Chapter 16 #2
She doesn’t look back. I’m already watching her, tracking every step and sway of her hips in those black tights that make my cock twitch as if it has its own damn heartbeat.
The hallway hits, and she slows, but I don’t.
My gaze keeps trailing down her spine to the curve of her ass, the stretch of those tights doing criminal things to my self-control.
My mouth dries out. I want to press her up against the nearest wall, let her feel exactly what she’s doing to me. The assignment can wait.
Then—
“Keep that bedroom door open,” her dad yells, voice sharp enough to cut through bone.
My dick wilts instantly. I grit my teeth so hard my jaw cracks.
My skin crawls with that itchy, creeping heat that hits when someone’s watching too closely. Like he can see right through the floorboards. Through my skull. Through every filthy thought I’m trying not to act on.
Another adult who sees me as nothing but a walking red flag. A fuck-up. A cocky asshole with no future, no right to be near his daughter.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am those things.
Still, that doesn’t stop me from wanting her.
Sam doesn’t let go until we’re inside her room, her fingers slipping away slowly, as if she didn’t mean to hold on to me that long but couldn’t help it.
The door clicks halfway shut. Not fully closed, not fully open—just enough for plausible deniability. She’s playing it safe with Daddy Dearest lurking downstairs, ears probably tuned to every creak in the floorboards.
She turns her back to me and moves toward the bed, those tight black leggings hugging her in a way that makes my jaw twitch and my dick stand at attention.
I force my eyes up, but not before they trace the curve of her hips and the way her oversized tee knotted at the front does absolutely nothing to hide what it’s barely covering.
Fuck me. I’m not a saint. Never claimed to be.
“What are you doing here?” Her voice snaps.
She’s standing near her desk, arms crossed over her chest. Her cheeks are pink again—always are when I’m around. It’s like her body’s in on something her brain hasn’t agreed to yet.
My eyes drift to her lips. Plump, a little parted.
She shifts on her feet, and for a second I think she’s waiting to see if I’ll do the same thing I did last time.
My body remembers it better than I do… her mouth against mine, the way she gasped when I pressed against her, it hits me all over again.
I brush it off. I’m not here for that. Not today.
“I thought we could work on the assessment,” I say, dropping my bag to the floor with a thud.
I sit at the foot of her bed, stretching out my legs. She doesn’t move, still standing there, eyes narrowed like she’s trying to solve some equation I’ve got no part in. I ignore her and fish the notes out, spreading them across the carpet between us.
Still, she doesn’t move.
“Are you planning on helping or just watching me?” I glance up and catch her staring full tilt, no shame. Her mouth tightens, then she exhales as if she’s finally made a decision.
We get to work.
Our notes are scattered across the floor in messy piles, highlighters and loose pages overlapping as if we’ve done this before, even though we haven’t.
I glance at her once, twice, and keep doing it like I don’t know any better.
She’s already sitting cross-legged across from me, leaning over a handout.
Every time she moves closer, I get a whiff of her perfume. It’s soft, citrusy. Fuck, it’s addictive. It hits me right in the chest and sticks behind my sternum. It’s insanely distracting.
She’s quiet while we work. Not cold, not distant. Just… careful.
Her sentences are brief, her tone slightly clipped, as if every word passes through some filter in her mind. She’s holding herself back, avoiding eye contact. Yet her cheeks have been flushing nonstop since I sat down, and I can tell she’s thinking about it—about us—as much as I am.
She leans forward to grab a pen, and her long lashes sweep down, brushing her skin.
I watch them too long, following the flicker of her eyes as they scan the worksheet.
I should concentrate on the notes. I should ask about the assignment.
But all I can think about is how stunning she looks when she’s trying not to look at me.
Her voice breaks the silence. “This question on this old test is marked wrong, but I think it’s right.”
I don’t answer right away; instead, I observe her face, the small furrow between her eyebrows, and the way she chews the inside of her cheek when she’s deep in thought. I’m not even sure I care about the question she’s discussing—I’m too busy watching her.
There’s this moment when I almost ask, “Do you regret it? Did you mean it when you acted as if it meant nothing, or were you trying to make it hurt less?” But the words get stuck. I bite down on them and force my attention back to the paper.
“Yeah,” I say instead, circling the answer with my pen. “You’re right. They probably marked it wrong.”
We keep working.
Our hands brush once when we reach for the same paper. She pulls back as if I burned her, but her fingers linger for a second longer than they need to.
We still don’t talk about it. Not the kiss. Not the fact that everything’s changed since then. But it’s obvious in how her lashes lower every time I look at her, and how I pretend I don’t notice.
Maybe that says more than any of us ever will.
I pack my stuff slowly, dragging it out because I’m not ready to leave this room. I’ve spent the last hour pretending her thighs aren’t painted into those tights.
She finally stands, brushing imaginary dust off her legs, as if she needs a moment to gather herself, and then—fuck.
She smiles.
At me.
And not some polite, neutral, “thanks for the homework help” bullshit.
This one’s real. Soft, sweet, full of something I’ve never seen on her face when I’m in the room. She’s never smiled at me like that. That’s how she smiled at that dickhead by the lockers last week—the one I almost knocked the fuck out just for existing near her.
“You’re not so bad at this,” she says, and it’s not about the assessment.
I stare at her, my bag on the floor forgotten, because I’m two seconds from crawling across the room and kissing that smile off her lips. “Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation.”
That makes her laugh.
That sound hits me straight in the fucking chest.
My feet move me toward the door, but I’m not sure if my mind is with me. She opens it before I can and steps into the hallway. Her shoulder brushes mine, and I don’t step away.
The stairs creak as we walk down them together, and for one goddamn second, I allow myself to feel it. The potential that could exist between us if she weren’t so busy hating me. If I wasn’t so good at fucking things up.
Then I see him.
Her dad.
Posted up at the bottom of the staircase like a fucking guard dog. Arms crossed, face hard, gaze locked only on me.
His eyes drag over me, as if he’s waiting for me to slip. I feel that stare settle into my bones. That distrust, that barely concealed hate. He doesn’t see a guy trying to help his daughter with schoolwork. He sees a walking screw-up, a threat with a hard-on.
I keep my chin up. I won’t give him the satisfaction. I’ve taken hits harder than a pissed-off dad. Still, it doesn’t stop the cold, low burn from crawling up my spine. The kind that reminds me of where I stand and what kind of guy I’ll always be in his eyes.
Sam stiffens next to me. She remains silent as she walks over and opens the front door.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Reece, and thanks for coming by today.”
I nod because I don’t trust myself to speak, not with her dad staring at me as if I’m something he scraped off his boot.
The door clicks shut behind me. I adjust the strap on my shoulder, ready to leave, when Sam’s voice breaks through the silence.
“Are you serious right now? You stood there judging him as if he were nothing.”
I stop without meaning to.
“He is nothing, Samantha,” her dad snaps. “You think I don’t see the way he looks at you? That kid is trouble. I won’t have him dragging you down.”
My jaw locks. No surprise there. Same verdict. Different day.
“You don’t know him,” she fires back.
“No, but I know his type,” her dad says. “And his type never changes.”
“That’s bullshit,” she shoots back.
Her dad finally says, “I don’t trust him.”
“That sounds more like a you problem,” Sam snaps. “Not a him problem.”
Fuck.
I don’t wait to hear more. I walk fast and hard, my boots hitting the pavement with too much force.
The street’s quiet when I hit the curb, just the buzz of streetlights and the distant bark of a dog. Porch lights flicker on like little spotlights, reminding me how many people are safe in their homes, loved and wanted.
Anger quietly simmers in my gut, sharp and bitter.
The way he looked at me was as if I were filth dragged in on her shoes. Another adult dismissing me with a glance. A man who sees nothing in me worth a second chance.
I should be used to it. But I’m not, because tonight she stood there defending me. Someone as good as Sam could believe in someone like me after everything I’ve done and still see something worth standing up for.
I want to be that fucking guy.
The one she sees when she smiles. The kind of smile she gave me tonight without thinking. Soft. Unafraid. Pure fucking sunlight slicing through all the crap I carry.
I want to be the one who maintains her gaze when the world becomes harsh. The one who doesn’t flinch when her father looks at him like he’s dirt.
I want to be enough for the girl with fire in her voice and courage in her spine—the one who made me feel seen for the first time in years.