Page 19 of Cruel When He Smiles
“Then I’m failing.”
He says it so easily, with that dismissive edge in his voice that dares me to react. Instead, I study the line of his jaw, the way his lips purse around the cigarette. The crop top rides up when he shifts, exposing more of that tattoo. The panther stretches with him, its claws digging into his ribs. I want to follow the ink with my tongue just to hear what kind of sounds he’d make if I bit down.
But this isn’t about want; not tonight. This is about restraint. About watching him throw gasoline onto a fire he doesn’t fullyunderstand and letting it burn because that’s the only way he’ll learn.
I let my gaze drag down his body, unapologetic about my hunger for him. The crop top rises when he leans, and I see the ink teasing me again. His stomach tightens on a breath when he notices where I’m looking.
Then he smirks wider. “You gonna keep staring or just get it over with?” he taunts, his voice lighter now, but the undercurrent of tension is still there. “Not every day the campus sociopath catches feelings.”
That word again—feelings. I want to tear it out of his fucking mouth.
“I’m just trying to figure out if the panther bites,” I say, tilting my head. “Or if it just scratches.”
“Try me,” he shoots back, and fuck, it’s not just attitude anymore. He’s baiting me. Testing boundaries. Standing his ground when every other person I’ve broken down ended up backing off before I got too close.
But that’s not Nate. He steps in, just a fraction, smoke curling from his lips. “You’ve been staring at me all night. Might as well own it.”
“Because you make a spectacle of yourself.”
He takes a final drag and flicks the cigarette into the grass. Then he turns and leans one hip against the railing, cocking his head to the side. “You mean I look hot, and it’s bothering you.”
Itisbothering me and messing with my rhythm. Attraction, physical or otherwise, has never factored into my control. I’ve never needed it. But the way his shirt rides up, looking like every sin I’ve ever committed?
Yeah. It’s messing withsomething.
I step closer until he’s pushed up against the railing, and I brush my knuckles along the line of ink curling under his ribs.His breath stutters. “You wore this for me,” I say softly. “Didn’t you?”
He rolls his eyes. “You wish.”
“I don’t wish, Pup. I know.”
His jaw tightens, and his pupils dilate.
“Didn’t know you had claws,” I say casually, knuckles dragging down his side again.
He leans in, lips ghosting mine. “You’ve barely seen the beginning of me,” he whispers, and that shouldn’t turn me on.
But it fucking does.
The smirk he wears now isn’t just cocky, it’s knowing. Pulled tight at the corners as if he’s holding back a grin meant for the moment he sees me snap.
I don’t. Idoreach for him again, though. My fingers ghost just under the hem of his crop top and press lightly against the center of that tattoo, against the spot where the panther’s claws dig into vines, roses, and inked skin.
He doesn’t flinch or pull away, but his mouth parts. “You want to lick it, don’t you?”
I slip my hand higher, my thumb brushing over his nipple. His back arches just barely off the railing, and my thumb pauses over the slight, hard bump under the thin fabric.
A barbell. Cold beneath the heat of his skin.
He has a nipple piercing. Of course he fucking does.
I drag slow circles around the metal, teasing it, watching how his throat works through a silent swallow. His abs tighten when I do it again, and I hum as I slide my hand up to his throat. My fingers curve across his pulse, thumb brushing the underside of his jaw, the way I know a brat like him would get hard over.
“Is this what you wanted?” I ask, my mouth inches from his. “To be stared at? To be touched?”
His throat bobs beneath my palm. “Nothing wrong with wanting a little attention.”
“Not when you wear my attention likethis,” I murmur against the shell of his ear, letting the words sink in.
