Page 52 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

That irritatingly kissable mouth curls into a lopsided smile.

“Don’t lie, Dornan,” Damian chides, his face so close all I would have to do is rise up on my toes if I wanted to kiss him.

Which I don’t. Not at all. Nope. Definitely not.

He chuckles again as if he can read my thoughts on my face.

His breath ghosts over my lips, near enough to steal the air between us, but not quite touching mine.

It’s like he’s testing me. Teasing me. “We both know I rocked your world.”

I scoff as several different comebacks battle for prominence in my head.

Bold claim for someone who doesn’t even remember us fucking.

My world? Please, you didn’t even rattle the headboard.

I’ve had more memorable paper cuts.

Do you ever get tired of the sound of your own voice? Asking for a friend.

Wow, you’re even more impressed with yourself than I thought possible.

And yet, as he stares down at me with that coquettish glint in his eyes, all that comes out is, “You’re a pig.”

Then I’m dropping the two books in my hands to the floor and shoving him back into the bookcase, any remaining sanity leaving me completely until I am nothing but a vessel for that wild heat tearing through me.

It guides my actions, controlling my every movement as I push up onto my toes to crash my lips into his, knocking my glasses askew.

Damian lets out a soft hmph of surprise, but loops his arms around my waist, pulling me closer with an eagerness that mirrors the explosion of need overtaking my senses, his mouth opening to swallow the moan that escapes me.

If this was a test, I failed. Badly . But unfortunately for me, I don’t even have the mental capacity to wonder what the hell I’m doing.

My sole focus is on the smooth slide of his tongue against mine, on the squeeze of his fingers as they inch down to grab my ass, teasing far too close for comfort to the backs of my thighs and that fire at the center of my legs that’s quickly turning into a maddening ache.

There is nothing soft or gentle about this kiss. It’s rough and sloppy, all tongues and teeth—the culmination of this unspoken tension and the weeks of verbal sparring between us finally coming to a long-overdue head.

Is this what hate sex would feel like? If so, I’m starting to see the appeal because I want nothing more than to push him to the floor and ride him like he’s a goddamn pony, fucking him senseless right here in this aisle.

If I hadn’t already had sex with him once in this library, I might boil it down to an exhibitionist kink I wasn’t aware I had.

But it’s not the location doing it for me—it’s him.

At this moment in time, I want Damian more than I ever wanted him freshman year, as if this loathing boiling under my skin is somehow feeding the attraction between us.

And there is attraction. It’s insane, and it’s clearly affecting my cognitive ability to make logical decisions, but it’s there.

If the bulge grazing my thigh is any indication, I think it’s safe to assume that Damian is having the same indecent thoughts as me, equally aware of this…

chemistry, or madness, or whatever you want to call this thing we have.

He nips at my bottom lip, and I push against him, retaking control, knotting my fingers in his hair as I once again plunge my tongue into his mouth.

I could allow this to escalate. I could move my hand a few inches to the left, grab hold of his length, and let nature take its intended course. Maybe we just need to get it out of our systems. One final fuck, and be done with it.

But it wouldn’t be enough, I know that. If it was, I wouldn’t be standing here, wet and writhing beneath his touch when I’ve already had a taste. Twice, as he was so inclined to remind me.

That’s when it hits me. Not his body, though that’s certainly there, hard and unyielding under my wandering fingers, but the cold, unforgiving clarity of what I’m about to do.

Of what we’re doing now.

Oh, my god. I’m making out with Damian Navarro.

No, I’m not just making out with him, I’m freaking rutting against him in the middle of a public library like an unneutered dog with absolutely zero sense of shame or control.

The same Damian whose face I’ve spent countless hours fantasizing about punching, not kissing .

And here I was, about to drop my panties and let him fuck me again.

Some genius I am.

Mortification surges through me like a bucket’s worth of ice water, dousing that fire inside me in an instant. I break the kiss, tearing my mouth away from his, and shove at his chest with so much force I stumble back a step.

For a moment, we just stare at each other, eyes locked, chests heaving. Damian’s lips are pink and swollen from the attention I gave them in my brief relapse into madness, his hair so deliciously disheveled I have to avert my gaze or risk tumbling back over that edge.

My eyes only swing up again when he laughs.

“I’m…going to take that to mean I was right,” he says with a devilish grin, swiping a finger along his bottom lip.

A new heat rushes through me now, hotter and faster than the last, an inferno of rage and humiliation rolled up into one. Is this all just some game to him? Did he goad me, pushing my buttons on purpose, because he knew I’d kiss him?

If he did, then I really, sincerely hate him.

“This never happened,” I growl. Glancing around to make sure the stacks are still empty, I straighten my clothes, adjust my glasses, and clear my throat, locking eyes with him one final time to reiterate my warning. “You hear me? Never .”

Damian says nothing, and I decide not to wait for whatever witty retort he’s bound to cook up, instead storming off with the fury and indignation of a woman scorned.

Part of me expects him to follow me, while another part is grateful he doesn’t.

The third part—the part I’m actively trying to ignore—is haunted by what just happened between us and by the lingering image of his face in my mind.

Of the fleeting expression that crossed it as I spit out those final parting words.

An expression…that looked a hell of a lot like disappointment.