Page 24 of Beyond the Lines (Pine Barren University #1)

fourteen

DECLAN

The lock clicks with a sound that seems impossibly loud in the tiny bathroom, and before I can really think through what I’m doing—locking a woman in an enclosed space and blocking her escape—we’re standing so close I can feel the heat radiating off Lea’s body.

“What the hell, Declan?” she demands, voice pitched low but vibrating with fury. “This is so fucking inappropriate ! You could get expelled for this! Get out!”

I can see the rapid rise and fall of her chest as she desperately tries to control her emotions. The space is barely big enough for one person, let alone two, and she’s right there in front of me, her eyes glassy, with tears threatening to spill over.

My chest constricts at the sight.

I put that look on her face.

“I didn’t hate your drawing,” I blurt out, totally moving past her words, though backing up an inch to hopefully show her I’m no threat.

She tries to laugh, but it comes out as a choked sound halfway between a scoff and a sob as she backs away from me. “Right. Sure.”

“I didn’t.”

“Why are you lying?” A tear finally breaks free, tracking down her cheek. “You had the same look on your face as you did that night in class, when you wrote…” Her voice cracks, and she swallows hard. “Do you know that I haven’t been able to sketch anything decent since that class?”

I badly want to reach out for her, but she clearly wants a little distance, and the fact she hasn’t screamed for help or kicked me in the balls is enough for now. And honestly, I don’t even know what I’m doing here, chasing after someone who clearly wants space…

Mike’s fucking sister, you idiot, my mind chimes in, helpfully. The chick who’s been furious at you for weeks…

I sigh, banishing the thought, and shift focus back to her. “Lea, you really need to let me explain?—”

“No, Declan, I don’t need to do anything.

” She’s not even trying to hide the tears now.

“Every time I put pencil to paper, I hear your voice in my head, telling me I’m playing it safe.

But you know what fucking crushes me is that you’re right!

And the one night I took a risk, you lied to me, and gutted me… ”

The puzzle piece falls into place, as loud as a cannon shot.

The lying wasn’t just about the fact that I was a hockey player.

It was about the fact she’d taken a chance with a boy, so soon after she’d had her heart broken, and then had dirt kicked in her face.

And then, just as she’d started to get over it, the guy doing the kicking—me—had criticized her publicly for not taking risks.

Fuck .

My stomach drops through the floor. After finally connecting the dots, the idea that I’ve damaged her confidence or that I’ve made her doubt her talent, it’s unbearable. But, somehow, I don’t feel like rehashing my excuses with her is the right approach. It’s time for offense, not defense.

“Your drawing was great, Lea,” I say.

“Stop lying,” she snaps. “You’ve got a bad poker face. I saw your reaction.”

I don’t know whether it’s desperation or stupidity or the way she looks with tears in her eyes and her chin tilted up defiantly, but I lean in and press my mouth to hers.

She’s slow to react, and for a split second, I’m convinced she’s going to knee me in the balls.

And, in preparation for that, her hands come up to my shoulders.

I brace for contact and crippling pain.

But then she’s grabbing fistfuls of my shirt, pulling me closer, and nothing about this makes any sense, but I don’t care because her lips are soft and warm. She opens her mouth against mine, making a desperate, angry sound that shoots straight to my groin.

This kiss is nothing like our first. This isn’t tender or exploring or sweet. This is pure emotion and want, like a panicked drowning person latching onto someone trying to rescue them, trying to pull them under as well.

Her teeth catch my lower lip, biting down hard enough to make me groan. I press her back against the sink, my hands sliding down to her hips, gripping tight enough to leave marks. She deserves better than this cramped bathroom, better than me, but I can’t make myself pull away.

“I hate you,” she whispers, but her body tells a different story as she arches into me. Her hands are moving frantically over my chest, my shoulders, and up into my hair where her fingers tangle and pull, sending shivers down my spine. “You make me feel so fucking small . ”

I grab her ass and lift her onto the edge of the sink, and she wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me in tight against her center. My cock strains against my jeans, and when I roll my hips into hers, the friction is electric even through layers of denim.

“No you don’t,” I say, as I trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down her neck. “You’re just scared, and still in pain…”

She gasps, either from my words or my mouth, and in response I suck hard.

I want to leave a mark, want everyone to know she’s been claimed, even though I have no right to claim her.

And when I pull away, a smile creases the edge of my mouth, because there’s a fiery red reminder for her when she looks in the mirror.

“Asshole…” She laughs, still sobbing, both bitter and sweet at once.

Then grabs my shirt and yanks me back to her mouth once again. But this time when she kisses me, it’s slower and deeper, her tongue exploring with deliberate movements that make my knees weak.

My hands find their way under her sweater, palms flat against the warm skin of her back. She’s so soft, so perfect, and when I bring my hands around to the front of her and oh-so-gently brush the undersides of her breasts, she makes a sound that’s half-whimper, half-curse.

I break the kiss to look at her, needing to see her face. There’s still the residue of before—makeup streaked, the wet trail her tears left—but now, her pupils are blown wide, lips swollen and pink, and cheeks flushed with desire or anger or both. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.

“What are you thinking?” she demands, breathless.

“That I want to draw you like this,” I admit. “Flushed and furious. It’s gorgeous. ”

One of my hands moves higher, up inside her top, cupping her breast through her thin, lace bra. She’s small but perfect, fitting exactly in my palm. When I brush my thumb across her nipple, she moans into my mouth, the sound reverberating through me.

I want to feel her. I want to lose myself in her body until neither of us can remember why we’re supposed to hate each other. My hand slides down to the button of her jeans, hesitating there as I pull back just enough to look into her eyes, silently asking permission.

Her answer is to reach between us, palm pressing firmly against my bulge.

“Jesus,” I hiss, dropping my forehead to her shoulder.

I unbutton her jeans, savoring the anticipation. She lifts her butt off the sink for just a moment, while I slide her jeans down, and then it’s all systems go. My fingers dip just below the waistband of her underwear, feeling the soft skin there, and the slight tremor that runs through her.

“Touch me,” she says, voice ragged. “Now.”

I comply, sliding my hand further down, fingers finding her warm and wet with want. Her hips buck against my hand as I stroke her, circling her clit with my thumb. I watch her face as pleasure overtakes her, cataloging every expression, every hitched breath, every?—

“Stop doing that,” she half-sobs and half-laughs, breathless with pleasure.

“Doing what?” I freeze my hand in place. “That?”

“No!” She protests, grabbing my hand and forcing movement. “I mean stop looking at me like you’re memorizing me for a drawing.”

I nearly laugh as I pick up the pace again, earning a moan in response. “Can you read my mind? ”

She pulls back, eyes narrowing. “Like a book,” she says, then lunges forward to capture my mouth again.

While we kiss, my fingers continue their exploration, dipping inside her, feeling her clench around me.

My other hand? Well, it’s having a great time with one of her breasts, pinching the nipple until it’s like a small pebble.

Between the two, I’ve got enough feedback from her body that she wants me.

Doesn’t hate me.

Doesn’t loathe me.

Wants me.

The feeling is mutual, and as her hand on my cock tightens, even through denim, I feel myself throb in response. But she’s not caressing so much as claiming, as if to let go of me or break the moment would send her spiraling again…

Then I’m on my knees in front of her, yanking her jeans down her thighs. She lifts her hips to help, and soon she’s half-naked in this tiny bathroom, her underwear the only thing between my mouth and where I desperately want to taste her.

I look up at her, struck again by how perfect she is—curls wild from my hands, cheeks flushed, and lips parted. Our eyes lock, and something shifts between us. The anger is still there, but beneath it is something raw and vulnerable that makes my chest ache.

She reaches down, brushes my hair off my forehead with a gentleness that feels out of place in this frantic encounter. “This is a bad idea,” she says softly.

“The worst,” I agree, but I don’t move away. Instead, I press a kiss to her inner thigh, feeling her shiver in response.

“We should stop,” she says, but her legs part further, inviting me closer, the mixed messages making me inch forward a little more…

“Totally.” I pause again. “But do you want to?”

In response, she just grabs my hair and pulls me up to kiss her again.

It’s urgent, fierce, and I can feel so much doubt and pain radiating off her, that I just want to be the cure for her ailment.

Her hands again find the inside of my shirt, her nails scratching down my chest, and I wonder if this is the cure.