Kissing in Cars (Kiss and Make Up #1)(3)

Pervert.

Really, is it hot in here?

Ugh, suddenly I can barely stand it. And knowing that Weston McGrath is looking at me makes me all the more overheated. Abruptly, I am frantically trying to come up with a list of friends with pools in their backyards that I can immediately go jump in - yes, fully clothed.

Like, I am that hot.

I use all my self-control to not fan myself.

Fumbling with my papers, I begin stuffing the doodles back inside my binder and slam it shut. Glancing up at the rusty old library clock, it says I have less than five minutes to sit here. How long he's been watching me. Should I look up? Oh my god what if he's still over there staring at me. I will die... a slow death.

Well, okay.

I'll die a 'less-than-five-minute' death because that's as long as we have to sit here before the bell rings.

I take a chance and raise my eyes.

Yup, there he is, staring at my face with his lips pulled into a smirk, the dark hair under his ball cap curling up slightly over his ears. The sleeves are cut off the bright blue A&F shirt he's wearing, and as he leans back lazily with his arms crossed, it draws attention to his biceps, which look... insanely ripped. Tall at 6'2 (I know this because I've seen his stats in the school athletic program - you know, the one they hand out before games).

Tan skin.

Broad shoulders.

His face clearly hasn't been shaved today: a dark shadow along his jaw and upper lip are unmistakable, even from where I'm sitting. Dear lord is it...sexy.

Really, Weston looks more like a man than most men, and less of an 18 year old boy.

Nope. Calling him a boy would be wrong, wrong, wrong on so many levels...

I wonder what he's thinking right now as I stare blatantly back, taking in the large black tattoo covering his entire right arm: it starts halfway up his forearm and stops at his shoulder. Maybe he's sitting there thinking I'm a goody-two-shoes.

His eyes look black from here, and oh god, his lips are amazing.

Torture.





Chapter Two





WESTON


"Son, mark my words. Staring is the best and quickest way to get yourself kicked out of Victoria's Secret." - Brian McGrath



The bell rings for the last period of the day to end, and I slide my books off the crappy library table. Geez, buy some new goddamn furniture already, I can't help thinking. Rolling my shoulders, I take a minute to stretch my upper body. I'm stiff and sore from slouching through the entire fifty minute study hall, and bruised from last nights practice; some dickhead on the other team checked me into the boards of the rink so hard I was up icing it most of last night.

And it was only a scrimmage.

Under the brim of my ball cap, I continue watching as Molly Wakefield tries to scoot her ass out of her chair - in that short jean skirt, it's pretty obvious she's trying not to give me a crotch shot.

I watch her anyways, just in case she does. Hey, I'm always looking on the bright side of things.

Damn, she's got a great pair of legs - ones I've tried not to appreciate the entire period because I have a shit ton of homework. I cannot afford any distractions; especially not my senior year, and not with my schedule.

School.

Hockey practice.

Hockey games.

Repeat.

But seriously...her legs are f*cking amazing. Long, tan and toned, Molly must have been overheating during this entire class period because there's a slight sheen to her skin that resembles an... afterglow.

I can't take my eyes off her.

Jesus Christ, what the hell am I talking about? Afterglow?

I sound like a douchebag.

She knows I'm watching her, and yeah, it's completely obvious she's embarrassed. How do I know this, you're asking yourself? Well for one, she's avoided all eye contact with me for the entire class period, which is fifty minutes. Not to mention she's hustling out of here like her panties are on fire; which of course, makes me think of her in nothing but underwear.

I'm visualizing a low rise thong.

And here's another thing I keep asking myself: Why the f*ck have I never noticed her before?

Sure, I know who she is. I think everyone does: she's pretty, popular and her dad is on the school board. I've seen her in passing - like in the hallway - but I guess I've never stopped to really look at her. Oh that's right; girls are hanging on me all the time so I never have the chance.

I trail out of the library behind Molly, taking in her features from her head to her fine ass. Her hair is loose and hanging halfway down her back, swaying gently as she walks. It's this really pretty color brown...not red and not brown. I don't know what the hell color it is, but I like it.

A lot.

Unexpectedly she turns and looks back at me. Our eyes connect but her stare remains impassive, which surprises me. I feel my eyebrows shoot up into my forehead because I don't often get blank stares from girls. Mostly when they look at me they're trying to appear sexy - licking their lips, batting their eyes, gushing uncontrollably - which drives me f*cking nuts. I'm not entirely lead around by what's in my pants.

I've got news for you ladies: Desperation is not an attractive quality.

Molly disappears into the crowd, and I stop.

Hesitating for the briefest of seconds, I finally turn in the opposite direction and head towards my locker.