His lips trail down my neck, sending shivers all over.
"I love looking at you," he breathes, brushing the hair off my shoulders. "Will you let me look at you?"
My heart hammers, a wild thing seeking his. "Yes."
So he does. And I feel it. For a long...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
C A M I L A
"Women love smoothies. Like, they can be pink and shit. That was what I put down for 7c. We should go out for smoothies to celebrate our final exam."
If eye-rolling burned calories, I'd be transparent by now.
"This class sucked. I'd like to do something fun." Not-Brandon leans back, running a hand through his dark hair. "You in?"
"Quiet," Dr. Wen mutters as he passes—because some people are still writing their exams. We can't leave because it's the last 15 minutes.
I'm wedged into a desk, the kind designed for maximum discomfort, but I aced this exam, just like the rest.
"I don't understand why you hate me so much," he whispers.
I glare sideways at him, my hands clasped tight. Not-Brandon with his opinions that nobody asked for, especially about my boyfriend. I haven't forgotten, and I won't.
Reflecting on the last few weeks feels like touching a live wire—exciting, risky, and a little bit dreadful. From finals to my new job and moving in with three men, I'm tired.
"Pencils down!"
Thank fuck.
My hands work on autopilot, shoving notebooks and pens into my bag.
"Camila, why won't you just go out with me once? I'm a decent guy."
"My heart's not a democracy. You don't to vote. Leave me alone."
Then, through the mess of bodies shoving out of the lecture hall, I see him.
Noah's against the open class doorframe. Black jeans and a simple white tee. His hair is messy, longer than I've ever seen it, and his scar seems more pronounced, especially since he's holding a leather jacket over his shoulder. His smirk—that's the knockout punch.
I gesture for him to come to me. He kicks off the doorframe, eyeing the prof, then stalks in.
Not-Brandon stands up, clearing his throat with the kind of tension that almost makes me want to laugh.
Noah Bello draws nearly all the eyes of the class, some of which are intimidated, the others lustful. They can't have him. He's mine.
As he stops in front of me, I take the jacket from his hand, turning to Not-Brandon to drive the point home. Slipping the leather on feels like armouring myself in Noah's warmth. Then, slinging my gym bag over my shoulders, I face Noah, who's watching me with a lifted brow.
"Catch me," I say, leaping into his arms.
My arms and legs wrap around him, and I feel his laughter vibrate through me as he steps back, his hands secure on my thighs.
"What's happening?" he chuckles into my neck.
"Walk out," I murmur into his ear.
"Happily," he says, and presses a kiss to my neck that sends a thrill down my spine.
