HAH. He seriously thinks he’s in a position to ask something of me? Wow. This guy is stupider than I thought. Though, as much as Idespisethe idea of entertaining whatever he has to say, there’s an ice-cold smugness thawing inside me, reawakened by his intoxicating desperation. The ache in my gums foreshadows a hunger that won’t be satiated by half-assed apologies.
I contemplate him. He’s perfected this sad puppy dog look that would tug at any normal, unguarded heart, but I’ve learned from my past mistakes. This bitch isn’t getting into my soft and squishy center without a battering ram.
I cross my arms over my chest. “One minute. Go.”
He turns as white as a sheet, eyes disc wide. “Uh, fuck. Okay. I’m Knox. We haven’t formally met—well, we did, but it wasn’t really formal? Anyways, I’m so sorry about hitting you with my car. Then following you to the hospital. I’m sorry for all of it. I know there’s nothing I can say to make any of this better, but I’m in a pickle right now. I’m struggling in this class, like, head-barely-above-water struggling. If I don’t get mygrades up, I won’t be able to play in my next hockey game. And Ineedto play. If you tutor me, I’ll pay you whatever you want.”
Knox pauses to catch his breath, waiting for me to curse his entire bloodline or spit in his face, but surprisingly, I don’t do either. Well, I do, but only in my head.
“How do you even know I tutor?” I ask.
“You’re, um, listed as an employee at the learning center on the school’s website.”
He wants me to tutor him. Does he hear how absurd that sounds? First off, I’m not a miracle worker. Considering this guy thought texting and driving was a smart idea, teaching him advanced curriculum is going to be nearly impossible. Second off, I hate his guts.
Staten, you could use the money. This could be a perfect opportunity for you. That Lamborghini he was driving wasn’t cheap. I bet he’s loaded.
I can barely stand to be in the same room as him. How am I supposed to survive hours of close proximity without strangling him?
Get over yourself. This is a job. It’s not personal. He’s practically begging you to use him, and you have every right. This is a guilt-free pass.
No. I’m not stooping to his level. I can find plenty of other wealthy clients at this school—MU is the most prestigious college in all of Minnesota. He deserves to rot with guilt for what he did.
I think almost dying has given me some twisted desire for chaos, because instead of immediately shutting him down, I play with him like a barn cat with a field mouse, wrapping his puny tail around the curve of my claw.
“Whatever I want?” I purr, looking up at him through my lashes, dredging up the dormant succubus in me that hasn’t seen the light of day since, well,ever. I didn’t even know she existed until that time I was three drinks in and poorly lip-syncing Kesha on a Friday night.
His throat works with a swallow. “Name your price. I can afford it,” he insists.
I don’t doubt that he has enough money. What Idoubtis that he can be in the same room as me and remain chivalrous. Hockey players don’t exactly scream “gentleman.”
I bridge the gap between us ever so slightly, tiptoeing my index and middle fingers up the length of his bicep—which turns out to be a bad idea on my end, because his arms are humongous. Jesus. Does this guy live off protein powder?
“Why me?” I ask coyly, licking over my bottom lip. Something warm buds between my thighs when his hungry gaze tracks the motion.
“You—I—you’re the smartest girl in the class,” he stammers, completely drained of any and all machismo. The muscles in his arms tense—writhing underneath my innocent little touch—and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s negative five seconds away from manhandling me like a ragdoll.
I preen under the praise. Iamthe smartest girl in the class.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. By a mile.”
Oh, I want him to hurt. So badly.
This time, I rise onto my tiptoes to level the playing field—to which he accommodates me with a bend of his broad frame—and bring my forehead close enough to touch his, the mintiness of my breath pluming over his mouth. He smells like fresh linen and citrus-tinted dryer sheets. A scent that I should be impervious to, but is, instead, incomprehensibly irresistible.
Stand your ground, Staten.
There’s a foreign pressure at the crux of my thighs, and I don’t like it one bit. This is just…a physical reaction. Yeah, the lust in my stomach doesn’t mean shit. If I touch a conventionally attractive guy, my sexually inexperienced body will rejoice in lieu of breaking my indeliberate abstinence. Sad, I know.
But I’ve gone most of my life DJing the VJ by myself, NPN.No penis necessary. I don’t need some meathead hockey player to overtake yet another aspect of my life.
Stamping out my lecherous thoughts, I drag my thumb down the middle of his bottom lip, delivering the final death blow with all the grace in the goddamn world. “Then I guess it’s a bad thing that I literally give zero fucks about what happens to you.”
5
A LESSON IN FLIRTING
