Page 82 of Never Your Girl

Once.

Then twice.

On the third time, my eyes crack open, and I pull back slightly, craning my neck to find an older woman standing stiffly next to our table. Judging by the tight set of her lips, she’s less than pleased about making the journey from the circulation desk.

“Uh...” My hands fly to Bridger’s chest, pushing him back.

He growls—actually growls—at the interruption. “What’s wrong?”

I jerk my chin toward our audience. “We have company.”

His head swings around, and his expression shifts to something boyishly sheepish that shouldn’t be as charming as it is. “Oh. Hey, Mrs. Greeny.”

“Bridger.” Her voice could freeze hell itself as her eyes dart between us. “The library is no place for shenanigans.”

He wipes at his mouth with his thumb, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “You’re absolutely right,” he says smoothly, turning on that charm that probably got him out of trouble his whole life. “It won’t happen again.”

I bite my lip to stifle a laugh, though whether from his obvious lie or the whole ridiculous situation, I’m not sure.

Her frown deepens. “See that it doesn’t.” With a spin, she marches back to her desk.

I clear my throat, running fingers through my thoroughly mussed hair. “Well, that was mortifying. Maybe we should get back to?—”

“Not a chance,” Bridger interrupts, his eyes dark with intent. “I’m nowhere near done with you yet. Pack your bag.”

My brows shoot up. “Excuse me? Are you always this demanding?”

His lips curve into that dangerous smirk that makes my stomach flip. “Oh, Tate. You have no idea how demanding I can be.”

The promise in his voice shorts out my brain. I blink, for once without a sharp comeback.

He takes advantage of my silence, efficiently packing our laptops into our bags and slinging both over his shoulder. His fingers wrap around my wrist as he tugs me toward the staircase. He doesn’t spare Mrs. Greeny another glance as we pass.

The cool evening air hits my flushed skin as we burst through the library doors. Campus is unusually quiet, the normal buzz of students replaced by an almost eerie stillness. Instead of heading for the parking lot like I expect, Bridger leads me around the corner of the building.

My pulse thunders beneath his fingers, excitement and something darker rushing through my veins.

This is a terrible idea.

But I’m starting to think those are my favorite kind.

The moment we’re hidden from view, Bridger spins me against the brick wall. Our bags hit the ground with a thud as his hands bracket my face. He pauses, his breath mingling with mine.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” His voice comes out rough. “I can’t think straight when you’re around.”

“That’s not my problem,” I say, but the words lack their usual bite. It’s difficult to maintain my prickly demeanor when he’s looking at me like this.

“No?” His thumb traces my bottom lip. “Because from where I’m standing, you seem just as affected.”

I should deny it.

I should push him away and remind him this is all pretend.

Instead, I fist my hands in his shirt and pull him closer. “How about you just shut up and kiss me?”

His laugh rumbles against my lips before he claims them. This kiss is different from the one in the library. It’s deeper, hungrier, like he’s trying to devour me whole. His body presses mine into the wall, one hand sliding into my hair while the other grips my hip.

I arch into him, drawing a groan from deep in his chest. Every point of contact between us burns, and I can’t get enough. His lips trail down my neck, finding that spot just below my ear that makes me gasp.

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