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He looks confused as he glances around outside but I push my way in and shut the door behind me. Before I can stop myself, I pull my shirt over my head and toss it onto the floor.
"What are you doing?" Zayn questions, staring at me like I've lost my mind.
"I'm tired of this game of are-we-or-aren't-we." My hands move to my pants and I unbutton them, pulling the zipper down but leaving them in place. "I'm making what I want known, and I want you."
His eyes rake over my body, and I can see the want in them. He bites down on his bottom lip so hard it almost draws blood. My heart is pounding loudly inside my chest.
"So, are you going to fuck me or not?"
I watch as his Adam's apple bobs with a heavy swallow. I'm leaning against the door as he comes closer and runs his hands gently down my bare arms. Goosebumps rise across my skin and his warm breath hits my face. As I look up at him, his gaze locks with my own, and I'm just waiting for him to kiss me. Instead, his fingers grab my zipper and pull it back up.
"I can't. I'm sorry," he whispers.
Humiliation and disappointment flood through me as he presses his lips to my forehead and re-buttons my jeans for me. Then, he steps back, and my whole body goes cold from the lack of his warmth.
"Then don't get mad when I find someone who will."
TWO DAYS PASS, AND I'm yet to hear a word from Zayn after I made a complete fool of myself. He hasn't tried calling or texting. Hasn't shown up at my dorm. Hasn't sent a damn carrier pigeon. And I know he's been around, because Easton mentioned he helped him fix the hole in Kennedy's tire the next day.
I spent all of Sunday moping about it. Having been rejected once hurt, but having it happen again—that was brutal. A part of me blamed Kennedy. After all, going over there and pretty much throwing myself at him was her idea, but she had a point. Despite being able to see the want in his eyes, I now know exactly where we stand, and so does he.
Maybe now all the mixed signals and attempts at trying to be "friends" will stop. Or at least I can hope. They only make this harder.
I'm walking out of class, not paying attention as I stare down at the ground, when I walk directly into someone. The books in my hands fall and scatter on the ground.
At first glance of the tattoos, I think it's Zayn, but when I look up at his face, I realize I was wrong. This guy is different. His short brown hair is messy, but not in a way that looks bad. His green eyes look warm, but everything else about him nearly makes me shiver.
"I'm so sorry about that," he says as I bend down to pick up my things. "Here, let me help you."
"Oh, that's okay."
Still, he helps me anyway, and when we stand back up, he hands me two of my notebooks and my pen. I take another look at him, admiring the ink on his neck that disappears beneath his shirt. Boldly, he reaches up and grabs my chin so I'm forced to look in his eyes.
"Are you all right?"
I nod. "Yeah, sorry. I wasn't watching where I was going."
He chuckles, and I can see the hint of a tongue ring in his mouth. "Clearly neither was I."
The two of us stand there for a somewhat awkward moment before I decide to stop being such a chicken. I stick out my hand and introduce myself.
"I'm Amelia."
He takes it willingly. "Amelia," he repeats. "That's pretty. I like it."
I can't help but smile. "Thanks. And you are?"
A charming grin spreads across his face, and while it might not compare to Zayn's, he's definitely got my attention.
"Blade."
No matter what I do, I can't seem to remove visions of the other night from my mind. The way she looked, all fucking gorgeous and begging for me, it took everything in me to turn her down—and from the second I did, I regretted it.
Never in a million years did I expect her to show up here. And even more so, I never expected to hear what came out of her mouth. She's always been the shy kind. The kind who doesn't like to rock the boat and runs from confrontation. But that night, her confidence was mesmerizing.
It's no secret that Amelia is in a league of her own. She should be out finding someone a hell of a lot better than me, and I don't mean Mason Lockhart. That guy is the biggest douchebag on campus. Then again, the thought of her with anyone has me feeling things I really shouldn't admit to.
When I can't take it anymore, I crash down onto my bed and take out my phone, dialing the number I've had memorized since I was seven.
