“Imagine how good it’ll feel to stop pretending; how good it’ll feel to just … fuck and get it out our damn systems.” His breath moves strands of my hair and I swear I can’t feel my legs.
I smile and am now thoroughly convinced I’m equally as psychotic as him, because I don’t disagree with anything he just said.
“West, we don’t even like each other,” I remind him. “Hell, most days, I kind of want you dead.”
He leans away to catch my eyes. “And if any of that shit really mattered, you wouldn’t be thinking about giving in right now.”
I hate that he reads me so well, calling my bluff more often than I care to admit.
He invades my space even more, pressing into me so I feel him completely, ending all doubt as to whether he intends to go through with this.
“You know why this works?” His tone drags as his lips move against my ear. “Because we’re both fucked up.”
I’m hazy all over again, feeling my eyes flutter closed.
“You’ve put me through hell this past month,” I remind him, which draws the sexiest laugh out of this bastard. And what does my sadistic ass do? I melt against him.
“And you ruined my shit before the game, making us even. So, why don’t we just call all that what it is.”
Breathless when he grinds into me, a question falls from my lips. “What’s that?”
The tip of his tongue slowly passes over the tendon on the side of my neck, bringing his mouth back to my ear to utter one word.
“Foreplay.”
I didn’t realize it was possible to want something more than air, but on this night, West taught me that this feeling does, indeed, exist.
“Just give in, Southside.”
If he has any idea how close I am to letting him have his way, he’ll tip me over that edge for sure, which is why I have to be smart. Which is why I must find it within me to push him away.
I feel actual pain when my hands land on his chest, forcing space between us. He doesn’t resist, giving me a few inches to breathe.
“West, I’m not sleeping with you.”
“Who said anything about sleep?”
When I peer up, I find him hard to read. “Despite what you think about girls from my side of town, I don’t just open my legs for every guy who asks politely.”
After weeks of struggling, I feel a small measure of my power return, but his darkening stare undoes that smidgen of confidence immediately, then obliterates it when he asks a bold question.
“So, who do you open your legs for then?”
There’s bitterness in his tone that I don’t really know how to place. Maybe the sting of having been turned down has finally set in? Whatever the case, something about the way he asked has me defensive.
“All you need to know is they’re closed to you,” I assure him, folding both arms across my chest.
He glances down, reading my body language and, just like that, anger flashes across his face again.
The monster never strays too far. I see him emerge from the shadows right before my eyes—when West’s brow tenses, when he stares down on me like I’m nothing.
He’s always so hot and cold.
“What the hell do you see in him?”
My brow tenses when he asks, unsure what he means by that. “What do I see in who?”
Hearing my question, he seems uncomfortable. Like he’s suddenly aware of having said too much. He shoves both hands inside his pockets, seeming to mull over how he should respond to my question.
“I’m talking about the shady guy. The one who’s sniffing behind you every time I turn around,” he finally says.
The words burn with envy and I ease up a bit, fighting a smile. “Wait a second. Are you jealous of Ricky?”
“I’m jealous of no one.”
I don’t buy that for even a second, and with how he just dragged me away from Dane in front of everyone, I’m guessing he knows that already. So, seeing a golden opportunity to get under West’s skin, I take it.
When I reach for his tie, he glances down at it, and then his gaze flashes to mine as I speak. “Since you asked so nicely, Ricky was the first.”
Thinking that’s pretty self-explanatory, I don’t elaborate, but I’m surprised when another question flies from West’s mouth.
“And who was the last?”
His tone is still so sharp, reeking of authority he doesn’t actually have when it comes to me. He isn’t owed an explanation about my sex life, nor is it clear why he seems to need this question answered. However, the harsh stare locked on me says as much, and for reasons I don’t quite understand myself, I offer up the info he’s nowhere near entitled to.
“Ricky wasn’t just the first. He was the only.”
Not only is it super awkward that I’ve just shared this detail about myself, but I’m frustrated that I complied. Maybe because I’m certain he won’t believe a single word of it, with his opinions about girls from my hood. But I’m not ashamed of who I am, and if he doesn’t buy that, then it’s on him. Not me.
“Swear to me,” he presses, and I feel my brow twitch with confusion.
My mouth falls open before I’m able to respond, but I’m keenly aware of there being so much more going on here, something he’s not saying despite saying so much.
“I don’t have a reason to lie,” I state boldly.
There’s an uncomfortable pause where he should’ve spoken, and I feel pressured to fill the void myself.
“Were you seriously ready to judge me if there were more?” I ask. “Seeing as how I’d have to block off my schedule for an entire week to hear your list?”
He doesn’t laugh when I do, instead choosing to study my expression. Like a red sign that reads “LIAR” is going to start flashing on my
