Page 79
She scowls at me. “I hate you a little.”
A smile crosses my face. I can take a little. It’s better than a lot. “I know.”
“That’s not going to stop me, is it?”
“No,” I respond, feeling my whole body light up. “I don’t think it is.”
She’s around the desk before I’ve fully processed she’s moving, and I turn my chair to face her.
Then her hands are fisted in my shirt and she’s hauling me up out of the chair and her mouth is on mine, hard and hungry, like she’s been holding this back for days and can’t any longer.
I don’t know which one of us started it. I stop caring the second her hands slide into my hair and pull.
I get my hands on her waist and pull her into my lap, and she comes willingly, straddling me, her knees braced on either side of my hips. God, I have wanted this—wanted her, exactly like this, since the first night she sat across from me in this house hating every single thing about me and I still couldn’t stop watching her mouth.
She gasps against my mouth, and I swallow the sound, kissing her harder, deeper.
My other hand finds her waist, pulling her flush against me.
She’s soft and warm and perfect, and I’ve been starving for this without even realizing it.
“Nico,” she breathes against my lips, and hearing my name in that voice—breathy and desperate and wanting—makes something snap inside me.
I lift her easily, setting her on the edge of my desk. My desk paraphernalia scatters, but I don’t care.
All I care about is her, the feel of her, the way she’s wrapping her legs around my waist and pulling me closer.
My hands find the hem of her shirt, pulling it up and dragging my hands down her stomach, feeling her muscles twitch and clench. Desire hits me so hard I nearly stagger.
“I want you,” I growl against her throat, kissing down the column of her neck. “If you don’t want me, now is the time to say something.”
“Shut up,” she gasps, her head falling back to give me better access. “Please don’t stop.”
That’s all I need to hear.
My mouth finds hers again, and the kiss is slower.
Deeper. Less desperate and more—more something I can’t name.
Something that feels dangerously close to worship.
I push her shirt off, and she helps me, tossing it unceremoniously on the floor.
Her leggings are next, leaving her in just her baby blue underwear, and I have to stop and just look at her.
She’s beautiful. So beautiful it makes my chest ache.
Her skin glows in the lamplight and her ponytail is messy, more strands of her wavy hair falling around her.
Only one thought crashes though me.
Mine. She’s mine.
“What?” she whispers, and I realize I’m staring.
“Huh?” I ask stupidly, my brain drunk on her.
“You’re staring at me,” she says, her face turning slightly pink as she starts to cover herself. Wait, she can’t be self-conscious, right?
