“I apologize,” I say grinning sheepishly. “This isn’t food or drink. I suffered a painful injury last night and I’ve been icing it ever since.”
Dr. Ross narrows her eyes. “Keep the bag closed.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
It’s Friday, which means Dr. Ross spends at least half the class reviewing notes on the Promethean board. Once she turns off the lights and settles into her rhythm, I lean up on my elbow and whisper, “Are you sure you don’t want some of this ice? Because you seemed pretty hot last night when your tongue was in my mouth.”
Her shoulders tense, pen freezing in her hand.
“You can pretend like you don’t want me to touch you, Sugar Voss, but I think you’re fooling yourself.” I lean forward and run my finger along her neck. “If you think my tongue in your mouth felt good, wait until I use it somewhere else.”
Her reaction is swift, in a heartbeat she’s out of her desk and has the bag of ice in her hands.
“Ms. Voss!” Dr. Ross shouts, but it’s too late. She’s opened the zipper and dumps the melting, ice cold water on my head.
“Holy sh—” I yell, the freezing water running down my face and neck. I lurch up, hands out, catching some of the ice. Sugar’s got her top two buttons undone, and it only feels natural to take a handful of ice, pluck the shirt away from her collar and drop it down in there.
She gasps and stumbles back.
“Oh, shit!” someone laughs. “He didn’t!” It’s followed by an eruption of gasps, laughter, and rising pandemonium.
Dr. Ross yells, “Sebastian!” and I gesture to where Sugar is fanning out her shirt, face pinched.
“She started it! You saw her! She dumped that on my head!”
Sugar whips around to the teacher, hotly arguing, “He touched my neck and—”
“I don’t want to hear it!” Dr. Ross looks like she’s about to have a coronary. “Out! Both of you, get out of my room!” I don’t even need to look at her face to see how pissed off she is—or how much trouble I’m in. “Now!”
Whatever the fallout, I’m thinking it was worth it. Because if Sugar Voss thinks this is going to work—that striking back is going to put me off her scent—then hot damn.
This girl really doesn’t know me at all.
10
Sugar
The thing about going so long without touch is that it gets easy. It’s just the lack of something. It didn’t take long for me to forget what was even so great about it. I almost stopped feeling like I was missing out on anything at all. It was a good place to be in. Real nice.
And then Sebastian Wilcox fucking kissed me.
Red-faced and furious, I storm out of Dr. Ross’s room. Cold ice is trapped in my bra and pooling at my waist. I yank my shirt out of my skirt and let the ice cubes fall to the floor with a clatter. Two pieces land at the toes of a pair of black boots.
“Are you happy?” I snap, glaring up at Sebastian. He’s pulled the hem of his own shirt out of his pants and I watch him swipe the edge of it over his face. All it does is give me a peek of his ripped abdomen. Jesus wept. This fucking guy. “Now we’re both in trouble.”
He drops his shirt, narrowed eyes staring back at me. “You started it when you tried to neuter me last night.”
“Which you started when you—” I swallow back the word. Kiss. When he fucking kissed me. When he completely bulldozed over all my hard work at not wanting. I bite out a hard, “You know what you did.”
He gives me a crooked, knowing grin. “I know you liked it.”
I gnash my teeth and start down the hall. The last thing we need is to get into it outside Dr. Ross’s room and get in even more trouble. He follows me. Of course he does. This kid is like a bad rash. A handsome, six-packed, chiseled-jawed rash. “Spoiler Alert, Wilcox: If a girl knees you in the crotch, she’s probably not that into your kiss.”
“Or,” he says, sidling up to me, “she’s so into it that she panics and freaks out. You’re obviously scared someone might find out you’re not such an ice princess after all.”
I jerk to a stop, looking behind me and seeing a maintenance room. I try the door and find it unlocked. Thinking of nothing but my inability to afford getting into further trouble, I grab a handful of Sebastian’s backpack and drag him roughly in there behind me. It’s dark and quiet, and I instantly regret it. Trapping myself in an enclosed space with a violent, abusive, entitled prick?
Not one of my best ideas.
He rests his hand on a shelf and grins down at me. “Wanted me alone, eh?”
“Yeah,” I say, discreetly pulling my knife from my bag. “I did.”
He sees the gleam of the metal but doesn’t seem to care. “If you think this whole scary girl vibe is a turn off, I’ve got real bad news.”
“And if you think your whole bad boy vibe is a turn on, then I’ve got news for you, too.” I give him a scathing look. “Not that it’s even remotely authentic. I’ve broken in pairs of shoes tougher than you, Wilcox.”
He leans close, smirking, to whisper, “You can break me in, Sugar Voss. Take as long as you want.”
I scowl back at him but know he can hear the desperation in my voice. “Why won’t you just leave me alone?”
His eyes dart to my mouth and linger there, even as he shrugs. “I don’t know, but I can’t.”
I rear back, heart hammering at the possibility he might lean in. “Won’t.”
He grins. “That, too.”
“Well, you’d best start trying.” I feel my nostrils flare angrily, but whatever he sees in the fire of my gaze just makes his smile even cockier. “The other girls around here might tolerate your bullshit, but I sure as shit won’t. What happened between us last night was nothing. Do you understand? This is not a mixed signal. I’m not into this!”
He tilts his head, those blue eyes inspecting me closely. “Yes, you are.”
I gawk at him. “Are you deaf? Deficient? Did someone drop you on your head as a small child? I’m holding a knife to your crotch!”
“I’m observant,” he says, gaze roving over my face, neck. “I can see your pulse in your throat. It’s going like a hummingbird. Your pupils are all dilated, and you keep looking at my mouth. Sure, you’ve got that knife to my balls, but your heart’s not quite in it.” He leans in but stops just before our lips can touch. My head is already mashed against the shelf behind me. I can’t get away. His hair is wet, his white shirt splotchy with damp spots. I can feel his warm exhalation when his lips part. “You’re so fucking hot for this, Sugar.”
He’s right.
Of course, he’s right. But he doesn’t understand, and he probably never would. It’s not about him—not really. It’s more about the knowledge that I can’t have it with anyone at all. It’s that shiny, feel-good thing, just out of reach. It’s that I stayed awake until four in the morning replaying that kiss over and over, remembering how it felt to really feel someone else. Their lips, their tongue, their breath. The way it felt to inhale someone. To want them. To be wanted by them.