He’s still struggling to process the fact that she’s here when she whips around at his footsteps, marches right up to him, eyes blazing, and grabs him by the throat.
“Chanel? What are you—”
She crushes her lips to his, the smooth, floral notes of her perfume enveloping him. He can’t think. Can’t do anything except kiss her back. He forgets the meeting, the deadline, everyone and everything except Chanel.
Her fingers snake around the top two buttons of his shirt and she’s pushing him toward the front entrance, somehow keeping her balance while leaning her full weight against his body,her mouth on his the entire time. She tastes like cherries, and his mind dances toward some old poem about forbidden fruit before everything goes dangerously fuzzy again, because her hand is braced around the nape of his neck.
“Let’s go up,” she whispers into his ear.
He’s barely aware of himself fumbling for the key card in his pocket, the automaticbeepof the entrance as it unlocks, and he shoves his shoulder against the heavy glass, unwilling to lift his hands from her waist for even a second. A small voice in the back of his head reminds him that he’s meant to be mad at her for framing him and for something else, other things, he forgets now, but her touch is like a sedative. All the anger leaks out of him as she tugs him toward the lift.
The second the doors slide closed around them, she’s backing him into the wall, kissing him hard like she’s never kissed him before. Without restraint, without any care for who might see them, the security cameras blinking down at them from the top right corner. More half-solid thoughts about how this is a terrible idea appear, then vanish in Ares’s head, erased by the sensation of her quick, uneven breaths against his neck. He knows the elevator is moving upward, but he feels like he’s falling, down and down and down, stomach flipping, the air rushing around him. The whole world seems to blur into the background until there’s only her.
She’s standing so close that he can see the dark flecks of mascara smudged just underneath her waterline, the tiny mole above her full lips, the shiny powder dotted on the very tip of her nose.
She’s beautiful.
She’s so beautiful it’s unfair, there should be legal warnings that come with this kind of thing, the same labels you find on gunpowder and deadly poisons, because who could possibly stand a chance against it? She shifts even farther forward, her leg pressing into the space between his. Then she lifts her knee by just a few calculated inches, and all the blood in his body rushes to the point of contact. A hoarse, almost pained sound escapes his lips, and he can only hope the security cameras don’t have audio systems built in.
Then they’re on his level, stumbling through the corridor, into his apartment, and he’s struck by this sense of unreality as she discards her jacket at the entrance, revealing a white lace dress perfectly fitted to her body. Selected for the occasion, he suspects, as a soldier would select their best sword before riding off into battle.
“Do you want me?” Chanel asks, taking his hand and lifting it to the delicate strap of her dress, her gaze intent on his.
He freezes in place, his heart throbbing behind his ribs. He almost laughs. What kind of question is that?There is no universe where he doesn’t want her.
“If you want me,” she whispers, “you can have me like this. You can have me in any way you want. Just stay here tonight.”
Her fingers curl into his hair, the gesture as intimate as it is possessive, and he thinks, woozily, that if this is what it feels like to be possessed by her, then by all means, go ahead.
No,another voice rattles in the back of his mind.That’s why she’s doing this.Even when she’s kissing him, she’s beingcalculating, determined to gain the upper hand. She must have an ulterior motive. Maybe this is another form of revenge, like the setup with the necklace—
But she’s trembling.
He wouldn’t have been able to detect it if they weren’t so close, if he couldn’t feel her fingers quivering at his throat, couldn’t hear the hitch in her breathing.
Something’s wrong.
“Wait,” he says, pulling back.
Chanel stops. Stares up at him, confusion flickering through her eyes. “What? Don’t you like it?”
“It’s not that. Tell me what’s wrong,” he says.
She shakes her head. Even manages to laugh. “Nothing’s wrong.”
She’s such a good liar that he has no doubt she’d fool anyone else, but he knows her better than that. “You’re clearly upset,” he says. “Did somebody hurt you? Or is this—is it about prom, still? About me not going with you? Because I really do want to, Chanel, I just—”
“Why do you care?” she cuts in, and finally, he catches a glimpse of real emotion underneath her act. It’s odd, because Chanel Cao can be so worldly, so mature, navigating every social interaction with ease, carrying herself with more grace and confidence than most adults he’s met before. But right now she only looks like a girl who’s scared, who doesn’t know what to do.
“I care about you,” he says. Swallows. “I thought that was obvious.”
She falters, her eyes searching his face like she’s running his words through an invisible lie detector. Then the shrill sound of a ringtone breaks into the space between them.
She steps back, pulls her phone out, frowning. “Hello? Mom? What—”
He can’t hear what her mother is saying, but Chanel’s face pales.
“No,” she whispers.
