These Thorn Kisses (St. Mary’s Rebels 3)

His eyes have a dangerous glint in them, a dark glint. “Is that what you want?”

“What if I do?”

He takes a second to answer. “Fine. You can draw me.”

I want to laugh.

I want to throw my head back and scream. With pain.

He’d do that, wouldn’t he? He’d let me draw him — something he’s been so opposed to — all because he thinks I might spill his secret.

I clench my teeth and widen my stance, which doesn’t escape his notice.

Good.

I want him to know that I’m prepared for battle. I tilt my head to the side and twirl a lock of hair as I pretend to ponder over his acquiescence that sounded more arrogant than anything. “Actually, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t think I want to draw you anymore. I think that’s too easy. For you. I want something else.”

I can clearly see anger on his features. Clearly.

I can see how it darkens them, sharpens them as well. Chisels them into sharp, thorn-y points as he asks, “And what do you want instead?”

Looking into his eyes, I say, “I want you to kiss me.”

I’m not going to lie and say that I didn’t know I was going to say that.

I knew.

I knew I was going to say something outrageous, something crazy and irrational, to provoke him.

To test him. To see how far he would go with this.

To see how low his opinion is of me and my teenage years.

“You want me to kiss you,” he repeats.

“Yes.” I nod confidently even if my heart is thudding in my chest, my knees are trembling and my thighs are stinging. “You were right the other day. I do follow you around with my big silver eyes. I do draw you in my sketchpad. If you opened it right now, you’d find yourself. Your eyes. Your hair. That silver watch you wear. That frown you always have on your forehead. Your jaw, all tight and square. Made of marble. Your cheekbones. God, your cheekbones. They are sharp as shards of glass. Like thorns. And your body.

“Your body is… magnificent. So large and tall and broad. Muscular. Every single muscle is so beautifully made and I haven’t even seen them bare. All I’ve seen is shadows and ridges through your t-shirt when you run and still I know. Still you make me feel small and dainty. And I’m not. You make me feel like I could climb you like a mountain. That I could sit on your lap, on your thighs and you wouldn’t even feel it. And I…”

“You what?”

Yeah, he what, Wyn?

What are you saying?

I don’t know what I’m saying and how during my rambles, I got here. But I’m staring at his hands and they become fists under my scrutiny, his knuckles jutting out, and I can’t stop myself from continuing, “I see them. Your hands. In my dreams. I see you in my dreams. I’ve been seeing you ever since you arrived at St. Mary’s. Ever since I picked that stupid fight with you on the field. And you got so angry. You’re always angry. In my dreams. You’re always agitated and frowning and clenching your sexy jaw. And you’re always taking my privileges away because you want to punish me for being bad. It makes me wonder what would happen if I pushed you too far. Would you do something drastic, something crazy? Would you put those hands on me? Your big, strong hands that could turn my pale skin all pink with one smack. All pink and pretty and painful. Because you’re a thorn. And I’m a flower and… So yeah, you were right. My teenage brain is obsessed with you and that’s my condition: you have to kiss me.”

Everything that I’ve just said is the truth.

Every little thing.

Except one thing: I haven’t only been dreaming about him since he arrived at St. Mary’s. I’ve been doing it for eighteen months now.

And every time I dream about him, I wake up squirming and hot, my thighs buzzing with his name and my belly pulsing with an ache.

Even now I’m squirming.

My thighs are pressed so tightly together. My fists are sweating and my lips have parted to let the air into my lungs.

Which, in the very next moment, feel even more starved than before.

Because whatever distance he’d created between us, it’s gone.

He destroys it.

He bulldozes through it with that big body of his and looms over me.

Not only that — God, not only that — but he reaches out and puts a hand on the dogwood tree, up above my head, and the other he settles by the side of my waist.

His gorgeous, dreamy hands.

“W-what are you doing?” I ask, my neck already craned up to look at him.

His eyes drop to my lips before glancing up. “Giving you what you want.”