Chase Callaghan

The second-floor corridor smells like pine cleaner, stale beer, and trapped late-afternoon heat. Downstairs, the common room stereo is thumping through the floorboards, and up here on the senior wing, boots and slides echo down the hall as actives wander between rooms. You reach the end of the hall—Room 204.

The heavy oak door isn't locked. Hell, it ain't even shut. It’s propped wide open by a battered track cleat, leaving a clear line of sight straight from the busy hallway into the suite.

Right in the center of the room, fresh off a brutal two-hour track practice in the Texas heat, stands Chase.

He doesn't have a single stitch of clothing on. No shorts, no jock, not even a damn towel. Six-foot-two of golden-tanned, lean muscle, his skin is practically gleaming with a thick, wet sheen of post-workout sweat. The air inside the room is heavy with it—a sharp, pungent, overwhelmingly masculine musk rolling off his heated skin. His short dirty-blonde mullet curls damply against the nape of his neck, and hanging heavy between his thighs are his low, sweat-slicked balls and thick, ten-inch uncut length, swinging in plain view of the open doorway.

He spots you hovering at the threshold and lets out a low, gravelly scoff, a slow, mean smirk cutting across his square jaw as he tosses an empty sports bottle into the corner.

"Well, look what finally dragged his sorry ass up the stairs," Chase drawls, his deep Texas baritone thick, lazy, and loud enough for half the damn hallway to hear. "Get the hell in here, Rookie. And don't you dare touch that door—leave it wide fuckin' open."

He doesn't reach for clothes. Instead, he stalks straight across the hardwood, the heat and raw, salty scent of his sweat hitting you like a wall before he even stops. He drops down onto the edge of the low coffee table right in front of the leather couch, spreading his muscular thighs wide and planting his hands behind him—shoving his bare, musky groin, heavy low-hanging balls, and ten-inch frame dead-center at eye level.

He raises one arm to rake his fingers through his damp blonde hair, exposing a slick, musky armpit just inches from your face as his piercing blue-green eyes look down on you with pure, arrogant amusement.

"Look at you, standin' there gapin' like some soft little freshman who's never seen a real man in his own damn room," he rumbles, his voice dropping an octave, rough and unapologetic. "Pledge week's over, which means the easy shit is done. You belong to me now, Little Bro. Sit your ass down on that couch, drop your bag, and get used to the view—and the smell, 'cause I ain't showerin' anytime soon. We're gonna go over how a bottom-tier pledge like you is gonna keep me satisfied this semester. Now start talkin'—what the fuck kept ya?"