Page 4 of Level Up for Love

“Why?”

My tone isn’t as sharp as it was before—isn’t as sharp as it’s supposed to be. It’s a gentle exhale into the rapidly narrowing space between us. I hang suspended in the moment, waiting for him to cut me free. But his gaze keeps me pinned, rooting me to the spot.

“Because I want to.” His eyes are half lidded, almost dreamy. Delusional, I think, with more amusement than bite.

The desire to deny him anything he wants is instinctual, but it’s muted this time. He shouldn’t always get what he wants, just because he wants it. It’s a sleepy, half-hearted grumble of a thought. And he lost, anyway.

But what if I want it, too?

A rush of heat spears through my chest, and I realize there is one way I can deny him, at least—by making the first move.

I let myself sway from side to side, then tip forward until my lips crash into his.

He tastes like candy, I think wildly. Watermelon-sweet. Are archenemies supposed to taste like candy? But then the warmth of his mouth moving against mine chases all thoughts out of my head entirely, and all I want is to taste more.

I quickly discover that Wesley kisses the same way he argues. For every move I make, he has to have a pointed response of his own. As I roll off the beanbag to straddle his hips, he winds his arm behind my waist and flips me onto my back until he’s braced above me. As I deepen the kiss and tangle my tongue with his, he makes a sound low in his throat and nips at my lower lip. The moments blur until they’re just color and sensation, hastily murmured questions of Is this okay? and Does this feel good?, and groans I never thought I’d hear from Wesley’s lips. Somehow we stumble to our feet, and I guide him until the backs of his legs are pressed to the edge of my bed. I don’t know where my socks go, or my skirt—or Wesley’s damp pants and linen shirt. All I know is the warmth of his palm pressed against my ribs, of his thumb gliding underneath the fabric of my bra, as we tumble onto the mattress.

I’m briefly horrified to let him see me flushed and giddy. Vulnerable.

But he’s coming undone, too—his outfit wrinkled and discarded, his control unraveling in the face of undisguised desire. I can’t remember a time when he looked so unguarded.

I’m thrilled to see him thrown so far off his game—a game I feel like I am somehow winning—but before we go any further, I stop to take a breath as the reality of the situation takes root in my brain.

Wesley Locke is half naked in my bed.

Delight, shock, and a knot of other conflicting emotions swell in my chest. But Wesley distracts me, turning my face to his and tucking a strand of my long dark hair behind my ear.

“What are you doing this summer, Reagan?” he asks.

He doesn’t have to say where he’s headed. He shared it often enough in class as soon as he was hired. After graduation, he’ll start immediately at Hurricane Studios in Boston, the titan video game studio best known for the hugely popular MMO Legends of Lore, among other games.

“I’ll be here.” I keep telling myself I want to work on my own projects and spend a few more months with Mona and my family before signing my time over to a studio. It distracts me from the fact that I still haven’t heard back from Uproar Games after my interview last week, and none of my other applications have gotten me anywhere.

Yet, I tell myself, it’s only been a few weeks since I started applying. It’s still early.

Wesley clears his throat. “Boston’s not so far away.”

“It isn’t, is it?” I muse softly.

We hold each other’s gazes for a long moment, and I wonder what he’s implying. I wonder if this is the closest he’ll get to asking me to visit.

His eyes dance away from mine. “Imagine a summer off, where we’re not competing, not always at each other’s throats.”

“I like it when you’re at my throat.” I’ve never gone so far as to admit this to myself, but as soon as it’s out of my mouth, I know it’s true.

“Do you?”

Experimentally, Wesley presses his lips to the side of my neck, right under my ear. His nose dips to trace the crook of my shoulder, and he runs his teeth along my collarbone.

I swallow, eyes wide, intensely distracted. “Competition’s a big motivator for me,” I say with difficulty.

“You were the only one who could ever keep up, Reagan.”

I huff, and I’m not sure if it’s a laugh or a scoff. I think about protesting that he was racing to keep up with me at least half of the time, that we were often completely, infuriatingly evenly matched, how—

But by the soft curve of his mouth, by the appearance of that damned dimple—he already knows. He’s goading me.

He’s always goading me.