Page 48 of If You Dare

I’ve been following her again. Without my mask, without any intent to confront her or torment her. Without her knowing I’m behind her, watching. The same way I did when she first got to campus her freshman year. Consumed by a foreign need to know everything about her. To know where she is and what she’s doing at all times. A pulsing urge to reach out and touch her.

Take what’s mine.

* * *

Violet

I arriveat my philosophy class early, hoping the professor will provide a distraction from my thoughts of Wes with the works of Aristotle.

Two minutes before the start of class and most of the seats in the lecture hall are filled. I can’t wait until next year when I’m taking classes that are actually relevant to my major and the class size drops from fifty students to twenty.

Someone takes one of the two empty seats beside me. When a large hand lands on my knee, I freeze.

In the chair next to me, Wes is leaning back casually.

My mouth goes dry at the sight of him. Dwarfing the tiny chair, button-up shirt straining over his muscles, and dark slacks that disappear into combat boots. Combined with the piercing blue eyes and the cool, stoic expression, he’s the most devastating man in the room.

But he’s not supposed to be here.

“What are you doing here? You’re not in this class.”

He shrugs. “I’m in whatever class I choose to be.”

At the front of the room, the professor still hasn’t noticed his non-student in the back row. Once he does, he’ll instruct Wes to leave the class, and my racing heart can slow.

But then the professor starts writing on the whiteboard and begins his lecture, keeping his back to us.

Heat crawls up from my toes to the tip of my scalp.

Unless I want to make a break for it and cause a scene, I’m stuck here with Wes. With his hand on my leg.

His thumb begins to rub circles on the side of my knee, and I try to remain motionless. If I don’t give him a reaction, he’ll get bored and leave. All I have to do is pretend his touch isn’t setting me on fire.

Wes Novak is my tormentor. A bully. He’s seeking revenge and I am his target. I shouldn’t enjoy his touch. Shouldn’t crave more of it. Not when his touch, his attention, has already caused me so much pain. I can’t trust him. Can’t let my guard down.

But every cell in my body is fighting against my mind. Warring against the memories of how his lips felt on mine, how much I wanted him last night in the woods.

His hand drifts further up my thigh, so slowly and imperceptibly I almost wonder if I’m imagining it. His fingertips dig into my flesh, but not to hurt me. To massage away the tension in every fiber. Under his expert touch, my muscles loosen, my thighs falling apart, just a little.

When his hand drifts higher, dangerously close to the hem of my skirt, I tuck my hands in my lap, pinning my skirt down.

He releases me, and I almost think I’ve won.

Until his hand finds the nape of my neck.

He massages careful circles there, nearly eliciting a moan from my lips. Just before his fingers twist in my hair and give a sharp tug.

I hiss through my teeth and clamp my mouth shut before anyone around us hears.

At the front of the classroom, the professor drones on, the students around us taking notes or texting under the table. They’re totally oblivious to what’s going on at the back of the room.

“I’m going to take what’s mine, little flower.” Wes grabs my hand and pulls it toward him. My spine goes ramrod straight. He’s not going to do what I think he is. Not right here, in the middle of class.

He plants my hand on his leg. A silent command:Don’t hide from me. Let me touch you.Then his fingers find their way further up my thigh and under my skirt.

I can’t move. Can hardly breathe.

His fingers delicately glide up my skin. I didn’t think he could be this tender, the pressure no more than the faint kiss of a butterfly’s wings. Goosebumps race down my limbs.

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