Page 22 of He Hate Me

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I insist. “Mello getting hurt was fucked up, but it had nothing to do with me.”

“You’re the one who invited Mello, correct? He came to that party to see you.”

“So what? It’s not any of your business, anyway.” He shakes his head and fists his right hand. His bicep bulges. I can’t help my reaction: I retreat, coming up against the brick wall behind me. You’d think I waved a red flag in front of him. He advances until our stomachs nearly touch. His arm is laid against the wall next to my head, fist still clenched. It takes effort not to turn my head and look at it. There’s an ache behind my ears that I recognize as the sudden rush of blood to my head.

“Leave my friends alone,” he says, menacingly.

“I am not doing anything to your friends.”

“So you haven’t been texting Mello?”

“I can text who I want. Since when is texting people a crime?”

“Do you get off on guys fighting over you?” he asks. The suggestion is offensive, but I won't let him know that I’m bothered by it.

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “That’s me. Big, bad woman making them do whatever I want. I’m so good I turn men’s brains off.”

“Shut up,” he says. It’s not the cleverest retort and I roll my eyes.

“Make me,” I taunt.

He presses closer, our bodies flush now, and his free hand comes up and wraps around my throat. He’s not squeezing or even holding me tightly, but my heart begins to hammer in my chest. My eyes are level with his neck, and with him this close I can’t see his face. I tip my head back and our eyes lock. The intensity there scares me, and I don’t have time to react before his lips come down on mine, my gasp of surprise letting his tongue in.

I try to turn my head, but he won’t let me. His lips are soft, his breath clean, and the heavy press of his body against mine feels right.

“Stop,” I say, moaning into his mouth.

He pulls away but doesn’t let go of my throat. His eyes are wild. “I don’t know what to do with you. I told you to stay away from my friends. You didn’t listen. You didn’t care. So why the hell should I hold back now?”

“Holding back from what?” I ask, though a part of me already knows.

“This,” he says, and he dips his head to kiss me again. His tongue invades my mouth with a desperation that shocks me. All week I’ve felt like Brandon was toying with me, like a cat tormenting a mouse, but this is pure hunger. The wall bites into my back as Brandon presses me against it, his hips grinding into mine, my soft body molding to his hardness. The kiss is deep and messy, our tongues dueling in a dance that makes my insides melt like butter on a griddle. He tastes like beer and smells like sweat and grass and male arousal. My knees feel weak. His hand on my throat loosens just enough to slide around my neck, pulling me up onto my toes. The arm goes around my waist, hoisting me up so our bodies align, chest to chest and hip to hip. The bulge I feel pressing into me cannot be real. No one’s penis can be that long or that thick.

“You guys coming inside?” Devin’s voice breaks through the haze of desire; he’s poking his head through the front door. Brandon steps into the light, giving me a moment to gather myself.

“Yeah,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Aren’t you cold?” Devin chuckles.

“We had kind of a weird night,” I say, stepping out of the shadows. “One of our friends got hurt.”

Devin’s steps outside, his face showing concern. “What happened?”

“He and another guy were playing soccer in the backyard, and he…they…”

“Carmello broke his ankle,” Brandon says flatly.

“It’s broken?” I ask, dismayed.

“Yeah,” Brandon says. “Pretty sure.”

I say nothing else. Devin must see that I’m uncomfortable, because he gestures for me to go inside. I hear the door close behind me and a part of me wants to look back, to see if Brandon’s face reflects any of the confusing emotions churning inside me, but I don’t.

I go to my room and shut the door, leaning back against it as my mind races. Why did Brandon kiss me like that? I’m not totally surprised that he kissed me—he’s been subtly threatening to all week. But I wasn’t expecting that out-of-control need, the hunger I sensed in his touch.

Is he just messing with me? Trying to intimidate me? Or could he actually have feelings for me? I think back to the desperation I felt in that kiss, the raw need pulsing through his body. And does it matter if he sees me as more than just a convenient lay if I don’t want the same thing? The problem is, it should be pretty clear that I don’t want that, but it’s not.

I touch my fingers to my lips, still tingling from the pressure of his mouth. My heart is pounding as I remember the way he pressed me against the wall, his muscular frame pinning me in place. I've never been kissed like that before. A week ago, in my bed, it was there too, that pull I didn’t want to resist, that feeling of being almost too alive.