Page 6 of Always You

She cocks an eyebrow at me in a defiant way, clearly not affected by my question.

“Are you planning on taking advantage of me, tattoo boy?” She glances at the tattoos on my lower arm, and I kinda like the fact that she’s checking me out, just like I did with her.

“Please. I can fuck any girl I like just by snapping my fingers.” I snap my fingers to prove a point, knowing I’m talking like a douche, but unable to keep my mouth shut. I expect her to shut me down and end this conversation before it fully starts, because my ego blurts out unnecessary bullshit, but she gives me a dim look.

“Not every girl.” She shrugs, unimpressed, before dipping her head to keep reading.

Nope, not every girl.

She doesn’t realize she piques my interest even more by appearing unaffected by my presence. I’m used to girls flirting with me. And while lately most girls bore the hell out of me with their lame attempts, I catch myself wishing she will give it a shot.

“Is that a challenge?”

She lifts her head again, looking me straight in the eye with her captivating gaze.

“Does it seem like I’m interested in you?”

“No.”But I wish it was.

“Then it’s not a challenge. And I’m not that little, by the way.”

“But you are pretty,” I retort as I drop my ass on the ground next to her. The cold grass soothes my heated palms as I run my fingers through it, my eyes trained on her with a side glance.

“You flirting with me now?” She closes her book, holding it in a tight grip.

Her eyes pierce through my soul while I stare into the rolling water.Fuck.I quickly glance toward her and smile, then turn my head back in front of me.

“I wouldn’t dare.”

My eyes keep peering into the creek as a flutter enters my stomach, sensing that she is still looking at me. I simultaneously enjoy how it puts me on edge—how her gaze brings my senses alive with a single look.

“You wanna tell me why you’re throwing around rocks like you’re about to turn green any second?”

When I look at her this time, my gaze stops at her plump pink lips, wondering what they would feel like against mine. Would they be soft and warm, like a comforting summer night? Or scorching and sizzling, like a drop of water on a hot plate?

She slightly purses them while she raises her eyebrows, waiting for my answer. I avert my eyes and focus on the meadow against my fingertips as I take a deep breath to clear my head.

“I had a fight with my mom,” I say, drawing letters on the ground with my index finger to keep my hands busy.

“Must’ve been a pretty heavy one.”

“I’ve had worse.” I shrug, trying to brush it away.

“She the one who did this?” Before I know it, her soft hands are grazing the scratched skin on the side of my neck. A shiver unwillingly runs through my body at the brief physical touch, and my lower abdomen stirs alive, wanting more.

“Yeah, she grabbed my throat,” I answer, hoping to distract the growing bulge in my shorts. “She was drunk.”

“She do that a lot?”

I turn my head toward her, narrowing my eyes on her vibrant face.

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“I pry.” She casually shrugs, but I detect her cheeks forming a subtle, yet different kind of hue as her features turn bashful. “I’m shameless about it. Sorry. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. I won’t be offended. But I’ll still pry.”

Her honest answer feels like the breath of fresh air I was longing for, and it immediately puts a smile on my face.

“How come you ask about the scratches on my neck, but not my black eye?”

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