Crushed (12 page)

He grunts, shoving me off the bed as he rises. I start to move away, figuring he’s lost all patience, but instead he grabs my hand and turns me to face him.

His eyes narrow as he looks me over, and for the first time I notice how thick his eyelashes are. Not long . . . because that would just be too unfair. But thick and dark and masculine.

“Knock if off,” he mutters, still studying me.

“Knock what off?”

“Checking me out.”

I use his momentarily distraction to squeeze his biceps, and he lets me. I think he even smiles.

Then, without warning, he sort of jerks my shoulders forward, tipping my head downward so my hair’s all flipped over toward the ground.

Just as quickly he pushes me back up again, flipping my hair so it poofs around my shoulders all crazy-like.

“Did you just manhandle me into a head-banging type of thing? What
is
it with you and fussing with my hair—”

I shriek in protest, because he plunges his hand roughly into my hair, his fingertips sort of rubbing against my scalp as if he’s inexplicably trying to make my hair
bigger
.

I open my mouth to howl, but his fingers start to slow and for one weird moment, his hands are cupping my head, and even though I know the touch isn’t the least bit sexual or romantic, his eyes accidentally clash with mine, and I feel . . . strange.

Tingly.

So sue me. For the first time in my life, I’m standing in my bedroom with a gorgeous guy holding my head, and it feels . . . nice.

No, not nice.

It feels hot.

Michael frowns.

He slowly removes his hands from my hair, his dark eyes unreadable as he looks at his handiwork.

“There,” he says gruffly.

“There?”

He gives another of those infuriating shrugs. I’m really starting to hate those shrugs.

“You shouldn’t try to flatten it down all the time,” he clarifies. “It’s more sexy like this.”

My mouth goes dry.
Sexy
. Someone thinks I’m sexy.

This
guy thinks I’m sexy.

No, not
me
. My hair.

Get a grip, Chloe.

“Aren’t you the one forever trying to shove it into a pony?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “At the gym, yes. This is a party. They’re different.”

“How?”

“Chloe!”

Michael’s eyes are fiery now, and I have to resist the urge to take a step back at his outburst. I’m so used to him being sort of pent up and controlled, but clearly there’s this whole other side of Beefcake.

And despite the fact that he’s not my type—at all—I’m intrigued.

But he looks about ready to storm out of my room—maybe out of the
house—
so I rush to placate him. “Okay, okay, so I should make my hair go all wild and crazy. What else?”

“You need to flirt with this Scott guy.”

I grimace. “Oh, come on. The old
make-the-guy-jealous
routine? That barely even works in the movies.”

“It’ll work. Trust me.”

“Speaking from experience?” I ask.

His head jerks up. “Why do you ask that?”

Whoa
. I hold my hands in a mollifying gesture. “Easy, tiger. Wasn’t trying to stick an emotional match under your fingernails.”

But now I’m dying to know. Who was Michael jealous of? Who’s the girl?

Kristin?

The thought sours my stomach, but I’m almost certain that’s not it. Lately he only looks at Kristin when he feels like he’s
supposed
to be looking at Kristin. She doesn’t consume him.

But the look on his face right now says that he was consumed by someone, sometime.

I feel something fierce and bitter in the back of my throat, and it takes me a second to recognize it: jealousy.

Or at least a relative of jealousy.

Maybe Beefcake’s onto something with this plan. I mean, it’s manipulative, but I’ll be honest: I’m so freaking tired of being the
nobody
in my own life.

“Tell me,” I say with a sigh. “Tell me how I get Devon to see me.”

“Devon already sees you,” Michael says. “He’s just not aware that he sees you.”

I snort. “As a sister, maybe.”

“Maybe. But he didn’t like that you showed up with me yesterday. And he didn’t like when you were cracking up at Scott Whatever’s lame jokes last night.”

I swallow away the hope. “That’s crap.”

He shrugs. “Maybe. Only one way to find out.”

“You want me to flirt with Scott? Lead him on, even though I’ve got no interest in him like that?”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s not like you’re trying to give him a fake engagement ring. Just do it in a way that makes the guy feel good but doesn’t let him think that you’re preparing your womb for Scotty Junior.”

“Gross.”

“So, you good?” he asks, looking impatiently toward the door.

“No! That’s the extent of your advice? Flirt with Scott, and Devon will magically dump Kristin and profess his undying love? Your shitty advice is so not worth the bikini that’s riding up my ass right now.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Can I see?”

I punch his shoulder.

Beefcake sighs. “Look. Just have a little too much to drink. Get a little handsy with Scott, while making it very clear that Devon is in the friend zone.”

“Like he’s always done with me whenever he’s with Kristin,” I say, starting to understand.

“Exactly,” Michael says. “Don’t be so damn available. Also, fireworks make for an excellent make-out session.”

“With Devon?”

“Slow down there, home wrecker. I mean Scott.”

“
Eew
. I’m not kissing Scott.”

“Why? He’ll like it.”

I bite my lip. I’m not so sure about that. “He might not. Like it, I mean.”

He closes his eyes. “God, you’re tiring. Is this conversation on a fucking repeat loop? The guy was practically hanging off your every word, which is
impressive,
considering you spew forth a lot of words.”

“Well, that’s sort of the problem,” I say, glancing down at my feet. “I’m really good at talking. Not so good at the other thing.”

“What other thing?” He looks half-confused, half-annoyed.

“
Kissing
. Jesus, keep up, Beefcake.”

He frowns. “You’ve never kissed a guy before?”

“Of course I have,” I snap. “I’ve kissed plenty of guys.”

Well, not plenty. But enough.

“So, what’s the problem?” he asks.

“I just . . . it’s never like it is in the movies.”

Michael makes a strangled noise and turns toward my nightstand, opening the drawer.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Looking for a gun,” he mutters, before shutting it again. “Are you fucking kidding me? You’re one of those girls waiting for the movie kiss?”

I scrunch my nose at his disbelieving face. “They do exist.”

“
Sure,
they do.”

I shove a finger at his chest. “They
do
. I just haven’t really figured it out. Yet.”

“Well, see, there’s your problem. You think there’s something to figure out. It’s just kissing. It’s hands and tongue and touching.”

He says this like it’s no big thing, and I’m both annoyed and saddened by his cynicism.

I mean, I get that he’s a twenty-something dude. Obviously, he’s going to be thinking
fucking
while we chicks are thinking
making love.

But he’s got this look on his face like he doesn’t deserve anything more than a casual lay, and it bothers me.

Michael St. Claire is not your project, Chloe.

“Fine,” I say on a huff of breath. Not because I’m done with the conversation, but because my stomach is rumbling, and pancakes with blueberries, strawberries, and whipped cream is sort of a Fourth of July tradition.

Unless you’re Kristin, and then your breakfast tradition is black coffee and some sort of celebrity-sponsored juice cleanse that she read about in
Us Weekly
.

“Fine what?” he asks.

“I mean
fine,
I’ll stick my tongue in Scott’s mouth and play with his hair while I let him pet my boob.”

I start to walk away, but Michael’s laugh stops me. Both because it’s a rare noise, and because I’m not sure what the funny part was.

“Chloe, I don’t know how you do it, but you just managed to take the
sexy
out of the idea of making out.”

I blink in surprise at his words, then look away quickly before he can read my expression of hurt.

See,
this
is why I don’t even bother. Not with the kissing, not with the chasing of Devon.

People act like I
try
to be unsexy. Can’t they see that this is just the way my brain works? I don’t get the whole male-female thing.

I mean, I want it. My body longs to be touched just like any other twenty-one-year-old girl’s. I want someone to hold my hand, and make me pant, and even though I’m not technically a virgin, I might as well be, because those two times with Keith Moderatz? Awkward. Slightly painful. Super-boring.

“I’m going to go get some breakfast,” I mutter.

Michael snags my hand before I can make it to the bedroom door and pulls me back, first so that I’m facing him again, then even closer so there’s just a few inches between us.

His face is softer now, and my heart starts to pound. I’m pretty sure his expression is just pity for clunky, unsexy Chloe, but some distant part of my brain wants it to be something more than pity.

“Practice on me,” he says, his voice easy and casual.

It takes too long for his words to register because my eyes have latched on to his mouth. It’s as sulky as ever, but for some reason the sulky now looks appealing rather than just annoying. Like, I want to be the one to banish the sulky.

“Huh?” I say.

“Your kissing skills. Practice them on me.”

Shock lurches through me, and I start to take a step back. “Are you freaking kidding me right now? The old fake-kiss thing? And you’re giving
me
crap for watching romantic comedies?”

He reaches out to grab my elbows before I can escape, rolling his eyes as he does so. To his credit, he doesn’t look like a guy who’s trying to score a free kiss.

And why would he? He could get any girl to make out with him without tricking her into it.

His expression is strangely guileless. Like he actually wants to help me.

I start to shake my head, but I don’t think my body actually moves.

Because even though it’s stupid, even though I’m pretty sure anyone in the hallway outside would actually be able to smell the pity seeping under the door, there’s a part of me that just doesn’t care.

I want to take what he’s offering, not because I actually want to kiss this gorgeous, conceited guy with secrets that make him irritable, but because I wasn’t lying when I said I don’t get kissing.

And instinct tells me that Michael St. Claire definitely does.

“Okay,” I say on a sigh.

The right side of his mouth lifts at my gloomy expression. “It won’t be that bad.”

“Objection,” I say. “Considering you don’t think that movie kisses exist, I’m highly skeptical of your skill—”

Michael’s lips stamp out the rest of my sentence.

And the heat of his mouth stamps out any possible reservations I might have about his kissing skills.

The second his mouth finds mine, it’s warm and firm and perfect, and I forget all about movie kisses, and Scott, and Kristin. . . .

I even forget about Devon.

A good kiss will do that to a girl, and this kiss is
beyond
good.

Michael’s hands are still on my elbows, preventing me from moving away, but not pulling me all the way close, either. He doesn’t have to pull. The sheer skill of his mouth is making me
want
to move closer.

When I open my mouth to sigh just the tiniest bit, he tilts his head to the right, his tongue sliding forward, lightly swiping the inside of my lower lip.

I moan.

And then I’m no longer standing there, perfectly still like a terrified statue. I’m
on
him, my arms winding around his neck, my nails finding his scalp as I return the kiss with every unskilled, unpracticed bit of pent-up passion in my body.

Michael stiffens just slightly, as though stunned by my response, but instead of pulling me back and telling me to get ahold of myself, he slides his hands up my arms over my shoulders so his hands are on either side of my neck, his thumbs hooked under my chin as he holds my face up to his, taking the kiss even deeper.

It’s not a practice kiss. Or at least it doesn’t
feel
like a practice kiss, not with the way his fingers tangle in my hair, not with the way our mouths meld together over and over.

And there’s nothing shy or coy about the way our tongues meet.

I finally
get
it. I get what people yammer about when they talk about passion.

It figures that when I finally find it, it’s not even
real
.

It’s that not-real thing that has me pulling back.

Because I know if Michael wanted to take this further, I’d let him. In a heartbeat.

And
that
scares me.

Both of us are breathing too hard when our mouths part, and for a second his eyes are so dark and intense that I don’t recognize him. The shadows are in place before I can read whatever emotion crossed his face, but I don’t think it even matters. My hormone-addled brain can barely sort through what I’m feeling, much less what he’s feeling.

Unable to help myself, I raise my fingers to my swollen lips, and the gesture has him swearing softly before moving toward the door.

“Wait!”

He pauses, but doesn’t turn around.

Was it good for you?

What was that?

Do it again.

“That’s how I should kiss Scott?” I say.

His shoulders tense just for a second before his hand reaches for the doorknob. “Yeah. Just like that.”

And then he’s gone.

Chapter 13

Michael

The kissing lesson was a mistake.

For starters, because it was way fucking hotter than it was supposed to be.

We’re talking about
Chloe,
who’s all but worn a
treat me like your sister!
banner since the second she laid eyes on me.