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I raise my brow, and he tips his chin up like he wants me to challenge his claim.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“What are you going to do? Walk me into the bathroom and watch me piss so you can run it off to the administration and be rid of me?”
His eyes are a glistening pit of darkness I could lose my sanity in. My control is so miniscule that I can’t even fathom that it’s a bad idea to curl my fingers in his hair and force his head back until those dark eyes are watching me wide and wary.
“You have the brattiest little mouth.”
He licks his lips, a slow swipe of his irresistible pink tongue with a grin forming in its wake.
“What are you going to do about it? Shut me up?”
Turns out I don’t have to do anything other than lean down, hovering my mouth inches above his. He parts his lips, likely at a loss for words, and I take the opportunity to close the gap and plunge my tongue into the warm, wet cavern of his mouth.
It’s half a second at best, and then I loosen my grip and he untangles himself like a fox from a hunter’s net. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand and spits at my feet.
“What in the unholy hell, Morales?”
Anger and fear radiate off him in waves, but it’s the curiosity hidden in his gaze that catches me off guard.
I roll my tongue behind my teeth and shrug. “I believe you.”
“What?”
I take my bag of workout clothes and set them in the corner where Shiloh’s used to be and prop my back against the wall.
“You don’t taste like weed.”
He frowns. Furrows his brow. And then he rolls his eyes so hard you’d think he was a teenager being reprimanded for staying out past curfew.
“Jackass.”
“Brat.”
I’m not mistaking the fresh flush on his cheeks, but I’ve still got prep to do so there’s no time to keep teasing him, especially with my earlier suspicion cleared.
“We have some ground rules to go over. Once you get your stuff set up in the dorm.”
The look of disgust on his face doesn’t phase me, but how easily he dips his head and purses his lips makes me pause.
“Yeah, whatever.”
I dare say that I like it when he fights me, but I won’t turn away a rare hint of obedience when it’s handed to me.
“Good boy.”
That makes him scurry away in a flurry of curses.
It shouldn’t be as fun as it is to push him. Because he pushes me back.
I can handle him, though, and that’s part of the problem.
I want to handle him.
I want to do unimaginable things to him.
It’s another tally to add to my transgressions against the youngest Novak brother.
