College Ruled

fourteen

Grayson brushes my hair off the side of my neck and leans down to brush his lips against my ear. "Relax," he breathes, voice low and gentle.

I try not to shiver. "You can't just tell someone to relax and expect it to happen."

He snorts into my neck. "Try."

I blow out a breath, and my elbow accidentally slides back to connect with his stomach. His head knocks against my ear, digging my small gold hoop earrings into my skin. He groans. Loudly.

"Fuck, sorry." I start to spin to face him. "I told you I'm not good at—"

"Just—" Grayson places both hands on my shoulders and turns me back around. He presses me back into himself. "—Relax."

My jaw snaps shut, tightly. I fucking can't, I want to scream.

"Grayson," I groan in protest. "I—"

He hushes me. "Just follow my lead."

      A fresh complaint brews on my tongue, but then his fingers are moving—light and unbothered—down my shoulders, down my arms, along my midriff, and whatever words had been in my mouth drown in my catching breath.

     His hands stop on my hips, gripping loosely. He shifts. Swaying me against him to the rhythm of the music vibrating against our bones.

   I know we just look like every other couple crammed in here. Just two drunken idiots who can't seem to get enough of the thrill that comes from touching in public. So, I let my eyes fall shut and imagine we are exactly that.

The sleeve of his jacket drifts off my shoulder and slides down to the crook of my elbow as he directs my hand to the back of his neck. My fingers dig into the hair curling at his nape.

"Good girl," he whispers in my ear, voice hoarse.

     Two simple words and I freeze. My muscles stutter and lock up, barely long enough to notice before Grayson guides me back into his body's movements, but I swear—I fucking swear—I feel him smirk against my skin.

Asshole.

    He's taunting me, even now. Always having the upper hand. But he doesn't know how easy it is to twist the warmth coursing through my veins into determined rage.

    I can lie pretty easily if I don't have to speak. I can pretend I know exactly what I'm doing.

    He smiles into my skin when I move his hands to my thighs and dig my hips deeper into him. His plays with the hem of my dress, bunching the fabric between his fingers.

     I'm sure he can feel the goosebumps between my skin and his fingertips, can feel my heart on his chest as it races against my spine. Just as much as I can feel him—every warm, hard surface that's pressed flush against me.

    My fingers tangle deeper into the ends of his hair, tugging lightly, and he groans into the crook of my neck.

   "Clarke, we—"

   Something knocks into us. Hard. Grayson stumbles away from me, cursing under his breath.

    I resist the urge to groan. Just when I was winning.