Chapter Eighteen
Slouched in one of the many oversized armchairs tucked away in the silent zone of the library, I give up pretending to read and shut my book with a defeated sigh.
Things must really be spiraling if even a pitch black, twisted romance can’t pull me into another world.
I let my head loll to the side, the patch behind my ear free from my receivers.
My chest sinks beneath my cream-colored sweatshirt that declares, There’s not enough coffee in the world for me to talk to you today.
It’s one of my favorites, soft and fluffy on the inside, with sleeves long enough to hide my hands completely.
The week is crawling by with the sluggish determination of a depressed sloth, each day dragging me through the same cycle of gray skies, dull conversations, and a sense of unease that never quite fades.
Classes have been intense, but I’ve forced myself to carve out at least one solid hour of revision every day.
Whatever it takes to not be caught off guard again.
To not be left at the mercy of a wolf in human form again.
I guess that makes me Little Red Riding Hood, except this time, getting eaten—in any sense of the word—will have to stay a fantasy.
With each passing day, Friday looms closer.
I don’t even want to think about what Rhys has been planning for this ridiculous party of his whilst skipping out on classes all week.
At first, the arrangement had seemed simple enough, even if the thought of being paraded around made my skin crawl.
I’ll probably flounder in a cramped room filled with strangers, harsh music, and the kind of loud energy I spend most of my life avoiding, but at least I’ll be living.
I’ll be a fully-fledged student with the regret and shame to match.
The faint buzz of my phone vibrating between my crossed legs barely registers until I glance down and see a certain username light up the screen.
The man attached to said username has been giving me the cold shoulder all week, and I’m bored of it.
Especially as the message he’s sent has come out of left field, once again.
Beanie26: Where’s your spark gone, Beautiful?
I jolt upright and immediately glance around the library, hating that my heart skips a beat.
Every chair is occupied, students buried in books or silently mouthing words as they study.
The towering shelves create blind spots where shadows flicker in the periphery, and for a moment, I feel eyes on me from every direction.
Leaning cautiously over the armrest, I peer down the central aisle and spot Clay sitting at one of the main tables, papers and textbooks spread out in front of him as he works.
First thought, fuck that guy. Second thought, are we sending compliments now?
Sinking back into the chair, I stare at the message for a long moment, weighing up my options.
I could humor him, or I can admit I’m tired of this game.
I guess we will see what I decide in the moment.
Pushing myself up, I storm through the library, defiance driving me forward.
I reach his table and slam my book down hard enough to make his pen pause mid-sentence.
The heat of attention floods in from all angles, but I keep my focus narrowed on Clay.
“Do you want me or not?”
From beneath his blond swoop of hair, Clayton’s dark eyes meet mine with infuriating calm.
Nothing flickers in his features. Around us, I sense the whispers spreading like wildfire, but I don’t care.
All that matters is putting an end to this loop of wanting and waiting while he keeps his cards pressed to his chest. “I don’t care which it is, but at least be man enough to own how you feel. ”
I only wait for a few seconds, but that’s enough to realize he isn’t going answer. Clay doesn’t speak openly in public, whether being confronted or not. I snatch my book off the table and turn on my heel, my hips swaying in oversized sweatpants as I walk away. Indecisive asshole.
Winding through the stacks, I head toward aisle thirteen, intent on putting my book back and leaving.
The overhead bulbs dangle on cords that sway slightly, casting patches of soft light that stretch and shift as I pass beneath them.
A fitting atmosphere for the kind of romance that should be read in the dark by flashlight.
Reaching the gap I left earlier, I slide the book back into place .
Until next time my fictional lover. Letting my hand linger for a moment, I stroke the edge of the spine, debating whether I check it out and give it a second chance in the comfort of my bed. No, I don’t have the focus tonight.
Broad shoulders and a wide chest in white cotton closes in on me, the sudden nearness making me jolt as if caught doing something illicit.
Clay’s face is half-shadowed by his gray beanie, the tic jumping in his jawline making it appear sharper.
I’ve been close to Clay before, but he’s standing over me now, the sheer height of him makes me feel simultaneously cornered and oddly safe.
His hand clamps around my arm with a grip that is neither careless nor gentle, and in that single touch there is an entire conversation I cannot quite translate.
“Am I not man enough?” Clay’s lips say and I don’t have to hear him to feel the guttural frustration in his tone.
I force myself to keep my gaze level with his, although my breath feels caught somewhere between my lungs and my throat.
There’s a heated fury in his black eyes, the quiet simmer of a man wrestling with something he does not want to admit.
My hand slips into the pocket of my sweatshirt, finding the small microphone clip I pushed in there earlier.
Without breaking his stare, I attach it to the rounded neckline of his T-shirt.
My knuckles brush against his throat, sliding for a fraction of a second over the powerful beat of his pulse.
It thrums against me, impossibly fast, as though my touch has unbalanced him.
His hand knocks mine aside, and in the next instant, my back hits the bookcase.
I gasp at the spread of fingers slipping beneath my thighs as Clay effortlessly lifts me to match his height.
My legs wrap around his waist, instinct taking over in a way that makes my cheeks burn.
The solid pressure of him pins me in place and the wooden shelf digs into my spine, but the discomfort only sharpens my awareness of where his body meets mine.
The hard press of his jeans against my center has my skin flushing hot enough to chase away every coherent thought.
“Clay,” I breathe, not able to form an end to that sentence. Managing to free my phone, I open the app over his shoulder to activate the Bluetooth between the mic and my implants. As if waiting for that precise moment, Clay growls against the mic.
“Is it not man enough that the urge to protect you keeps me awake at night?” His chest heaves.
Oh, he’s pissed. “Or that when I eventually fall asleep, your green eyes haunt me there? Maybe I’m not man enough,” Clay pushes his jeans harder against my core, which carves through me deliciously, “because I push you away, knowing I’m not worthy of your attention. ”
His head dips until I feel his breath on my skin, and then the ghost of his lips brushes my jaw. I lock up, overcome with revelation and lust. I broke Clay, I broke him wide open and now I’m going to see exactly how he feels. At freaking last.
His lips move again, traveling in slow, deliberate strokes from beneath my ear to the hollow between my collarbones. My head tips back against the shelf, and my eyes slide shut without my permission. His voice is in my head, reverberating, undoing my defenses thread by thread.
“Perhaps if I was man enough, I would be able to stop confusing chivalry with obsession and get you out of my head once and for all.”
I barely have time to open my eyes before his mouth covers mine.
My toes curl, a surprised inhale passing between us.
Unlike what I would have imagined, there is no hesitation in his kiss, no careful testing of boundaries.
Only an immediate and all-consuming claim.
Clay’s lips taste of coffee and desire, a layers of tension between us unraveling in an instant.
My hands slide up the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair beneath the beanie, pulling him closer because whatever this is, it is not enough.
I want more. I need everything he’s willing to give before he decides to rip it all away again.
Every point where our bodies meet feels like a spark catching dry tinder, small fires spreading with reckless speed.
His grip tightens at my hips, his fingertips digging in as though he needs to anchor himself, and I realize I am clinging to him just as desperately.
The kiss deepens, and his tongue parts my lips without asking, taking what he wants.
I give it willingly, my own need tangling with his until I cannot tell whose hunger I am feeding.
The rhythm of our bodies shifts and I am grinding against him before I have even thought about it, the friction pulling a soft, unguarded sound from my throat.
It makes him groan, the air between us thick enough to drown in.
I am on the edge of doing something reckless, something I will not be able to take back, when the world tips.
Suddenly I am lifted higher, thrown aside, the warmth of him gone.
A startled cry tears from me as I hit the ground hard enough to jar my teeth.
My limbs sprawl across the cold floor and my head spins, the rush of the kiss ripped away so fast my body almost aches from the loss.