“Either you heard me and you’re playing dumb or you have hearing issues. Both of which I don’t give a fuck about.”
My small ‘worship at his altar while ogling him’ phase comes to a screeching halt at both his words and their condescending tone.
Who does this asshole think he is? He might be a little attractive—okay, a lot, whatever—but that doesn’t give him the right to treat me like the dirt under his shoes. I wasn’t born for that position.
I adopt my half-mocking, half-snobby tone that I usually use when talking to Brianna. “Uh, hello? You’re the one who’s pinning me to the ground.”
“Because you’re wrapping your leg around mine.”
I lift my head and search around until my abdomen aches from the half-lifted position, and sure enough, my leg is definitely looped around his. And are his muscles twitching beneath mine or am I imagining things?
Way to go, me. One to nil, Black Devils.
But instead of acting like the idiot my brain is telling me to emulate, I don’t release him. “That’s only because of the fall. Don’t get ideas in your twisted head.”
“Maybe you’re the one whose head is twisted since it went straight there.” He grins, showing me his perfect white teeth, and while that’s considered a friendly gesture, the emptiness behind it forbids me from considering it as such.
I’ve been well aware of Sebastian’s reputation ever since I transferred here during my senior year of high school. One would have to be blind while simultaneously living under a rock not to recognize Senator Brian Weaver’s only grandchild and Blackwood’s favorite quarterback.
He’s the definition of a cliché with his mesmerizing all-American looks, background, and skill.
Everyone believes his grandfather is preparing him for a career in politics as soon as he’s out of college and that football is merely a stepping stone. The NFL is too small for his ambitions and his future.
But that’s not what I first noticed about Sebastian. It was neither who his family was, what he played, nor even what he looked like.
It was always his eyes.
The way they’re muted, like right now, as if he’s falling into a role.
He plays the social game so well, I’m jealous sometimes. I wish I could fake it as convincingly as he does. I wish I could smile at people when all I want to do is hide.
“Let’s agree to disagree.” He’s still smiling, but he’s not attempting to conceal its fakery anymore. That’s what people do when they’re fed up. They let the masks fall and allow their true selves to show through.
And right now, what he’s projecting is entirely different from what he is.
“So are you going to release me or would you rather feel me up some more?”
I move my leg with a jerk. “You’re the one who’s doing that.”
“Yeah, yeah, and I’m also the one who caged myself against you. Do you hear yourself?”
“Yes, I do, and I make more sense than you… Why aren’t you getting up?”
The empty mockery on his features slowly breaks as a gleam shines through. “Didn’t you say I was feeling you? Might as well go with it.”
“Are you insane? We don’t even know each other.”
“Why does that matter? It’s only a natural chemical reaction between healthy adults.”
“Are you a fucking animal?”
“Monster, to be more specific.” The way he emphasizes the word ‘monster’ sends a chill down my spine and it’s with effort that I manage to hold on to my agitation.
I slap my hands on his chest to push him away, but I barely manage to move the rock-hard muscles. “Get off me.”
“Shhh. I’m not done.”
“Done with what?”