For a few unsettling moments our eyes lock.
For a few unsettling moments her eyes soften, regard me with an unrecognizable emotion and downturned mouth.
She’s disappointed.
In me.
I know it as sure as I stand here supporting myself against the wall, sloshed off my ass and twice as turned on. For the first time in almost twenty-one years, a second passes that I’m actually disgusted with myself. It’s fleeting, but those soft, sober blue eyes—thoughtful and unaffected by all the fangirl bullshit surrounding me—make me feel…
Drunk as hell and dirty and chauvinistic.
Self-conscious.
Judged and found lacking.
A minute goes by before Jameson finally spins in her ballet flats and disappears from sight.
I shake my head, disoriented but determined not to give her another thought, and…not going to lie, it’s at that moment I pull Red through the bedroom door. Instead of a blowjob, I fuck the shit out of her against the wall.
Because I don’t want to care.
Because it feels good.
Because I can.
Sebastian
I sense her before I see her.
Don’t ask me how, but when Jameson skirts by my table, determined to avoid me, my bulk sits up straighter.
On high alert.
No greeting, she artfully weaves her way through the tables to the embankment of bookshelves at the far side of the library, firm ass sashaying in tight navy leggings, wearing tall brown boots and a brown leather tote.
Beneath my lashes, I trail her movements—her path direct, marching purposefully to the far recesses of the commons. My hands pause above the keys of my MacBook, pause to watch as she thumps her tote onto the hard table. Eases her laptop out. Plugs it in.
Aligns her pens and pencils, pushing each one into place with the tip of her finger, lining them up as if they each have a rightful spot on the desk. Calculator on the right, computer in the middle.
She takes out a small stack of notebooks, shuffling them. Spreads them out next to the pens.
My brows go up, interested, when she gently peels the rubber band from her dark hair. It shines when she gives it a shake under the dim glow of lamp light on her table then tussles it with her fingers. Black-rimmed glasses get perched on her head.
Fuck if it’s not sexy.
Good choice, Jimbo.
Ten minutes later, I’m still watching her from under the brim of my standard issue Iowa ball cap, as if I don’t have a crap load of studying to do myself. Oblivious to my surveying, she hen pecks at her computer then lowers her head to write. Scribbles something. Drinks from the straw in her water bottle. Pushes loose strands out of her face before reaching back and quickly braiding her hair.
My knee starts to bounce, on edge.
I look down at my laptop, the curser blinking in the same spot it’s been in since Jameson waltzed into the library, flippantly strolling past me like I don’t exist and plopping down nine tables away.
Yes, nine.
I counted.
Dragging the curser around my screen, I tear my gaze away long enough to tap out several sentences of my paper, the small black triangle blinking back at me, waiting for a new command. Instead, the calloused pad of my index finger traces a circle around the center mouse pad, uselessly.
My eyes flick back to Jameson, whose slim shoulders are now hunched over an open textbook, face resting in her palms as she reads, the pair of black glasses now perched on her nose.
Huh. Cute.
I count to four before my knee begins its steady, rhythmic bouncing and firmly place my palm there, pressing down to curtail it.
Fuck.
Fuck it.
I snap my laptop closed, grab the cord and case, and spin my ball cap so it’s backward. Stand up. Weave my way through the labyrinth of desks, tables, and chairs.
Standing at the foot of Jameson’s table, I clear my throat when she barely raises her head to acknowledge me.
“I’m not a tutor, so don’t bother,” she drones.
“Ha ha. Do you use that line on everyone?”
Those damn pearls around her neck glow when she stops writing long enough to cast a glance up at me. A smile tips her lips. “Oh, it’s you. Don Juan.”
Smiling—always a good sign.
“Ouch. Careful—my ego is so fragile you might break it.” I set my books, bag, and other shit on her table, pulling out the seat opposite her.
A pfft escapes her lips. “Fragile? Not likely.”
“Did I say fragile? I meant pompous and windbaggy.”
“Better.” She exaggerates a sigh, fake glaring down at the stack of books I just landed on her desk. “Ugh, what is with you? I didn’t invite you to sit down.”
Disregarding her lighthearted grimace, I unwind my power cord, plug it into the outlet on the base of the lamp, and give her a low chuckle. “You look like you could use some company.”
She volleys back with a low chuckle of her own. “I do not look like I want company. You are such a liar.”
“Maybe. But you have to admit, the library is becoming our special spot.” I pull my lip between my teeth, bite down flirtatiously, and give her a mischievous grin. Instead of blushing like I expect her to—like they all do—she rolls her blue eyes and inclines her neck, resuming her studies.
She quickly peeks at me. “Can you do me a favor and try not to make noise? I have a chem test in the morning that promises to be brutal.”
“Quiet I can do, especially with a gag in my mouth.” I wiggle my brows, even though she’s dead set on ignoring me.
Her pen stops. “Somehow I doubt that.”