I whack his chest. “I was going to my desk, you moron.”
He rubs the spot where I hit him, as if I’m capable of causing him pain. When he’s satisfied there will be no bruising, his hand lands on my leg. It’s inadvertent, I think. A comfortable resting place, although his other arm is looped behind my back thanks to the way he caught me when I fell.
We must notice the position of his hands, my body, the close contact, at the same time because all the oxygen funnels out of the room. His attention flickers to my mouth, and heat floods my face. What thehellam I doing in his lap?
“Yeah…,” he says, shifting. Not such a cocky pirate after all.
I muster the little dignity I’ve managed to retain and prepare to push myself up. “Sorry. You’re okay, ri—?”
He tightens his hold.
“I’m okay.” He’s recovered his swagger—I’m sure the copious amount of beer he consumed earlier is helping—and his voice is low, throaty, familiar. It’s his flirty voice, I realize, the one he uses with Becky during their (infrequent) good moments. “Areyouokay?”
“I’m fine.” I try again to leave his lap, but his hand glides up my spine, beneath my ponytail, and cradles the back of my neck. Now heisflashing me the grin, the one I was hoping for when I opened my curtains, the one that exudes confidence and promises fun. I want to hate him for teasing me. For using me. For being so freaking enticing.
I could never hate him.
“You don’t have to go anywhere,” he says.
“Max.” It’s a warning. It’s an invitation. With a smile and a stroke of his fingers along the curve of my shoulder, he’s drawn me in, and I’m losing the very fragile grasp I have on this situation. I study the stubble on his jaw to avoid his eyes, but then I want to touch it, feel its coarseness against my fingertips.
I give my head a shake and focus on my hands clasped in my lap. I breathe, in and out, but the beer, the cinnamon, the wintry-clean scent of the soap he’s used for as long as I’ve known him… I’m certain he hears my heart’s incessant pounding.
Softly, he says, “What were we talking about again?”
“How everything’s changed.”
“Jilly.”
I melt into him as he whispers the nickname that never fails to thaw me. “Yes?”
“If you tell me to go, I will.”
His declaration lets me see us from a distance, unencumbered by his scent and his warmth and his gentle touch. I’m a reasonable person. A smart girl. And Max is a mess, letting regret engulf him, anger consume him. Just last week I watched him shove a freshman on the quad because the kid accidentally bumped into him. And tonight he’s three sheets and looking for distraction. As much as I’d like to help him, I won’t be his no-strings-attached hookup, the other woman to his waning relationship with Becky.
I resolve to tell him as much—that he should, in fact, go home. That he should drink a glass of water and swallow a couple of Motrin before bed. That I’ll see him tomorrow at school.
But before I can utter a syllable, he’s charging forward, eyes glazed, lips parted. I’m so astonished, so stunned, I let him push his mouth against mine, and even though it’s heedless and utterly unexpected, I reciprocate. I can’t help myself.
I can’t process this frantic, feverish kiss, but it shoots straight through me, a streak of heat and want and, oh my God—it’sgood.
Just like that, I forget all the reasons why kissing Max Holden is an awful idea.
2
HE EASES ME OFF HIS LAP, NUDGINGme back until I’m stretched out on the rug. He joins me clumsily, adjusting to keep his weight from crushing me. His mouth finds mine again, heat and spice and fervor, and I return his kiss with passion I didn’t know I possessed.
Kissing Max doesn’t feel strange or forced or immoral.
It feels indulgent, satisfying,thrilling.
Until, through my fog of euphoria, I sense a shift of the air, and register theclickof an opening of a door.
My dad’s voice fills the room. “Jillian? Max?! What thehellis going on in here?”
Despite my shock, I emerge too slowly from my lusty daze.
Max and I are breathing like we just finished a set of wind sprints. He’s stretched out on top of me. My fists grip the waistband of his sweats. My camisole is twisted up around my ribs—he has a hand beneath it!
