“You have no idea the things I want to do with my body,” he teases.
My face warms. “Wow. Is everything a line or a joke to you?”
“Not always.”
“I doubt that.”
“You think I can’t be serious?”
“That’s exactly what I think.”
“You don’t know me, Liri.”
He’s right about that. I don’t. I am out of my element with this bad boy.
“I’ll be in soon. Go grab us a table. I just gotta finish my cigarette.”
“Didn’t they ban smoking on campus?”
“What’s your point?”
“Nothing.” He is exhausting. I am already mentally drained after being with him for ten minutes. I will never survive an hour.
I arrive at the library and take a table in the back. I’m sure Killian has probably already bolted. I didn’t expect to him to last the walk here. I was sure there would be some chick along the way who would catch his eye and send him off on his next conquest.
I lay my bag down and pull out my notes. I do better if I write things out by hand and type them out later. I really wanted to come here because I knew it would be quieter than the dorm. And it gives Hayley some alone time with her man even if he is drunk.
To Grayson,
All my love,
Camille.
I stare at the words, but they aren’t multiplying. I grab my sketchbook instead and decide I need to draw Camille. I need to get inside her head. Scooting my chair back I draw my knees up to get comfortable, resting my pad on them. Camille easily comes to life. Dark hair, a freckle above her lip, and some lighter ones dusted along her nose. It isn’t my best work, but it is decent enough to give her some life. The chair next to me scoots out. I look over and see Killian sitting way too close. My pencil is between my lips and he smirks at me as he shrugs off his leather jacket and reveals a long-sleeved black tee with a faded logo on it from some indie band.
“You got a little smudge on your face from your pencil.” His thumb brushes along my cheek, and down my neck. A shiver slices through me, and I put my legs down and close my sketchbook.
“What are you working on?”
“A letter.”
“Looks like you were sketching.”
“You spying on me now?”
“No. I’ve been watching you though for about fifteen minutes. You have talent. I was curious and liked watching the rendering you were doing of yourself unfold.”
I look away. I wasn’t drawing myself, was I? My brows knit. Why was he watching me? The thought shoots an arrow straight at my heart, and my pulse rings in my ears.
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?” I take my hair down for something to do with my hands.
“Look away whenever I’m nice to you.”
I turn my head toward his. “I don’t.”
“Yes, you do,” he argues.