Page 20 of Most Likely to Match
“Excuse me, what? That is the most horrific word I’ve ever heard.What?”
For the first time since we saw each other at Moonbar, Dean’smouth curves into what I might actually call an authentic smile. “You don’t like clamgram?”
I cover my ears. “Please stop saying that. I’ll literally do anything to get you to stop.”
He laughs. I’m annoyed, but fine. If my visceral reaction to that horrible term is what he needs right now, he can have it.
“Anything, huh?” He grins again, his hair falling into his eyes.
I pause. “I mean, no. Notanything. I’m not going to take a picture of myprivatesin public, if that’s what you’re implying. I could get arrested.”
He lifts a skeptical eyebrow, because, ugh, in the aftermath of what my friends did to him, he was threatened with a legal investigation for “distribution of child sexual assault material” by our vice principal, even though he wasn’t legally a child and was clearly the victim in the situation.
“Choose something else, Dean.” I cross my arms over my chest, hoping a power pose will end this discussion. I can’t believe I’m entertaining anything remotely like this in the first place. He looks me up and down.
Actually, no; it’s not a look. It’s not a casual perusal or even an assessing eye. He catalogs me, his gaze growing warmer, hotter, with every blink. Suddenly, I canfeelmy pulse at my throat. I’m sure that’s what he sees when his eyes linger there. The summer dress I’m wearing is purposefully modest, but the fabric buttons along the front of it are an insubstantial barrier to him, those brown eyes, and long lashes.
I take a step back, and part of me almost wishes I could convincingly say it’s because I want to put space between us. But that’s a lie. I take this step, then another, because Iwanthim to follow me. I want us to move deeper into the camouflage of these stacks and their surrounding quiet.
And he does. Slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid one wrong step might land him in a trap, Dean follows me.
“What…” I clear my throat. “What are you choosing instead?”
He reaches for me. His palm spanning the curve of my waist. Hemoves closer still. Until his chest brushes mine. Until, with enough mutual friction, these buttons could be nothing but a pile on the floor.
For a moment, embarrassingly, I think—I hope— he might kiss me. He looks at my lips, licks his own. He leans in, but he drags his cheek across mine instead, his stubble the gentlest abrasion, sending shivers over my skin and down my spine, into my darkest corners. I moan, loudly, embarrassingly so; mortified that his gentlest touch still has the power to melt me in his hands, rather than ashamed of the risk that we could get caught.
Well, mostly.
He stops, his lips, always so pouty and plump, brushing the lobe of my ear. For a terrible moment, I imagine what it would be like if he tugged at my diamond earring with his teeth, to hear the clink of metal in his mouth. I could almost come. Just like this.
Until he says, “Give me your panties.”
I freeze. Replay the words once, twice, hoping my brain of ones and zeros will somehow compute what obviously must be a completely new binary language.
I try to pull back, to see his face, look him in the eye, but I can’t. He squeezes my waist, a gentle encouragement.
“You…you want my panties?” I can’t even remember why anymore. What are we doing here? What is this for?
“You said you wished there was something you could do to make up for what happened. For what yourfriendsdid.” He says friends like he’s not sure that’s totally true. “And you won’t take a cl—”
I hiss, pressing my cheek to his.
His teasing laugh rumbles against me. “That’s what you can do,” he says simply. “You can give me,” he says, each word invisibly punctuated, “your panties.”
This time I cannot hide my shiver. There are a million reasons I cannot give him my panties.
Like, I can’t take the TTC home without panties on.
And what if there’s a strong breeze that lifts my skirt?
Also, I can’tgiveamanmy panties. Period. Exclamation point.
Except I slip my hand underneath my dress. I hook the soft cotton pointelle fabric with my index finger and shimmy it down my legs.
Dean is a human privacy screen, though there’s been no foot traffic so far, and as I pull the elastic fabric over my shoes, I grab his forearm for balance, tan skin over taut muscle. He sucks in a breath as I hand him my panties rolled into a ball, and by the look on his face, maybe he wasn’t expecting me to go through with it.
“There,” I say, beaming with pride, my smile too shit-eating for my own good. “Even?”
