Chapter Twelve
Evan shifted in his place on Layla’s couch as the ending credits for Amélie played on his laptop screen. Layla’s arm pressed against his leg as she pushed herself up to a sitting position. They’d watched the movie after he’d brought her home from class on Friday. Ostensibly he’d been staying to go over their presentation for World Lit, which they were giving on Tuesday.
But the reality was that over the last two weeks since she’d hurt her ankle, they’d fallen into this sort of routine. He brought her to and from school, shifting his workouts to the weekends and Monday, Wednesday, and Friday while he waited for her to finish classes. The first week, he’d walk her up and carry her backpack for her while she was still using the crutches. She’d ditched them a week ago, though he still noticed her limping by the end of the day. When he asked about it, she insisted that it was fine. But she hadn’t protested when he’d suggested she prop it up while they watched a movie.
They’d started out on opposite ends of the couch with her foot in the middle, but she couldn’t reach the bowl of popcorn over the pile of pillows propping up her leg. So she’d switched around, with her foot on the pillows on the end of the couch. Evan sat against the opposite arm of the couch, his leg bent, and the bowl of popcorn cradled there. In her new position, she lounged against him, her arm alongside his leg holding up her head. He’d been keenly aware of the contact throughout the two hours of the movie.
Now she sat up, reaching her arms over her head and stretching, her back arching and thrusting her breasts out, her T-shirt inching up to reveal a strip of skin. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, especially since she didn’t even seem to be aware of his gaze. The line of her neck as her head fell back, her long dark hair brushing against the couch, the fabric of her T-shirt stretched tight over her breasts. It made the semi he’d been battling throughout the movie grow to full hardness.
Fuck.
Did she not realize what she was doing to him?
No. Probably not.
He cleared his throat and dragged his eyes away from her, bending forward to exit full screen mode and close Netflix. Layla had made it abundantly clear that she wasn’t interested in him from their first meeting. Even though she’d warmed to him enough that she let him help her out, his attraction was all one sided. He knew that. Had to remind himself of that every time he was around her.
With their presentation next week, and her ankle healing, he doubted he’d get to hang out with her as much as he currently did. Would she go back to pretending like he didn’t exist after their project was done? Spring break was the week after next. It would be easy to go back to the way things used to be after that. His jaw clenched at the thought of her surrounding herself with other people and refusing to look at him in World Lit when he’d gotten used to sitting next to her the last few weeks.
Fingers brushed his shoulder. “Hey. You okay?”
He jerked upright, noticing Layla standing next to him with the popcorn bowl in her hand, her face concerned. “What?”
She gestured at the computer. “You looked pissed. Did you get a nasty email or something?”
“Oh.” He ran a hand over his face and shook his head. “No. I’m fine.” Standing, he forced a smile. “Here. Let me get that. You’re supposed to be resting your ankle.”
Before she could protest, he took the bowl and went into the kitchen.
“Sure, go ahead. I’ll just sit here like the pampered princess I’ve become with you,” she called after him.
Setting the bowl on the counter, he braced his hands there and let his head hang down. Christ. He needed to get ahold of himself. He was broadcasting his anger about something that hadn’t even happened. Maybe it would be best if Layla did start ignoring him after spring break. Nothing would ever happen with her. He knew that. But for some reason, he’d spent most of his free time with her the last two weeks. They did homework, watched movies on his laptop, talked. Like he’d never talked with anyone before. Or at least not in a long time. With his guy friends they mostly talked sports. Sometimes school. With the girls he knew, he flirted, let them talk about whatever they wanted. They didn’t really care about what he thought unless it was to compliment them on their hair or clothes or whatever.
With Layla, he talked books. Endlessly. They debated the merits of their favorite authors, and she gave him recommendations for books that he’d never have looked at on his own. Her tastes varied widely, everything from the classics to literary fiction. She even had a soft spot for sci-fi romance. One night she went on and on about Anne McCaffrey and informed him that even though the Dragonriders of Pern series sounded like fantasy, it was actually sci-fi because of the space travel and colonization of different planets. He’d found some of her books at the library this week and checked one out, though he hadn’t had time to get very far into it. He hadn’t told Layla about that.
Christ. Look at him. Spending all this time with a girl who gave him endless shit, didn’t react favorably to his flirtation and innuendo, and now he was reading her favorite books. Just because he wanted to find out why she liked them so much.
He was so fucking screwed.
“Evan?” Layla’s voice had him straightening up. Her head popped around the corner. “You okay?”
“Uh, yeah.” He stepped back from the counter. “I was getting some water. Want some?”
“Sure.” She drew the word out, a funny look on her face. He blinked in response. One corner of her mouth lifted in a smirk. “You have to open the cabinet and get out glasses first.” She mimed the actions, then acted like she was turning on the kitchen sink. “Then actually fill the glass with water.”
“Right. Of course.” He turned back to the counter, not even able to react to her teasing like a normal person, got two glasses out of the cabinet, and filled them from the sink.
Her fingers brushed his as she took the glass, and he almost jerked his hand away to break the contact. From the weird look on her face, maybe he jerked more forcefully than he meant to. But he looked away, avoiding her gaze. Because with the way his thoughts were running, he couldn’t bear to touch her right now. He wanted things he shouldn’t, that he knew she didn’t want, and even the casual brush of their fingers on a glass of water sent electricity zinging up his spine and had his dick straining in his pants.
When her hand caressed his arm, he closed his eyes, his hand gripping his glass even tighter. He couldn’t look at her. Not right now.
“Evan?”
He didn’t say anything. Couldn’t, even if he wanted to. His jaw clenched as she stepped closer, aware of her body moving in front of him even without seeing her.
“Evan? Look at me. Please.”
He finally opened his eyes. Her brows were drawn together in concern. Her lips pink and lush, contrasting with the delicate line of her nose and cheekbones.
“You’ve been acting weird since the movie ended. What’s going on?” Her eyes scanned his face.
He drew in a shuddery breath, not sure what to tell her.
Her hands slipped up his arms, squeezing his tight biceps. That touch turned off his brain, and he set his glass down on the counter behind her, crowding her back until she was trapped, and he brought his mouth down on hers. He closed his eyes at the feel of her soft lips against his, but the realization that she wasn’t responding froze him to his core.
He pulled back, about to step away, leave. He didn’t want to stay after that. He’d lost his mind with her nearness and touch, and now he’d crossed the line. Fuck. But before he could convince his feet to move, her grip on his arms tightened, pulling him closer again. His eyes snapped to her face, and her brows were still drawn together, but her face emitted determination, not confusion. She went up on her toes, her body pressing against his, her hands traveling up his arms to his neck, where she pulled his head back down to hers.
If he thought he’d lost his mind before, it was nothing compared to this. His arms clamped around her, one around her waist, the other tangling in her hair, holding her head in place. He nipped at her lower lip, slipping his tongue inside when she opened for him with a gasp. She seemed tentative again, and he tried to withdraw to check in with her, but her fingers clutched at his hair, holding him in place. So he found her tongue, drawing hers out with his own, his hands sliding up and down her back while hers continued to clutch at his hair.
As their kiss continued, he grew bolder, letting his hands slide down to her ass, pushing her pelvis against him, grinding his hips into her belly, letting her feel what she did to him. That provoked a moan from her, the sound muffled by his own mouth. His grip on her ass tightened, and he lifted her up, setting her on the counter, dishes clanking together as they got pushed out of the way.
He followed, his lips never leaving hers, one hand going behind her head to protect it from banging against the cabinet. With her at this height, everything lined up perfectly, from their mouths down to their hips, and he enjoyed the feel of her, the way she clung to him, her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her thighs hugging his hips, like she couldn’t get enough of him either.
This time the groan was from him. The heat between her thighs made him want to sink inside her. Now.
But when he slipped his hand under her shirt, her skin smooth and warm against his rough palm, she froze, her fingers tightening in his hair to the point of pain.
He lifted his head, his eyes focused on her mouth at first, her lips swollen and red from his kisses. But when her hands left him, one coming to cover those gorgeous lips, he met her eyes. She suddenly looked so … vulnerable. And confused. Again. But he didn’t know what to say, what she’d want to hear, so he kept his mouth shut.
“What was that?” Her hand over her mouth muffled her whispered question even more.
Evan mulled over what to say, but decided to go with simple honesty. He dropped his forehead to hers, glad she didn’t flinch away. “That was something I’ve wanted to do for a while.”
“Really?”
He pulled back, a smirk fighting its way out. “Yeah, really. Who wouldn’t want to do that?”
She lifted one shoulder in a shrug, her hand dropping from her mouth. “I don’t know. Everyone?” She shook her head, sliding off the counter and forcing him to step back. “But really. You’ve been respectful and platonic and distant. Nothing would’ve made me think that”—she waved a hand to indicate their countertop make-out session—“was on your mind. At all.”
Leaning against the counter next to the fridge across from her, Evan crossed his arms. “I didn’t think you’d be interested.”
Her eyebrows went up at that. “And today?”
“I couldn’t help myself.” He looked away, examining the pattern in the vinyl flooring, unable to meet her eyes anymore. She’d stopped him, after all. Maybe she’d just wanted to see what kissing him would be like, but wasn’t really interested. It’d happened before.
“I don’t—I’m not—“ He looked up at her, watching her struggle to find the words she wanted to say. Waiting for her rejection. He assumed she wanted to be polite about it. They still had to do the presentation on their book next week, after all. Wouldn’t want that to be awkward.
She straightened her spine and put her shoulders back, meeting his gaze head on. “I don’t do no-strings sex. I like strings. Lots of them. So if that’s what this is for you, then, as nice as that kiss was, it can’t happen. Nothing else can happen between us.”
She held his gaze, something like defiance in her face. Well. That hadn’t been what he’d expected.
“And if it’s not?”
Her eyes scanned his face, her forehead wrinkling. “What?”
He dropped his arms and pushed away from the counter, invading her space again. Watching her throat work as she swallowed, her fingers tighten where they gripped the counter behind her. “If that wasn’t about no-strings sex. If I’m good with strings. What then?”
“Oh.”
He waited, but she didn’t say anything else. “Oh?”
“Yeah, oh.” She looked everywhere but at him.
“What’s the problem?”
She made a noise in her throat. “Well, I’m me. And you’re …” she nodded in his direction, making eye contact again. “You’re you.”
“Yeah.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I didn’t think you did strings.”
“This again?” He rubbed a hand over his face, blowing out a breath in frustration. But he was already pushing. May as well lay it all out. “Layla. I like you. From the way you reacted, I think you like me too. I like spending time with you. I really liked kissing you. I don’t hang out and watch movies with girls I’m only interested in screwing. Can you quit assuming you know how I operate and give me a fucking chance?”
Her lips parted, and he had to hold back the urge to kiss her again. He waited, keeping his gaze steady while her eyes darted back and forth between his. Her shoulders drooped a little, and she lost the defiant tilt to her chin. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay, I’ll give you a chance. But how will this work exactly?”
He let his hand rest on her hip, leaning closer. “The usual way, I figured.” He dipped his head for a kiss, but stopped a fraction of an inch from her lips when she pushed on his chest.
“So that means you’re asking me on a date?”
Pulling back, he looked into her eyes. That hadn’t been what he’d meant. But if that’s what she wanted. “Yeah. I’m asking you on a date.”
There went her eyes narrowing again. “A real date. Not a movie in my apartment.”
He smirked. “Of course a real date. Dinner. Somewhere nice. Sound good?”
“When?”
Now his eyes darted back and forth between hers. “Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow. What time?”
“Six?”
“Okay.” She smiled, and it dazzled him. He had to kiss her again. She let him this time, but not for long, and he groaned again, this time from distress, when she cut it off.
“Evan. I do like you. And I’d like this to work. So I can’t keep kissing you like that without wanting … more. And I think it would be a bad idea if we went for more tonight.”
The vulnerability in her soft voice did him in. Even though it killed him to agree with her. He wanted her. Bad. He was used to moving fast, and slowing things down like this was … hard. In more ways than one. But for her he’d take it slow. Let her set the pace.
Placing one last kiss on her forehead, he met her eyes. “Okay. You’re right. But I should go, because I’m going to have a tough time keeping my hands to myself if I stay.”
She shivered at his words, and that brought a smile to his face. But she held her ground. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
She stood in the entry to the kitchen while he gathered his things from the living room, her gaze on him a tangible thing. But he forced himself to leave without touching her again. Just repeating, “See you tomorrow,” before he closed the door behind him and headed for his car.