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To the girls who see the box society has placed them in and then work mercilessly to tear that motherfucker to pieces — this one’s for you.
“You’re not a player. You’re not part of the team. You’re a part of the media. And I don’t want to fucking talk to you, or them, or anyone right now.”
Putting me — the quiet, nerdy virgin — in charge of public perception just seemed like a disaster waiting to happen. But that’s why I loved it. That’s why it was important to me. It was unexpected, and different, and challenging. And I wouldn’t stop until I’d mastered every aspect of it.
I knew then that it was Giana Jones. She was always dressed like a quirky librarian, like a mix between a nun and a naughty schoolgirl.
I wasn’t sure she even realized she did it, that she could catch more stares from wearing a turtleneck than some girls could in a bikini.
didn’t realize how much I liked the distraction of her until she was gone. And the only thing left to think about was Maliyah.
And when he looked up from his guitar and caught her stare, she flushed so fiercely I could see the crimson even in the dim light of the bar. She quickly tore her gaze away, looking down at her coffee and biting back a smile. By the time she glanced back up at the guy on stage, he had moved on, winking at a couple girls seated close to the stage.
“Yeah, well, a lot has changed since last season.” “Like your relationship status?”
He also wore a shirt smaller than the one Giana was wearing, if I were to wager, and skinny black jeans with holes ripped over the knees.
“What? What are you talking about? There’s nothing up with me and Shawn Stetson.” A nervous laugh bubbled out of her, one that resulted in a weird snort thing that made my lowered eyebrow bounce up to join the one lifted. Did she just refer to him by his first and last name?
“Go out with me.”
“Or at least, pretend to go out with me.”
I blamed my fascination with him on one of my favorite books — Thoughtless. S.C. Stephens made me fall in love with Kellan Kyle, and when I’d finished that book and been completely lost, in the worst book funk of my life, unable to function… I’d stumbled into Rum & Roasters.
“Look, G,” Clay said. “Giana,” I corrected. “Would you rather I call you Kitten again?”
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a celebrity here with us tonight. Clay Johnson, NBU’s best safety and a shoe-in for the NFL. Make sure to get your autographs while you can.”
I was invisible to him. I always had been.
I would never admit out loud how many times I’d fantasized about him, particularly when I’d re-read Thoughtless.
The fantasies always got a little spicy after that.
I didn’t have main character energy. I was more of the quirky, cute best friend with all the sage advice.
“Then we need a safe word.” “A safe word?” Clay chuckled. “Do you think I’m going to be tying you up, Kitten?”
“I mean, that can be arranged,” he added with a smirk. “If you’d like.”
capisce?” He cocked a brow. “What are you, an Italian mobster now?”
“Fake it til you make it, Kitten.”
But he stumbled, doing a double take when he saw me with Giana.
I respected him, and I’d follow him into a burning building.
Well, except Zeke — who protected her like she was his whole damn life.
She was such a fascinating enigma to me, somehow shy and brave all at once. One moment she’d be having an anxious meltdown, and the next, she was all chin up, chest puffed, brow bent in determination like nothing could sway her.
“Hell fucking yeah, man. Giana is hot as fuck.”
“But… Giana is a sweet girl.” I crossed my arms. “And what, I don’t deserve her?” “I didn’t say that.” “What exactly are you saying then?”
“Just be careful, man. Okay? She’s not a rebound. She’s not the kind of girl you fool around with to make yourself feel better.”
Giana: I almost passed out when I saw everyone staring at us. Me: I would have caught you.
Giana: Let’s just get through Chart Day and go from there. I think I’ve had enough… excitement for one day. Me: So kissing me was exciting, huh? I thought I felt a little wetness on my abs after I set you down… Giana: CLAY!
against the door to the room he was keeping her hostage in.
I’d survived kissing Clay Johnson.
I was not well-versed in the subject. Well, unless you counted my romance novels,
Sure, it was fun with Clay, but it was pretend. Having an actual boyfriend who would kiss me like that all the time? So long, I’d yearned for that.
I wanted that so badly — the passion, the need, the heat.
I wanted him to kiss me the way Clay had, for it to not be a joke or a pretense, but real.
“You don’t want to be uncomfortable. It’ll show.” “But what if everything that’s comfortable to me is boring?” He stopped texting, arching a brow at me. “Trust me, nothing you wear is boring.”
“Oh! Wear the kitten skirt. My favorite. Makes your ass look—” “Don’t finish that,” I warned.
And stay away from my books.” “Your porn? Sure thing.”
“I saw you put a highlighter tab on the soft choking part…”
“Don’t worry, Kitten,” Clay said, scooting closer and putting his arm around the back of the booth and thus around me, too. “I’m all yours.”
“Good Kitten,” he purred, and then his lips were on me.
“Look at him,” he whispered against my lips, and then he kissed a gentle trail along my jaw until he could nip at my earlobe with his teeth.
My heart raced like a leopard, sleek leaps and bounds across the jungle of my relinquishing inhibition as I succumbed to how it felt to have a man touch me like that. And have a different man watching.
“No matter what I do,” Clay whispered in the shell of my ear. “Keep your eyes on him.”
He never tired of touching me, teasing me, kissing along every bit of exposed skin he could find.
“How could I miss you?”
I knew, because if I were him, it would have driven me mad.
