"Heiress."
Jameson's voice was nearly as distracting as his fingers, which were tracing circles on my bare forearms. I could tell, then, why he'd chosen to sit at this table; unlike the remainder of the archive, benches enclosed the rosewood surface and offered plenty of room between us for him to close.
I stiffened, my eyes darting toward my novel, which I'd been reading before he'd found me at lunch. Jameson slipped an arm around my waist, his strong hand pulling me tight against his side. And when I looked at him in surprise, he simply quirked an eyebrow, as if to say, I'm not letting go.
I didn't mind at all, but I liked irritating him, so I said, "Are you ever going to use my name?"
"Considering you can't even recall your name after kissing me, I don't think addressing you formally matters."
"I have perfect memory of my name, thank you very much."
Jameson grinned, lowering his green eyes to examine my lips. "Wanna bet?"
"With you? No."
"Too bad." He looked at me then, flashing his signature crooked grin, and slipped his fingers into my belt loops. I expected him to yank me against his chest, but was surprised to find it gentle in a way that Jameson Hawthorne simply wasn't.
After he'd closed the space between us, I didn't know where to put my hands. Maybe it was the newness of the relationship — or the fact that I'd never had one previously — but either way, my hands ended up in my lap.
Jameson laughed. "Heiress, there's no need to be nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
He snatched my left hand. It was shaking. He brought it first to his lips, and then to his chest. My breathing grew heavy. "What," he murmured, "are you so scared of?"
You, I wanted to say. I'm terrified of you.
But that wasn't true. I no longer was afraid of Jameson Hawthorne — or his eccentric family. After all the crap I'd been through, I doubted anything would scare me.
Except . . .
"Jameson." I waited for him to meet my eyes — a feat, considering he preferred looking at my lips. "I need you to promise me something."
His expression, so playful a moment before, grew guarded. "What?"
I gestured between us, as if to signify the entirety of our relationship. "Promise me I'm not just another game to you."
A muscle twitched in his jaw. He ran a hand through his silky dark hair and said, "I thought we'd been over this, heiress. I'm not trying to use you —"
"Just promise me," I begged. For reasons beyond my understanding, I simply needed the confirmation. Vocally.
He sighed, a low growl caught in his throat. "Fine. I promise."
Just as the last syllable escaped his lips, I tugged at his collar and kissed him.
Jameson reacted faster than I thought humanly possible. I felt his hands slide to either side of my waist, felt him pull me hostage against his chest, felt him breathe in the perfume sprinkled along my neck. I started to smile, but he kissed it away. Kissed me until my lips felt swollen and numb. Kissed me until I was drunk on him, drunk on his scent, his taste.
And after he'd stolen every trace of my breath, I pushed at his chest, silently begging him for air.
Jameson allowed me only an inhale before his lips met mine again. And again. Deeper.
Hungrier.
By the time we finally parted, my heart was drilling a hole in my chest. As I focused on breathing, I wondered how Jameson couldn't hear it hammering inside me.
True to his nature, he flashed a wicked grin.
I stared. How was he not out of breath? His cheeks were perfectly blush-free, while mine were in flames. I reached a hand to his chest, searching for his heart.
A slow smirk spread over Jameson's face. "Feeling my abs?"
"Your heartbeat, actually."
"Shame."
I pushed away from him, needing space — needing air. All this boy seemed to do was steal it from me. Jameson waited, his muscular arms crossed. Breathing deeply through my nose, I reached forward for my novel; it was second nature.
But as my hand brushed over the spine, Jameson's did too. I shivered lightly as his fingertips teased my skin.
"I didn't know you liked to read," he murmured.
I hesitated. "My mom . . . she used to read to me when I couldn't sleep at night."
Jameson's face softened. He rubbed a hand lightly up my back, but even without his motive being romantic, I elicited a shiver in response. "Want me to read to you?" he asked.
"You wouldn't like the book."
He picked it up, examining it from all angles before flipping to a random page. A broad smirk spread over his face, accompanied by a waggling of his eyebrows. Confused, I leaned in to see what chapter he'd stumbled on. I swore under my breath.
A kissing scene. Of course.
"Okay, you have two options." Jameson turned to face me; he looked way too pleased with himself. "One: I can read the scene to you. Or," he said, his breath hot on my cheeks, "I can reenact it."
I felt my legs go weak.
I didn't remember the exact scene, but I was quite sure it was composed of being shoved against a wall and passionately kissed. I reached for the book to see, but a grinning Jameson held it out of my reach.
He studied me, his eyes flaming with passion — passion for me. But before I could voice what I wanted, a familiar voice flooded the library. Xander.
Unfortunately, he was followed closely by a collection of Heights County Day students — which meant Jameson and I were officially deprived of our privacy.
I huddled close and brought my lips to his ear. "You know what I want."
"Later?"
"Later."
