I start to tell him to get lost, to leave me alone, but he gives me that charming grin again. The one he gave me yesterday, and the one he gave me over and over again today whenever I looked at him.
And that’s when it hits me. He’s not going to give up. Not Z, world-class athlete and Olympic contender extraordinaire. He hasn’t gotten where he is by being a quitter, by forgetting about what he wants. By giving up. If he’s got a bet going on, then he’s going to be all over me for the next week, trying to get me into bed. Trying to win that bet. Which, normally—with any other guy—I’d just ignore.
But Z isn’t an easy guy to ignore. Especially now when I know there’s a lot more to him than I first thought. The longer I’m around him, the bigger the risk I’m taking. Not that I’ll fall for him, because that won’t happen, but already I’m cracking. Already I’m letting him in when I swore I’d never do that again. Never let anyone close enough to hurt me the way Remi did.
But I can see traces of Z’s pain, know there’s so much more of it than what’s at the surface. And I’m afraid that somehow all the agony I sense in him will slip behind my last line of defense and then I’ll be right back where I was a year ago: totally screwed.
I don’t want to go back there. Not now. Not ever. When I came here, it was for a fresh start. I promised myself that I wouldn’t look back, wouldn’t think about the past. It’s a good plan, one I can’t let Z derail me from, not now that I can finally breathe a little.
Which is why, even as I tell myself to close the door, I end up doing the exact opposite. I step back and ask, “Why don’t you come in for a while, have something to drink?”
Chapter 7
Z
I’m not sure who’s more shocked by her invitation, Ophelia or me. Probably me, since she’s already turned around and walked deeper into her room while I’m still standing in the hall with my hands in my pockets and my mouth wide open. Talk about a total loser.
There’s a part of my brain that’s telling me to walk away, that any girl who makes this kind of 180-degree turn obviously has issues I am not equipped to deal with. And yet, even as I’m telling myself to get the hell out of here, I take a step into her small studio apartment. Then another and another, until I’m standing in the center of the room. Which is only about five feet from the main door, but still.
“So what do you want to drink?” she asks. “I’ve got Dr Pepper, hot chocolate, coffee, and water.”
I glance around, take in the single bed that doubles as a couch, the small bookshelf loaded with books, the tiny kitchenette. There’s not much else to see. No photos. No posters. Nothing but a few books to give me a clue about who Ophelia really is.
“I’ll take a Dr Pepper.”
“Good choice.” She walks over to the fridge and pulls out two of the old-fashioned glass bottles, then uses an opener to pop the caps off them.
“Did you really ask me in just for a drink?” I wonder as she hands me the soda.
She pauses, her hand still on the bottle, right next to mine. “Did you really come in just to get a drink?”
“What do you think?” I ask, watching her face carefully as I put the bottle on the counter next to me without taking a sip.
Ophelia follows the movement with her eyes. “I think you don’t like Dr Pepper.”
“You think right.” I’ve never been able to stand the stuff.
“So why’d you take it, then?”
I put my hands on her waist, pull her closer, until her lower body is pressed against mine. “Why do you think I took it?” I can’t help it. There’s a part of me that likes playing this cat-and-mouse game with her.
“I don’t know.” She keeps her eyes steady on mine. “You’re certainly full of questions tonight.”
“I am. How come you’re not full of answers?”
“Because answers are always harder than questions. Don’t you know that?”
I think of the million or so questions I have about April. About my mom. About everything that went down during that time in my life. A million questions and almost no answers. Except the really bad ones. “I guess I do.”
She takes a long sip from her bottle, and I can’t help but watch the way her mouth moves against the rim, the way her throat works as she swallows. I don’t know if she’s doing it on purpose this time, but Jesus, she’s making me hard.
I shift, try to adjust myself so my hard-on isn’t so fucking obvious. But it’s nearly impossible when she’s drinking half the damn bottle in one sip and all I can focus on are her shiny pink lips and what it would feel like to have them wrapped around my cock.
Finally—finally—she puts the damn drink down next to mine, then tilts her face up so she’s looking me in the eyes. “Still, I think I’ve got a pretty good answer for what you’re doing here,” she tells me.
“Oh, yeah?” Who is this girl and what has she done with Ophelia?
I know I should be concerned, but her face is only inches from mine now, and if I bend my head, I’ll be able to kiss her like I’ve wanted to from the first moment I saw her. I start to do just that, to press my lips to hers, but her sudden change of tune holds me back, tells me to take it slow. Something is up with her, and I don’t know what it is. The knowledge bothers me more than it should.
I mean, all the signs are there.
Her full lips are tilted up in a seductive smile.
Her sweet body is curved into mine.
Even her hands have taken up residence on my arms, her fingers curling around my biceps as if to hold me to her.
Yeah, she’s giving me all the right signals, and I should totally be taking advantage of them, stripping her down so that I can see and touch and kiss every inch of her beautiful, beautiful body.
Still, I’m hesitant. Something feels … off, though I can’t figure out what it is.
Then again, Ophelia must not be feeling the same trepidation, because she tilts her head up and answers, “Yeah,” to my earlier question, right before she makes the move I’ve been dying to make since the moment I first saw her. She wraps her arms around my shoulders and presses her gorgeous, perfect lips to mine.
Thank God.
It’s just a soft touch, her lips brushing over mine in a kiss as light as an early winter snowflake. Once, twice, then again and again until I feel like I’ll go crazy if I can’t touch her. If I can’t tilt her head back and thrust my tongue deep inside the recesses of her mouth. If I can’t pull her against me and feel her slick heat against my cock.
Though it kills me, I keep my hands clenched at my side and my lips gentle against hers. She started this. It’s only fair to let her lead for a few minutes so I can find out exactly where she wants this thing to go.
It’s a good plan, and it probably would have worked, too, except the seventh or eighth time her mouth brushes my own, she makes a low, needy sound deep in her throat. It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard, and it shatters the stranglehold I’ve kept on my control from the moment she invited me in.
My hands come up of their own volition, my fingers tangling in her long, silky hair as I tilt her head to the side for better access. Then it’s my turn to take charge of the kiss. My turn to show her everything I want to do to her.
I run my tongue along the seam of her lips, licking softly, tenderly, toying with the perfect bow of her upper lip until she gasps and opens for me. I nip at her lower lip then, tugging gently at it with my teeth. She moans a little, her hand coming up to twist in my shirt, and that’s when I slip inside her, my tongue gliding between her lips and her teeth to play with her frenulum, the sensitive bit of skin that connects her upper lip to her gum.