Instead of answering, I bump his knee, holding it against his. My own question.
He responds by pressing back, studying his lunch carefully. There’s no mistaking the way his lips are flirting with a smirk. I spread my fingers over my knee, and a second later feel the graze of his fingertips on mine.
Heat burns the tip of my ears and I squeeze his fingers, laying them on my knee. Sitting with me at lunch could get him in trouble. Flirting with me in front of Emory could get his ass kicked. But as usual, Reyn has a better read on the situation than I do, because my brother is fully entranced with Aubrey. He’s placed his hand around her back, on the seat of her chair, leaning as close to her as he possibly can, speaking quietly in her ear.
Reyn takes the opportunity to reach those long fingertips up my bare thigh and toy with the hem of my skirt. Every other sound in the loud cafeteria vanishes. I’m focused on the way his skin feels against mine. His pouty bottom lip. The memory of making out with him in the front seat of h
is Jeep, our lips salty from fries, windows fogging over.
As the seconds pass, I get more and more overheated—overwhelmed, worried about getting caught. This boy is fire and I’ve always been attracted to his flame. With my heart pounding, I abruptly push my chair back and announce, “I need to go to the library before next period.” Emory’s barely paying attention, so I’m able to give Reyn a significant look as I leave.
The crisp fall air relieves the heat, sort of, and the quiet of the library settles my heart rate. I stroll through the stacks, past the librarian’s desk. Ms. Cowen gives me a small smile. The library is a common haunt of mine. For the past three years, I’d spent a lot of time here, pretending to read a book in one of the comfortable chairs along the back wall, while really being high as a fucking kite.
I’m good at pretending, and right now, strolling through the stacks, I’m pretending that I’m not waiting—dying—for Reyn to come find me.
I find myself back in the biographies, the quietest row in the building. The only sound is the drag of my feet on the carpeted floor. I run my finger along the dusty spines, trying to settle this crazed, energized thing inside of me. I’d lived so long with dulled feelings, but now everything hits against me sharp as knives. Scary. Dangerous. Thrilling. I’ve had it bad for Reyn since as far back as I can remember, and I told him that I wasn’t disposable, something he could toss away once he was done with the thrill.
But even I know I don’t mean it.
It’s not a good feeling, knowing that I’d just take whatever I can get. But the thought of not having it at all is so much worse.
I stop, spotting a shiny new cover among the older titles, and pull a Ronan Farrow book off the shelf. Now this guy knows how to investigate and reveal a scandal. I tuck the book against my chest, turn the corner, and stop short, my hand reaching out to the tall bookshelf for support.
He stands down at the other end, red and black football tie slightly askew. His hands are in his pockets—no pretense of even looking for a book—and his eyes are focused on me, green, alert. He’s looking at me in a way that makes my stomach flutter anxiously.
“I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to come find you,” he says, voice low enough not to carry back out to Ms. Cowen. His words might be uncertain, but the heat in his eyes as they drag down my body are anything but.
“That was the idea,” I admit.
He stalks toward me, propping his shoulder on the shelf in a casual lean. His eyes are intense, searching. He has this way of pitching his deep voice where it seems like anything he’s saying is just meant for me. “You looked upset before.”
“It wasn’t important,” I insist, mirroring his pose.
He reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, and it makes me shiver. “I probably shouldn’t have touched you like that, not in front of everyone. Definitely not in front of Emory. Sorry.”
I can still feel the warmth of his fingers on my leg, like they never left. “Don’t be. I wanted you to.” Quietly, I confess, “I’ve always wanted you to.”
He looks down at me, his wide shoulders casting me in a shadow. I think about the scars and how much I’d wanted to touch them that night he showed them to me. How much I want to touch him right now. Reyn has never been one to resist, and although his interest in me is still a surprise, the fact he reaches for me, touching me just under the chin, isn’t.
Every nerve in my body alights and only increases when he speaks. “Seeing you all day and not being able to get close to you is killing me,” he confesses, inching closer, like we’re magnetized. “Knowing that mark is on your thigh. Knowing what your lips taste like.” His hand settles on my hip. “It’s making me reckless.”
He turns me so that my back presses against the bookshelves, his hand dropping to fist the hem of my skirt. His knuckles graze the skin there, teasing, pressing. He kisses me, coaxing my lips apart with little licks. His tongue tastes sweet, like the juice he drank at lunch.
Delusional.
Warm insurgence grows in my belly and I grab at his tie, tugging him down so I can reach him better, sliding against his hot mouth. He makes a sound deep in his throat, something guttural and barely restrained, as the kiss swells in intensity. I run my hands down his biceps, feeling them flex as he surges into a deep, sucking kiss. Heat pools between my legs, and I push my hips into him without thinking, pure instinct.
His kiss sort of skitters and he pulls back. “I like you like this,” he whispers. His eyes bore into mine as he carefully wedges a thigh between my legs, like he’s testing my reaction.
The length of him, hard and pressing beneath the front of his pants, slots up against my hip. The shock of the pressure against my middle is just as intoxicating as the knowledge of what I’m doing to him. I’d seen it through the window, but actually feeling it? Jesus.
Who needs drugs when you can have this?
“Like what?” I ask, distracted.
He rumbles, “Bold.” Kiss. “All worked up.” Lick. “Mine.”
He’s the Devil alright, always there with an open hand, always ready to drag me with him into trouble. His lips burn against my neck, stubble rough against my skin. The pain feels good, grounding, just like his thigh, which I can’t help but buck against. He spits a low curse into my throat when I do, mouth dropping to the edge of my collar. He pushes with his leg, a hand coming down to the small of my back, grinding me harder against his thigh.