Just One of the Guys(29)

However, it was all too apparent that this would not be the case. Trevor was too enmeshed to seek me out on more than a cursory basis, fulfilling his promise to my parents. It hurt, seeing him so close, so happy, so unattainable.

I told myself I didn’t care. I had crew. I had my own friends. Once crew was over, I would probably even have time for a boyfriend. So Trevor didn’t matter. That’s what I told myself.

But when I saw him standing in my doorway, frowning at the sight of my gloopy mascara and wobbly mouth, I threw myself into his arms and sobbed with renewed gusto. “Stupid…vodka…dean…candyass…stupid…Harvard,” I bawled, and somehow Trevor strung the story together. He’d already heard several versions, hence his visit to my room. He led me to my bed and sat down, pulling me next to him as I sniveled and blew.

“It’s okay, Chas,” he assured me with a smile. “It’ll be legend in another month. It just seems horrible now.”

“No one likes me, Trevor,” I said, wiping my eyes. “I only had my friends from crew, and now they hate me. I’m nobody here. Just a bigmouth idiot with the O’Neill shoulders.”

“I like you,” Trevor said.

“Right,” I muttered, stealing a glance at his face. His lovely, happy eyes smiled at me. “You only like me because you have to, to stay in my family.”

“Not true,” he said, tickling the inside of my elbow. Heat crawled up my arm, melting my insides. I opened my mouth to say something, but I couldn’t, trapped in the familiar tangle of my crush on Trevor Meade, world’s most popular man. “Not true at all,” he said again.

“It’s true,” I grumbled.

“Come on, Chastity,” he said. “You’re great, you know that.”

“Save the pep talk, buddy,” I said, shoving away from him and standing up. Let him go tickle someone else’s arm. One of his girlfriend’s. Jerk.

“Chas,” he chided. “You are. You’re beautiful and smart and funny, and yes, you do have the O’Neill shoulders and they’re gorgeous. Plus, if we need someone to lift a tree off a car, there you are.”

“Bite me,” I said.

He reached out and grabbed the waistband of my skirt and tugged so that I fell (quite gladly, despite my feigned reluctance) back on the bed. “Sit down and stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

“I don’t. I feel sorry for you, having to babysit me in my time of woe,” I answered.

“I like babysitting you,” he murmured.

“How pathetic.”

He didn’t answer. I sneaked a look up at him, and he was just looking at me, a little smile making the corner of his mouth pull up. My breath stopped, and I could feel my face grow hot. Those damn happy eyes dropped to my mouth, and Trevor’s smile faded.

Then before he could break the moment, before he could turn away, I kissed him, and he didn’t stop me. Instead, he pushed my hair out of my face, and he kissed me back, gently, sweetly, his hand slipping behind my head, his lips moving just right against mine, smooth and warm. I gripped his shirt and sighed against his mouth, and knew that as long as I lived, this would be the one perfect kiss that I’d remember forever.

“Chastity,” he said, but I didn’t give him time to say anything else. I just kissed him again.

He tasted like mint and coffee, and his mouth was soft and sure at the same time, and we fit together so wonderfully…he was solid and warm and strong, and so was I. I leaned back, pulling him with me so that we lay on the bed, and the kiss became deeper, less perfect, more urgent. My fingers slid through the smooth coolness of his thick glossy hair, and I opened my lips for more.

Kissing Trevor felt like summer in June…lovely and lazy and hot, what was yet to come stretching out in front of us, filled with possibility. We kissed for ages without doing anything else, tangled in each other’s limbs, kissing and nuzzling and touching until the wee hours. My shirt was unbuttoned a few, and so was his, but that was as far as we went, even though we were both panting and flushed and sweaty and above the age of consent.

Finally, Trevor pulled back. He was lying on top of me, my legs were wrapped around his, my skirt up around my thighs. His dark, thick hair was tousled, his eyes were heavy-lidded, and I could feel the hardness of his body pressed against mine. His arms were shaking slightly. “I should probably stop,” he said quietly, touching my bottom lip with his forefinger. “I should go.”

“Don’t go, Trevor,” I whispered. “And don’t stop.”

He swallowed and gazed at me, serious and quiet. I could see him weighing the intelligence of what we were about to do, what we had already done, could see his hesitation. Because I’d loved him for so long, been crushed by my yearning for Trevor for so damn long, I slid my hands under his shirt and pulled it over his head. “Please stay,” I said, kissing his beautiful neck.

“Are you sure, Chastity?” he asked, his voice hoarse. I could feel his heart thudding against mine.

“Yes,” I said. Then he was kissing me again, hotter and more urgently than before, his hands in my tangled hair. And I was sure, because after all, I’d loved him for years. Wanted him for years. Wondered and wished and longed for him for years, and having him there on the narrow twin bed, on top of me, I felt more right than I’d ever felt in my life, before or since.