“Like breasts,” she finished for me encouragingly. “I happen to be a big fan of them myself.” She tucked her chin to look down at herself and pushed her chest out. “And I think mine happen to be pretty nice.” She smirked at me. “But you seem preoccupied with mylower half, so I was just wondering. Maybe breasts don’t do it for you. Or mine don’t, anyway.”
Heat washed over my cheeks. I swallowed hard and looked away. “They do. Everything about you does it for me.”
“Good to know.” Her hair swished as she spun back to the shelves.
I struggled to regulate my breathing. Breathe in.Don’t stare at the hair I want wrapped around my fist. Breathe out.The flare of her hips that would give me something to hold onto. In.The ass I want to smack for being such a goddamn brat. Out.Fuck, she’s beautiful.
She chattered on like she was completely unaware of her effect on me. But I wasn’t fooled. She knew exactly what she was doing.
“Usually I listen to an audiobook before I go to bed, but I can’t find my earbuds. The sound quality just isn’t the same coming straight from my phone, you know? So I thought maybe I’d try an actual printed book for a change.”
She pulled a book from the shelf, flipped it over to read the back, then opened it to the first page. She chewed her lip. It took her a while before she finally sighed and slipped it back in its place. “I’m a terrible reader, though. It’s frustrating. I love stories. Hearing them or seeing them acted out on stage. It’s only when they’re words in front of my eyeballs that I lose the plot.”She pulled out another book, read the first page, then slid it home again. “I should probably just go to bed.”
But she didn’t leave. She stayed right where she was and kept talking. “Grace thinks I’m dyslexic. I don’t know if she’s right, but I think I’ll get tested when I get back to New York. She says there’s no cure, but there are methods that can help me if I am.” She traced the spine of a thick green volume with almost wistful reverence. “I hope I am. I’d rather be dyslexic than stupid.”
“Stupid?” I slammed my book shut and frowned at her. “What the hell are you talking about?”
She gave me a sardonic look that I didn’t buy for a second. “When you’re sixteen years old and stumbling over words that wouldn’t faze a fourth grader, people tend to doubt your intelligence. My mom and teachers certainly did.”
“You’re not stupid, Lennon. That’s ridiculous.”
“Oh, yeah?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I never finished high school. I dropped out at sixteen so I could move to New York and model—real smart, right? I don’t even have a GED. I couldn’t pass the test.”
“That doesn’t mean shit, honey. There are lots of different kinds of intelligence.”
She rolled her eyes. “People only say that when you’re dumb.”
“Youaresmart. Hell, you’re the first outsider to ever beat us at Blood Ball, and I’ll let you in on a little secret:It wasn’t your physical prowess. You beat us with your creativity and your brain.”
“And because you wouldn’t let them near me.”
I chuckled. “Lennon, baby, they were never going to make you bleed, whether I was there or not. You knew that, and you used it against us.”
“Then why did you protect me?” she challenged.
I stopped fighting myself and let my gaze land on her perfect tits. I scrubbed a hand over my mouth and then met her eyes straight on. “I didn’t want them touching you.”
Her lips parted. “Oh,” she sighed.
“Yeah. Now find a book that interests you and bring it on over here. I’ll read it to you.”
She stared at me like she thought I was joking. “Really?”
“Of course, really. Choose your book.”
Her gaze drifted over the hundreds of books lining the shelves, and she shook her head. “That would take forever. Whatever you have in your hand is fine.”
“This?” I held up the book. “It’s poetry.”
She shrugged. “Whatever.”
I figured she’d take the matching chair next to me, but she bypassed it and slid her knee between my thigh and the armrest.
“Scooch,” she said.
I shifted over and she wiggled in sideways so her butt was on the cushion and her legs draped over mylap, her head resting between the wing of the chair and my shoulder. I held the book with one hand and propped it against her bent knees. There was nowhere for my other hand to go but her shin unless I held it in the air. Fuck, her skin was soft.
“You’re killing me, kid,” I grunted.
