"I think you should stop being so mean to me, Zahed."
"Why would I ever do that?"
Aryan grins, a bright, wicked thing.
"Because I kiss you like this."
•
Mira Zahed and Aryan Shankar are at war.
When her best friend and his cousin decide to fall in...
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♥ ♥ ♥
EMIRA ZAHED IS A CRUEL, COLD-BLOODED KILLER withnails like claws and a kiss like hell.
And I'd do it again.
Sunday morning rolls around with a hungover Kenna Westbrooke banging on my bedroom door. Sleep falls away from me almost instantly and I groan.
I wish I could claim that my dreams were, in fact, not occupied by Zahed. But then, I'd be lying.
But what do you do after a girl who kisses like storm winds all but bolts out of the Porsche you just fucked her in?
You get your ass back down to the beach and resist the urge to text her and ask her if she got home safely, that's what you do.
She'd probably pitch her phone across the room if I sent that text. I'd also be lying if I said that didn't make me want to send it even more. But I'd restrained myself all night, recalling that she'd flown out of the car after I pushed her hair off her back and kissed her. She didn't want me to be nice to her and I most certainly enjoyed being the exact opposite of nice to her.
Still, the first thing I do, roused from sleep by Kenna's continued knocking, is reach for my phone and type the quick text.
Good morning, Zahed.
Her reply doesn't come instantly and I subdue the brief disappointment. She's funny over text, I have to admit. I drop my phone onto my bed and sit up. "Don't break my fucking door, McKenna."
Kenna barges in at that. Her blonde hair is pulled up in a high, messy ponytail by a green hair tie, some dark makeup smudged from last night under her brow. I hold my tongue from asking what or who she did last night as she belts out, "Do you have Advil?"
"Nope."
She scowls. "Fuck." Then, she narrows her eyes at me. "How are you not hungover?" She points. "And your bed is empty. Unless someone's hiding under there." She cups a hand to her lips and I know what she's going to say even before she says it. "You can come out, Mira. I don't bite. Unless you like that." She drops her hands and whisper-mouths to me. "Does she like that?" I seriously question my decision in befriending Kenna Westbrooke every day. "Did we even go to the same party?" She asks.
"There's no one under my fucking bed," I tell her patiently. "And Raf-jito's weren't all that appealing to me, I'm afraid."
"Well, I don't think the man himself was as afraid. He finished off those Pendejo Sunrises with me last night."
