burying myself in textbooks, chasing certifications, perfecting my accent.

The money stripped away the trailerpark grime. He’d pinch my jaw, his thumb dragging across my lower lip, a dark smirk playing on his face. "Look at you.

Getting prettier every day on my dime." The friction of our bodies blurred the lines. His kisses turned softer, lingering as he showered me with gifts.

We went on actual dates, and he even dragged me to his frat parties. Time fed my delusions until I actually started to believe I was his girlfriend.

Until Reed cornered him at a house party. "Bro, you actually catching feelings?" Roman scoffed, his tone dangerously casual. "She’s addictive.

Hard to cut loose." "But if Harrington finds out? He’d bury me." The air was punched out of my lungs. I woke up as if from a dream.

No matter how hard I scrubbed, I couldn't wash off the dirt. To his world, I was just a gold digger, a charity case spreading her legs for a sugar daddy.

He noticed the untouched designer boxes piling up in my closet and asked why I never wore them. "Roman," I said flatly. "Just buy me gold from now on." He laughed and called me tacky.

I didn't flinch. "Yeah. Solid gold bullion. Send that." Luxury was a playground for the rich, but for someone starving, hard currency meant survival.

I was tacky because poverty terrified me, making me claw at every lifeline. He actually did it.

Oneounce bars, then heavy, solid bricks, hoarding every single piece and burying them beneath the ripped lining of my battered suitcase. The last time was at his penthouse.

He was unhinged, a rough, bruising kind of desperation, and afterward, the heavy scent of his cigarette smoke filled the room. "I'm getting engaged." I was facing the wall, sliding my dress down over my bruised thighs.

My hand paused. Giselle was back from London because her family’s trust fund was drying up. They needed a corporate merger.

The pristine golden girl had returned, so the cheap standin had to exit stage left. "Be a good girl," he murmured. "Don't make a scene." I forced my chin down in a stiff nod. "Done.

Don't worry.

I won't get in your way." He shifted his weight on the mattress, his hot chest pressing against my bare spine as his knuckles brushed my skin to hook my bra clasp. "So obedient." I shoved the fresh gold bar from the nightstand into my tote, flashing a hollow smile.

The cold, heavy metal anchored my trembling hands, a physical reminder to bury the sudden, sharp sting of rejection deep in my chest before he could see it. "I got my acceptance letter to Stanford.

I leave in a few days." The heat radiating from his chest vanished.

He crushed his cigarette into the glass ashtray as the atmosphere snapped, turning instantly hostile. "The fuck do you mean?" He’d been too busy partying, too busy rekindling his old flame with Giselle.

He didn't know a damn thing about my life. "Briar," his voice was completely cold. "Who gave you permission to leave?" I turned around and met his furious glare deadon. "Roman, look at us.

Does our arrangement really require a twoweek notice?" His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking under his skin. A long beat of heavy silence. Then, a cruel, razorsharp sneer. "Fine.

We're done. Four years. I'm bored of you anyway.

Time I switched up my palate." He yanked his shirt on, the fabric snapping, and slammed the bedroom door so hard the drywall shuddered.

I sterilized the apartment, wiped down the counters, leaving zero trace I ever existed. His payouts covered my Stanford tuition, four years of hoarded gold.

The suitcase was so heavy I could barely lift it off the floor. Two years of grueling academics, three years swimming with corporate sharks.

Over eighteen hundred days where designer bags rotted, cars depreciated, and people walked away.

There were countless nights I survived on cheap coffee and sheer spite, burying the ghost of his memory under mountains of financial reports just to keep myself from drowning in the past.

But that pile of gold? It doubled in value, then it doubled again. Chapter 4 My phone buzzed against the mahogany table.

A text from Callum lit up the screen: "Waiting out front." I slipped the phone into my purse, waved off the rest of the team, and headed for the exit.

I rounded the corner when a large hand shot out from the shadows. Long, calloused fingers clamped around my wrist. A strong pull yanked me into the unlit stairwell.

I couldn't see his face, but the scent—expensive cedar and sharp nicotine—slammed into my senses.

Roman pinned my shoulders against the freezing concrete, his ragged breath fanning across my collarbone, laced with topshelf scotch. "Running from me?" His intense gaze locked onto mine, stripping me bare in the dark. "Let go of me, Roman.

You're drunk." I twisted my arm, but his grip was iron.

His free hand slid down to my waist, his fingers digging into my hip bone, jerking me flush against his hard chest. "Roman!" "Still so responsive," he murmured, a low, vibrating growl rumbling in his chest. "Did you think about me?" He smiled wickedly.

He dragged his thumb across my knuckles, forcing a heavy plastic keycard into my palm. "I miss the way you taste." His voice dropped to a dirty whisper. "Round two?" The sharp edges of the plastic bit into my skin.

I tipped my chin up and stared right back at him, seeing the same flawless, ruinous face that used to own me.

Five years, and he still thought he could snap his fingers and I’d drop to my knees. I let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Sorry.

I switched up my palate." His smirk died. "What?" His expression changed entirely. "You found a new sponsor? A coworker? An exec?

What’s his net worth?" To him, I was a stray, and he was the absolute ceiling of what a girl like me could ever catch.

He always loved to say people couldn't make money beyond their social comprehension, so to his twisted logic, I couldn't sleep with a man beyond my station, either.

I shoved both hands hard against his chest, breaking his hold. "Zero net worth," I smiled sweetly. "He's just a few years younger than you." The muscles in his jaw locked.

I grabbed the lapel of his tailored jacket, slid the keycard deep into his breast pocket, and patted it twice. "It's not that you aren't a great catch, Roman.

It's just that older men are completely off my radar now." His face darkened completely.

The heater blasted inside the Jeep, the heated leather searing right through my skirt. "Did you drink?" Callum leaned over the center console, his eyes scanning my face. "Just one glass." He passed me a steaming thermos of hot cocoa.

The steel burned deliciously against my freezing palms. I took it, taking a slow, rich sip.

Callum wrapped his large, calloused hand around my free one, rubbing his thumb over my knuckles, sharing his body heat. "You're freezing," he murmured. "It's brutal out there," I sighed, sinking into the seat. "Smells like snow." A blast of a car horn shattered the quiet.

Short. Aggressive. A sleek black Maybach was riding our bumper, the high beams completely blinding, washing the entire rearview mirror in harsh white light.

Sharp knuckles rapped against my window. I hit the button, letting the glass slide down.

Roman stood in the freezing wind with just a thin wool overcoat thrown over his tailored suit, his posture brutally stiff. "Move.

You're blocking the exit." I flashed a perfectly polite, corporate smile. "Of course, boss.

Leaving right now." His gaze dropped, locking instantly onto Callum’s fingers intertwined with mine.

His breath hitched just for a fraction of a second. "Boyfriend?" I didn't say a word. Callum leaned across my lap, catching Roman's eye. "What's up, man." Roman's jaw ticked.

He didn't acknowledge him, just spun on his heel and stalked back to the Maybach. Callum rolled the window back up, shaking his head. "Weird flex. The driveway is massive.

Why did we have to move?" I kept my mouth shut. Roman was obsessing, needing to see exactly who replaced him.

His ego was monstrous because he genuinely believed that after him, I'd be settling for scraps. But the second he saw Callum, his entire reality glitched.

Callum didn't have a trust fund. He didn't have a luxury car. He was just young. And exceptionally goodlooking. Callum was nineteen.

Eight full years younger than the man in the rearview mirror.

Chapter 5 Harsh chemicals had stripped the skin from his fingers, leaving his knuckles permanently flushed red, the skin cracked and raw.

He wasn't like the other stylists hustling for commission. He kept his mouth shut and kept his hair its natural, stark black.

When I got up to leave, Corey, the manager, shot him a pointed look from the register. Callum flinched, his voice a raw, embarrassed rasp. "Ma'am… we have a membership promo.

Put five hundred on a card, get one hundred free…" I stared at his peeling, chemicalburned fingers. "Put down two thousand," I said.

He froze, pure panic flashing in his eyes. "That's too much.

Please… just do the minimum." A dry laugh caught in my throat. "How old are you?" "Eighteen." "Too young to be a dropout.

Why aren't you in class?" He dropped his gaze to the linoleum. "Family wouldn't let me.

Made me take this shift instead." I found out later he had an acceptance letter to a state college shoved in his battered locker. "You don't know about FAFSA? Student loans?

Financial aid offices?" I asked. He shook his head in blank, helpless panic. "I… I didn't know." My chest tightened, the words dying on my tongue. I was looking in a mirror.

Trapped in a deadend trailer park, completely blind to the exits, you just stare at the brick wall, convinced it's the edge of the world.

A memory of Roman suddenly flashed in my mind, the first time he had looked down at me from his black SUV. That must have been exactly what he saw. Dirtpoor. Pathetic.

Completely clueless. In that split second, the dark psychology of the savior complex clicked. The intoxicating allure of a broken thing. The desperate urge to fix it.

The rest of the story played out like a massive, predictable cliché. I paid his tuition, changed his trajectory, and inevitably pulled him into my bed.

With Roman, I was always on my knees, looking up at a god. Callum was entirely different. He was devoted, compliant, looking at me like I hung the moon.

The physical payoff was incredibly addictive. He was fumbling at first, but he learned incredibly fast. He was a blank slate.

I guided his hips, corrected his grip, as he mapped every sigh, his breath stuttering hot against my collarbone, a low groan vibrating in his chest as he made damn sure he wrecked me perfectly the next time.

He worshipped the ground I walked on.

I watched his shoulders broaden, watching the silent, ashcovered dropout transform into the striking man who opened my car doors and brought me steaming lattes in the dead of winter.

I finally understood the intoxicating high of molding someone from the ground up. The ultimate irony. The charity case had become the sugar mommy.

But flawless physical chemistry couldn't bridge the mental void. I talked corporate buyouts; his eyes glazed over. He talked frat drama; I wanted to roll my eyes.

Eight years is a chasm. A massive, echoing canyon of life experience and tax brackets. Back in the office, I had to admit Roman's vision was ruthless.

His teardowns during the morning merger meeting were brutally precise, gutting our old protocols without breaking a sweat.

The second we adjourned, Giselle strolled into the lobby, dripping in designer labels and carrying artisanal coffees. The bullpen instantly buzzed. "That’s the fiancé?

Total old money energy. You can't fake that posture." "They look like a damn Vogue cover. It's not fair." But the Vogue cover model didn't stay in the corner office.

A sharp knock cracked my glass door open. "Well. Imagine running into you here." Giselle looked me up and down. "I remember now. Weren't you the estate maid? Oh, wait. No.

Harrington's little charity tax writeoff from the sticks." I leaned back in my ergonomic chair. I didn't give her an inch.

She sank gracefully into the leather guest chair, flashing a toxic, practiced smile. "Thanks so much for keeping Roman entertained while I was studying in London." She leaned forward, dropping her voice to a poisonous whisper. "In the old days, a loyal little pet might have earned a title as a permanent mistress.

But in the modern world? I believe the technical term is just… a cheap side piece." Chapter 6 She tilted her head, smiling.

I met her gaze and smiled right back. "Your imagination is wild, Giselle. When Roman and I hooked up, you two were already history.

By the time you flew back from London, I was already stateside. It’s been years. Didn't realize I lived rentfree in your head." Her smile stiffened.

A sharp, mocking sneer instantly took its place. "Hooked up? You think you two were actually together?" "You're right.

We weren't." I nodded smoothly. "Just a straightup fuckbuddy situation.

Got my fix and bounced." She completely froze. "But," I held her gaze, my tone completely flat, "taking back an ex who kept a steady side piece for four straight years?

That’s some serious dedication on your part." "You—" She choked on her own breath. "Look at you playing Director. So different now.

Nothing like that pathetic trailerpark trash who couldn't even look people in the eye." "People grow." I kept my tone flat. "You, on the other hand?

Still the exact same mean girl." Her face went rigid.

My mind flashed back to when she had led the entire senior class to ice me out, had dumped black ink all over my locker, and had called me white trash.

I remembered every single second of it. "What are you doing in here?" The glass door swung open as Roman stepped into the office.

Giselle instantly plastered herself to his side, hooking her arm through his. "Roman! Briar and I were just catching up.

I can't believe how much she's leveled up." Roman didn't say a word. "Oh, right! My friend from Pi Phi is jumping ship.

I showed you her resume, right?" Giselle’s eyes lit up with fake realization. "Briar’s Director role would be absolutely perfect for her.

Don't you think?" Roman's gaze dragged over to me. "The qualifications match." "Amazing! I'll tell her to come in for an interview." Giselle beamed. "Briar's an old friend anyway.

Let's move her somewhere… less stressful." "Fine. Whatever you want." Acid burned the back of my throat.

My nails dug bloody crescents into my palms. "Roman, I expect an objective review. I've built this department for three years.

Straight Aplus performance metrics." "Director." His tone was pure, freezing corporate ice. "The board has its own strategy.

Personnel adjustments align with overarching capabilities." I snapped my mouth shut. He was just flexing for his golden girl, making my career collateral damage.

In his twisted world, I was just a disposable extra. I booted up my laptop and pulled up a blank resignation template. Snow started dumping by quitting time.

Callum was waiting by the plaza stairs, holding a massive black umbrella. He spotted me and started walking over. I took a step toward him. A brutal grip clamped around my wrist.

Roman. He yanked me hard behind a concrete pillar, his fingers digging into my pulse point. "Mad at me?" He stared down, his heavy overcoat brushing against my blazer.

I ripped my arm free. "Back off, Roman." He crowded me against the concrete, caging me in. "Briar," a low, dark chuckle rumbled in his throat. "Your metrics are flawless.

HR sent out the Regional VP promotion this morning. Didn't check your inbox?" I froze. The breath was knocked out of my lungs. He wasn't demoting me. He was bumping me to VP.

His gaze tracked over my shoulder, locking dead onto Callum standing in the freezing snow. "He doesn't know about our history, does he?" "What's your point?" I snapped