Page 36 of Best Man on Campus

“I don’t believe you,” he says, the first sign of a smile teasing the corner of his mouth.

“You don’t have to believe me, asshole. I don’t answer to you.”

“What does that mean?”

I pull away from him, but he doesn’t let me get far, keeping me in the circle of his arms, but I take a good look at his face and he’s teasing me.

“Look at us,” I drawl, “bickering like we’re a real couple and all. You’d think—”

He doesn’t let me finish my sentence, grabbing me by the back of the head and pressing my face to his for a hard, overwhelming kiss, his mouth covering mine and his tongue thoroughly exploring, reaching for my depths like he’s searching for something he’s lost. I can’t even breathe and all the nerve endings zap me to life as if I’ve been jolted like some Frankenstein monster.

With my two hands planted I shove against his chest, making my fucking cut sting like hell, but he loosens his grip and lets my mouth go.

Sucking in air, I nearly growl at him and raise my good hand to slap him or claw at him or do some kind of damage for no reason and for every angry reason inside me. But I don’t do it. Clenching my fist and lowering it, I channel my rage into my words.

“You have no right to kiss me that way. We’re not a fucking real couple. And what’s with that fucking bitch Lara? What’s she doing here with you?”

He laughs, his eyes dark and glittering and past wolfish into the kind of danger zone I don’t expect from a unicorn, a humanitarian. He’s angry. Fucking angry. And that makes me smile.

He snaps out a sharp laugh. “Which is it, Jazzy? Are we not a fucking real couple or do you actually have a right to be jealous of Lara? Who by the way, you have absolutely nothing in the world to be jealous of. She’s a friend and that’s it. Nothing between us. Never was and never will be.”

Taking rare and raw pleasure in his long and thorough explanation about how he’s not into Lara, I gloss over the part about whether I have a right or not, because my fury isn’t about rights and logic. If it were, I’d be a perfectly happy normal person, wouldn’t I? But giving him a jolt gives me a thrill and so I take a fistful of his T-shirt—no easy task because the fucking hottie’s muscle bulge fills it so it’s skin-tight, but I manage—and lock my lips onto his. But I don’t kiss, I bite, sinking my teeth into that vulnerable soft underside of his bottom lip and taste him, feel him flinch.

He takes my chin in his hand and pulls me off his face.

“Fuck, Jazzy. Do you want to draw blood?”

The idea sends me to another level of irrational rage and my hand snaps so fast even quick-as-lightning super athlete Ben doesn’t stop the slap. But he does turn his head and I miss the brunt of the sting as he grabs my wrist in a lock and brings it down to my side.

“Are you crazy?”

“Yes. I thought you knew.” I’m calm now, still enjoying the unsettled, even rattled version of the cool nice guy. Seeing the anger burst to his surface, getting him all out of sorts turns me on so that I slide my hand toward his crotch and his along with it. He yanks it back to my side.

His eyes study me like he’s reading a book. Like maybe the book is in a foreign language and he’s having a hard time with it. A grin splits my face and a pop of triumph explodes in my chest like I’ve accomplished something. As if baffling and bruising the campus humanitarian is worth some kind of trophy.

“Jazzy.” That’s all he says, his eyes going back to that compassionate place I hate because it conquers me, because I lean into it and crave it even knowing it’s something I can’t have. His voice is soft and pained.

“I’m sorry,” he says, more pain. He lets go of my wrist and steps back. “I shouldn’t have kissed you like that. It’s just you make me so—”

“Hot? Angry? The way you make me?” Fuck. Why did I say that? I’m crazier than I thought. Needing to get back to the outrageous girl I know, I step into him and grab his cock with my good hand. It’s hard as granite and I’m not surprised, but I am far more thrilled than I should be as I feel my panties get moist and the familiar Ben-inspired clenching in my pussy. Fuck.

“Are you going to apologize for setting me up with your mother?”

I can see the myriad of outraged responses pass across his expression, but he lands on the one that sinks me.

“Yes.” It’s a firm but shaky word, filled with all kinds of emotion. He pulls me to him with both hands, pressing my ass so that my pussy can’t help saying hello to his cock and meaning it.

I should leave him alone. I can’t afford to get addicted to him, to want his orgasms.

My dream of him last night turned into a nightmare with an explosion of blood. He’s more scary than he is exciting. He can’t possibly be for real. His angle is sex, isn’t it? I can see it in his eyes. It’s all he wants, like the others. Like Killian.

What’s left of my rational brain sparks up. Then why did Ben succeed where others have failed? How did he make me let go of my demons in his arms long enough to make me come gloriously and endlessly?

“You want to get out of here?” I grab my oversized 70s vintage jean jacket from the hook and throw it on. I meant the question as rhetorical because I sure as shit know he wants a piece of me and I sure as fuck want to give it to him and take a piece of him while I’m at it. A nice big juicy bite. Flicking a glance at him, I see I’m not wrong. His expression is nothing less than starving, though there’s more to it. That complication of conscience and confusion.

“Let’s go to my place. You can drive. I know it makes you men feel all macho to be in the driver’s seat.”

He smirks and shakes his head.