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I literally can’t tear my eyes away from her.
She’s too damn beautiful.
I’m absurdly captivated as she dips her paintbrush and touches it to her canvas, concentrating on her work between loaded glares.
This gives me a chance to watch her.
Her golden skin has a dewy freshness to it that makes my chest ache.
The fitted pink sweater hugs her body, showing off the feminine curves that are quite literally blowing my mind.
I’m in love with the shape of her. And the colors. The green of her eyes and the pink of her lips. The whiteness of her teeth. As she concentrates, she loses some of that feisty anger. She forgets about how I shouldn’t be here and instead hones in on painting me. She can’t help herself. She’s like me, when I’m playing football. She’s in her zone and I love this.
Every now and then she remembers and our eyes meet. The light flush returns to her face.
An entire conversation passes between us.
Don’t stare at me, Elias.
I have to.
You can’t.
I know. But I am. I’m so damn hooked.
You’ll get us both into trouble.
I’m already in trouble. I don’t care about trouble.
You should. You absolutely should.
Trouble has a different meaning to me now, angel. I can handle trouble as long as you’re a part of it.
Her lips are a shade of pink that reminds me of cotton candy at a fair on a Fourth of July weekend that stays with you for life. A perfect day. They’re full and naturally plump. Bee-stung. Lightly puffy and ludicrously appealing. I want to lick them so badly it hurts.
So I concentrate on that pain. I let it dig into me, like a thirst I can’t quench until I taste her.
How long can I hold out?
How far will I go to have her?
All the fucking way.
How much will I have to lose to make her mine?
10
Staring at Elias O’Shea for forty-five minutes straight is forty-five minutes too many. The guy is like some kind of drug, capable of melting hearts and panties merely by emitting his super-powered pheromones—or whatever they’re called. All I know is that there’s no way in hell a mortal girl like me could resist such a thing as whatever it was that just stormed into my art class.
And it still doesn’t answer the question as to what he’s doing here in the first place.
The class ends and Gwen goes over to talk to Elias. I take my opportunity, packing my bag and making a run for it.
My next class doesn’t start until noon so I head for the stairs, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible as people are milling around, packing up their stuff, having hushed conversations about—of course—Elias O’Shea.
The name is one I’ve heard too often over the past few days.
I don’t want to see him, talk to him or be anywhere near him. He’s pure Kryptonite and it’s too much. My dad would kill me. More importantly, the entire university and possibly the entire country would hate me because I was the reason the beautiful and talented star quarterback got kicked off the team.
