Lust

bad it was only her imagination; too bad his fingers were, for the moment, taken. Just like the rest of his body, from his thick calf muscles to his tight pecs to the light sprinkling of freckles across his nose.

Her memory was far from photographic, but when it came to the minutiae of Adam’s body, in all its curves and spots and ripples, she had total recall.

Harper forced herself to scrawl down a couple of answers and then lay her pen down and closed her eyes for a moment, imagining the warm pressure of his arms wrapped around her, his lips kissing their way down her neck, her shoulder, her breasts…

Her body was tingling, and she raised a hand to her breastbone, lightly grazing her fingers across the bare skin.

If only…

If only she would just trust him. If only she would just get over whatever it was that-

No.

Adam shook his head. It’s not that sex was all he wanted. He wasn’t that kind of guy. (Not that Beth seemed to notice.)

But he was a guy, for God’s sake. He was eighteen, he loved his girlfriend-was it so wrong that he wanted to be with her?

Did it bother him that all his friends just assumed that he and Beth were sleeping together? That they would probably laugh him out of the locker room if they knew the truth? That half the cheerleading team would be happy to jump him and tear off his clothes-and yet he was still a virgin?

Okay, yeah, maybe a little.

Enough that he couldn’t look at Beth without thinking of sex.

Hell, he couldn’t even think of Beth without thinking of sex-and sex was the last thing he wanted to be thinking about while sitting in history class staring blankly at his middle-aged teacher and her poorly bleached mustache. But he couldn’t stop himself. It was like he was fourteen again-totally out of control.

It wasn’t a status thing, it wasn’t about his reputation. He loved her, and he wanted her-those slim arms wrapped around him, her lithe body tangled up in his, her hair splayed out on his bed. He wanted her-all of her.

And she wanted him, too-he could tell. So what was holding her back?

She didn’t trust him. That was obvious. And completely unjustified. He was absolutely, totally devoted to her. And if he thought about other girls sometimes, well, that was normal too, right?

No harm, no foul.

Unless it’s just one other girl, a small voice in his head pointed out, and Kaia’s flawless figure suddenly sprang, unbidden, into his mind.

Now there was a girl who knew what she wanted and went for it.

His dream Kaia smiled mischievously.

“I want you,” she said silently to him, licking her lips and peeling off her damp, clinging shirt.

With horror, Adam realized that he-or at least, his body-wanted her, too. He shifted around in his seat and surreptitiously pulled a notebook onto his lap to cover up, a move he hadn’t had to make since the hormonal nightmare that was eighth grade.

And in his mind’s eye, the dream Kaia tilted her head back and laughed, chest heaving. And then she went back to the task at hand: stripping off her clothes.

It was just a fantasy, right?

No harm in that.

Just a fantasy, Beth told herself. No harm in that. She’d whipped through her quiz in a few minutes and was now left with nothing to do but stare at the front of the classroom, where Jack Powell was relaxing, feet kicked up on the desk and hands clasped behind his head. What was he thinking about, she wondered. Parisian cafes? African safaris?

When they’d last met, he told her all about his travels around the world, and it set her mind on fire. And his voice-she could listen to those words spilling over her, the impeccably crafted sentences and delicious accent, for hours. For days.

She pictured the two of them sitting across a breakfast table from each other, exchanging sections of the New York Times (she’d once seen this in a movie, and it had since seemed to her the epitome of sophisticated romance). Or maybe they’d be working their way through a crossword puzzle together… in bed.

Beth blushed furiously, and Mr. Powell looked up, as if he’d somehow sensed that she was picturing what he looked like beneath his chambray shirt and khakis. Their eyes met, and he grinned at her and winked.

God, she loved that smile.

Kane always had a hint of a smile on his face. It was one of the things Miranda loved about him. And that perpetual smirk in his voice-as if all of life was a joke, and only he knew the punch line.

Which, Miranda supposed, was enough to make most people think he was a jerk. And he was. Cocky, pampered, self-centered, lazy, a confirmed believer in “never walk when you can ride” and “never do today what you can put off until tomorrow.”

But it was all part of his charm.

She loved watching him in class, the way he leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on the rim of the seat in front of him, as if he were kicking back in an armchair after a long day’s work, rather than suffering through forty-seven minutes of American History. Sometimes he scrawled something on the single piece of paper atop his desk, sometimes he tipped his head back and closed his eyes-occasionally, he even sat up straight and looked at the teacher, though the smoldering disdain never left his eyes. And the cocky smile never left his face.

He was a jerk, all right. A slimy asshole who sailed through life on his good looks, who probably, if asked, would tell you he had never truly cared about anything or anyone but himself. And he would probably be telling the truth-or at least he’d think he was.

But Miranda wasn’t fooled. She’d watched Kane for years now. Laughed at his jokes, insulted his attitude, admired his effortless skill at almost everything-noticed the way, every once in a while and only when they weren’t looking, he would actually be there for his friends.They didn’t see it, they weren’t looking for it; but Miranda paid attention. She was an A plus, Phi Beta Kappa student of Kane Studies-and she was convinced that beneath the smirking curl of his lip and the chiseled abs and the perfect tan, there was something else. Something real.

You just had to be willing to look.

Long and hard.

Looking for love was hard work.

There was Ilana: all body, no brains.

Shayna: all brains, no body (but a great sound system-and TiVo).

Julia: all boobs, no ass.

And, of course, Katie: all mouth. Which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. But even that got old.

Sometimes Kane felt like Goldilocks (a tall, goodlooking, straight male version of Goldilocks, of course)-nothing he tried out ever quite measured up.

Not that he didn’t love the variety-forget too hot, too cold, too tall, too short. It was all a beautiful rainbow of possibility as far as he was concerned, and he had no complaints.

Okay, he had one: He was bored. Even more bored than usual.

Whatever happened to the thrill of the chase, the lust for victory? That was the problem, actually. Most of these bimbos didn’t give chase-just head.

Of course, there was one girl who might present quite the interesting challenge. One girl he’d been waiting a long time to get a taste of.

That blond hair, those blue eyes, all that innocence crying out for a little corruption.

There were, of course, a few stumbling blocks in his path.

His supposed best friend being a not inconsequential one.

Her supposed love for said friend being another.