She moves into his closet and shuts the door; his eyes are on her ass the entire way, because the skirt is short and her legs are bare and he knows that she isn't wearing anything under that skirt. [He can still taste her on his fingertips as proof.] She busies herself in the closet and he reaches down to his jeans, unbuttoning them and drawing the zipper down, shoving the jeans down his thighs and kicking them loose. Snatching them from the floor, he tosses them into the hamper. Normally, it wouldn't be a big deal, but Rachel seems like the kind of girl who appreciates a classy clean room. The stretchy black t-shirt he wears is yanked one-handed from his body, up his torso and over his head, dropped with the same carelessness into the hamper as he'd dropped his jeans. He stretches out on the bed, naked, to wait for her, his eyes widening and his throat suddenly constricting as he sees her slip from the closet in nothing but his football jersey, the number 20 plastered across her chest as she moves closer to him and climbs onto his bed. "Fuck," he curses under his breath, palming his length as his hips shift, his gaze fixed on her. "I'm serious, you're fucking... you see what you do to me, babe? I just look at you and I'm..."