Damn it.
“You should go,” I tell him, hugging my middle, “or someone might see you. A Devil, or someone else. Maybe even Reagan.”
He turns and looks at me, hands stuffed into his pockets. His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip. “I don’t want to.”
I drop my gaze. “Keep hanging around like this, some of my freak may rub off on you.”
After a beat of silence, he asks, “You really want me to go?”
“Of course, I want you to go.” I drop my arms, exhaling in an angry rush. “I didn’t invite you here. Why would I? Wasn’t thirty minutes ago, you were calling me a bitch!”
“And you called me a prick.” He stalks forward and my heart jumps, banging wildly against my ribs. “And then you rubbed your ass on my cock.”
I gape at him, wide-eyed. “I did not!”
“Did too.”
“It wasn’t—I didn’t even—" I huff a breath, feeling warm-cheeked and flustered. “It was an accident!”
He gives a low chuckle, head tilted curiously as he takes me in. “Sure it was.”
“It was!”
Not even I believe it.
“Just admit it, Adams.” He’s inches away, jaw clenched, eyes darting to my mouth. “Admit that you want me.”
I roll my eyes. “Fuck off, Bates.”
“I’m not afraid to say it,” he challenges, pushing close enough that I can feel the warm wash of his breath against my ear when he whispers, “I want to fuck you.”
My breath hitches and I know he hears it, feels it. I want to tell him that it’ll never happen. That I have standards. That I’m not even interested. That I definitely don’t lay in bed some nights and think of him doing that—fucking me—while getting myself off.
All I manage is a hard gulp.
He pulls back far enough to meet my gaze. “Just admit it and I’ll leave.”
My chest clutches in panic, but I don’t let him see it. I just lift my chin and glare him down. “Why? So you can lord it over me for god only knows how long? So you can brag to all your douchebag Devil friends about how you duped The Freak into spreading her legs for you? So that you can finally run and tell daddy that he was right; all of the Adams girls really are sluts?” I take a deep breath and exhale. “Or does your ginormous ego just need the affirmation that every girl at Preston Prep wants you, even a piece of trash like me?”
He stares at me for a long moment, his stormy gaze fixed to mine, and then finally turns and strolls to the door. I turn to my desk, fingers trembling, the sounds of the door opening and closing seeming almost distant against the whooshing in my ears. I’m not scared of Hamilton. I’m not. I’m scared of how I feel around him. I’m scared of slipping in a way I can’t come back from.
I suspect he has the same fear.
I wanted to murder him at detention for calling me out in front of his idiot friends, for belittling and demeaning me while we both knew that he could barely keep his hands off of me. But he also brought me coffee, and my favorite kind, at that. How did he even know? And he helped me with the swim team by buying those shirts. He also made my entire body light on fire when his hand clamped around my thigh earlier tonight, and if I closed my eyes and really focused, I’m pretty sure I could still feel the heat.
It’s that conflict—that crazy-making mess of confusion—that makes being around him unbearable.
Unbearable and terrifying.
It’s also a big part of what propels me to the door. I swing it open, his name on my lips, but he’s already there. He’s standing only inches away, like he’d wanted to leave but couldn’t. He seems genuinely shocked to see me standing there—to have been caught.
“Fine,” I say, the word coming out low and hissed. “I admit it.”
His expression transforms slowly, from shocked stupor to victorious, creeping smirk. “Admit what, exactly?”
My eyes narrow. “Seriously, you’re going to make me—”
‘Say it’ is how I’d finish that sentence if he doesn’t lunge at me, lips crashing against mine. His wet mouth swallows a low sound that feels ripped right from my chest. His arms come around my middle and he half guides, half carries me back into the room, door slamming shut behind him. The journey to my bed is muddled with the hot sensation of him licking greedily into my mouth, one of his hands coming down to palm at the swell of my backside.