A Gorgeous Villain (St. Mary's Rebels 2)

I’m so lost in it, in his grip, in the fact that my soft flesh gives so easily beneath his strong fingers, that it takes me a few seconds to realize that the music has stopped.

I don’t even know where the time went.

I don’t even know how it moved so fast and there’s pin-drop silence now.

Except for our breaths, panting and heavy.

I lower my arms then and put them on his shoulders, looking down.

As always, his eyes are already on me, a gunmetal gray so intense and liquid that I could drown in it. I could drown in the deep lake of his wolf eyes.

And I should save myself.

I should look away.

I shouldn’t admire his thick lashes, the strands of his dark brown hair that flutter over his forehead. The long strands that make me think that he needs a haircut.

I shouldn’t flex my fingers on his shoulders and knead the muscles. I shouldn’t marvel over how big they feel now, how strong and rock-like. Even more than before.

Like he’s been pumping iron for the past two years, building himself muscle by muscle, tendon by tendon.

And why wouldn’t he?

He’s an athlete. A soccer player.

The best soccer player.

The one who won the championship two years ago. Who defeated my brother, the Angry Thorn, and became the reigning champion of Bardstown High, the Wild Mustang.

I bet people still remember him. They remember his victory. They remember his swagger, his style, his legend.

And if they remember him, they probably remember me too.

They probably remember what the Thorn Princess did in the name of love.

How she went crazy.

For him.

And God, I need to get away from him. I need to leave.

I need to save myself.

“I have to go,” I whisper and hastily climb down his body.

Looking away, I step back from him and in my mind, I’m already putting things back, closing down the studio and catching the bus back to St. Mary’s when he decides to break the silence.

“I’ll drop you off.”

He’s waiting for me by his Mustang.

He’s leaning against it, his arms folded, one ankle crossed over the other.

When he told me that he’d drop me off, I didn’t argue with him. I didn’t want to prolong our time together and I didn’t have the energy for it either. Giving in seemed like the best course of action.

Now though, not so much.

Because I can’t stop this pain in my chest, this wild thunderous beating of my broken heart.

This is how he always waited for me.

Leaning against his car, his strong arms folded, his animal eyes — that I think can see even in the dark — pinned on whatever door that I’d come out of.

Usually his front door.

Because that was when he’d take me out on rides, when I visited Tempest over the weekends, and he’d bring me back safe and sound before my curfew.

And I’d run to him.

I’d rush down the cobblestone driveway to get to him, to go wherever he planned on taking me before ending up in the woods so I could dance for him.

Tonight though, I walk slowly.

I breathe slowly too. In and out.

But most of all, I don’t look into his eyes. I don’t stare back.

I keep my eyes on his black boots with metallic buckles even though I know that he doesn’t have such qualms.

I know that he is staring at me.

I can feel it.

I can feel his eyes looking at me as I walk toward him, taking me in, my changed dress, my tight bun, my ballet flats.

But I power through it. I power through the short walk and when I’m close, I see that he unfolds his ankles and straightens up. And then he does something that knocks the breath out of me.

Like it used to before.

He walks around his car and opens the door for me.

He always did that, and two years ago I didn’t know what to make of it.

I didn’t know how to protect myself from his charms, from a villain with manners.

He’d stand there with the door open, his eyes tracking my every move as he’d wait for me to get in. So he could close the door after me as well.

And turns out I still don’t know how to do that, how to protect myself.

Because when he opens the door for me tonight, my whole body trembles. My breaths come out faster and I have to dig my nails into my palms to make it all stop.

“Thank you,” I say, finally looking at him, remembering my own manners.

His reaction to my thank you is not the same, however.

Before, he’d smirk or say something inappropriate or simply stare at me with bright intense eyes to make me blush.

Tonight, he does stare at me and his eyes do glow.

But he makes no comment. His stubbled jaw is harsh and his gorgeous features are tight.