And yet, as he stares down at me with that coquettish glint in his eyes, all that comes out is, “You’re a pig.”
Then I’m dropping the two books in my hands to the floor and shoving him back into the bookcase, any remaining sanity leaving me completely until I am nothing but a vessel for that wild heat tearing through me. It guides my actions, controlling my every movement as I push up onto my toes to crash my lips into his, knocking my glasses askew.
Damian lets out a softhmphof surprise, but loops his arms around my waist, pulling me closer with an eagerness thatmirrors the explosion of need overtaking my senses, his mouth opening to swallow the moan that escapes me.
If this was a test, I failed.Badly. But unfortunately for me, I don’t even have the mental capacity to wonder what the hell I’m doing. My sole focus is on the smooth slide of his tongue against mine, on the squeeze of his fingers as they inch down to grab my ass, teasing far too close for comfort to the backs of my thighs and that fire at the center of my legs that’s quickly turning into a maddening ache.
There is nothing soft or gentle about this kiss. It’s rough and sloppy, all tongues and teeth—the culmination of this unspoken tension and the weeks of verbal sparring between us finally coming to a long-overdue head.
Is this what hate sex would feel like? If so, I’m starting to see the appeal because I want nothing more than to push him to the floor and ride him like he’s a goddamn pony, fucking him senseless right here in this aisle. If I hadn’t already had sex with him once in this library, I might boil it down to an exhibitionist kink I wasn’t aware I had. But it’s not the location doing it for me—it’s him. At this moment in time, I want Damian more than I ever wanted him freshman year, as if this loathing boiling under my skin is somehow feeding the attraction between us.
And thereisattraction. It’s insane, and it’s clearly affecting my cognitive ability to make logical decisions, but it’s there. If the bulge grazing my thigh is any indication, I think it’s safe to assume that Damian is having the same indecent thoughts as me, equally aware of this…chemistry, or madness, or whatever you want to call this thing we have. He nips at my bottom lip, and I push against him, retaking control, knotting my fingers in his hair as I once again plunge my tongue into his mouth.
I could allow this to escalate. I could move my hand a few inches to the left, grab hold of his length, and let nature take itsintended course. Maybe we just need to get it out of our systems. One final fuck, and be done with it.
But it wouldn’t be enough, I know that. If it was, I wouldn’t be standing here, wet and writhing beneath his touch when I’ve already had a taste. Twice, as he was so inclined to remind me.
That’s when it hits me. Not his body, though that’s certainly there, hard and unyielding under my wandering fingers, but the cold, unforgiving clarity of what I’m about to do.
Of whatwe’redoing now.
Oh, my god. I’mmaking outwith Damian Navarro. No, I’m not just making out with him, I’m freaking rutting against him in the middle of a public library like an unneutered dog with absolutely zero sense of shame or control. The same Damian whose face I’ve spent countless hours fantasizing about punching, notkissing. And here I was, about to drop my panties and let him fuck me again.
Some genius I am.
Mortification surges through me like a bucket’s worth of ice water, dousing that fire inside me in an instant. I break the kiss, tearing my mouth away from his, and shove at his chest with so much force I stumble back a step.
For a moment, we just stare at each other, eyes locked, chests heaving. Damian’s lips are pink and swollen from the attention I gave them in my brief relapse into madness, his hair so deliciously disheveled I have to avert my gaze or risk tumbling back over that edge.
My eyes only swing up again when he laughs.
“I’m…going to take that to mean I was right,” he says with a devilish grin, swiping a finger along his bottom lip.
A new heat rushes through me now, hotter and faster than the last, an inferno of rage and humiliation rolled up into one. Is this all just some game to him? Did he goad me, pushing my buttons on purpose, because he knew I’d kiss him?
If he did, then I really, sincerely hate him.
“This never happened,” I growl. Glancing around to make sure the stacks are still empty, I straighten my clothes, adjust my glasses, and clear my throat, locking eyes with him one final time to reiterate my warning. “You hear me?Never.”
Damian says nothing, and I decide not to wait for whatever witty retort he’s bound to cook up, instead storming off with the fury and indignation of a woman scorned. Part of me expects him to follow me, while another part is grateful he doesn’t. The third part—the part I’m actively trying to ignore—is haunted by what just happened between us and by the lingering image of his face in my mind. Of the fleeting expression that crossed it as I spit out those final parting words.
An expression…that looked a hell of a lot like disappointment.
No hay peor ciego que el que no quiere ver - There is no worse blind person than the one who doesn’t want to see
Translation: People ignore the truth when they don’t want to accept it. Which seems legit since I have no idea what you’re talking about.
I wake up the next morning with a pounding headache and what might possibly be the biggest hard-on of my life. The fading images in my head tell me I must have been dreaming about Blondie—about our kiss in the library yesterday evening. A kiss I haven’t been able to stop thinking about despite her warnings to forget the whole thing.
I still don’t really know how last night escalated the way it did. One minute, I was pleading with Blondie to forgive me. The next, I was goading her just like I’ve made a habit of these pasteight weeks, doing my best to get a rise out of her because I can’t resist how damn cute she is when she’s mad.
I don’t know if it was our proximity in the library stacks, or some weird sort of mutual unrealized need to relive our previous quickie there, but something about the banter yesterday went beyond our usual teasing. There was a charge in the air between us—something magnetic, insistent, like the tension had been purposely pulling us closer for months, just waiting for the right moment to snap.
My cock aches at the memory of Blondie’s tongue tangling eagerly with mine, of those perfect breasts pressed against my chest, of the desperate moans I seemed to so easily pull from her lips, like I was a puppeteer and I knew exactly which strings to tug.
I reach down and wrap my fingers around my aching length, rock hard beneath my touch, giving it a few slow strokes. Jesus Christ, just the thought of her mouth already has me on the verge of coming?—
I jolt at the sudden, near deafening buzz of my phone vibrating across my bedside table. Snapping my eyes open, I stare up at the ceiling as I reluctantly release my cock.
