hi here's your mild sexual content warning for this chapter
like i said it's mild in this chapter but skip if you're a baby or uncomfortable
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"YOU BEEN BETTING ON ME, CHARLES ROSS?" I demand upon finding him at the pool table.
He's mid-conversation and turns around, dark eyes dancing at the sound of my voice. I stop short, noticing the person whom he spoke with.
Before I could say a single word, Khadija, clad in black, hair in pretty, natural curls around her cheeks, reaches around Charlie and extends a hand. "I'm Dija," she says. "It's so nice to meet you."
I pause, looking over to Charles. His smile is easy, not the least bit perturbed by their little sham.
I accept her extended hand, mirroring his smile. "Nice to meet you too," I say, despite having already met her. "I'm Mira."
When we drop hands, Charles winks at me. "Of course," he says to my question. "My money's still on you, Mira Zahed."
Before I can decipher what the fuck he's on about, or threaten him in a similar fashion to Rafael, Kenna appears behind me. She grins between us and says, not so stealthily, "Mira! How funny that you're here. Tonight. You know who else is here? Aryan. You should go find him."
My eyes narrow at her. "Your bet's off," I tell her. Charlie chuckles like he might disagree with me. I would hate to beat up Charlie up in front of his secret girlfriend.
Kenna, on the other hand, deflates with a pout. "Damn it. I was counting on that bet to get a free Tesla."
"What bet?" Dima's question rings on the other side of the pool table. I straighten.
I twist my head his way, Kajal at his side, and before anyone else can say a word, I answer, "Nothing."
I wish I could say that lying to Dima is an entirely new thing for me. It isn't. But though I've lied to him a dozen times before concerning one older brother, this is the lie he doesn't believe at all, lifting a querying brow at me across the pool table, as if to say really, Mira?
It's so easy to wipe away Ivan come morning.
But Aryan?
He sticks like a stain. I can't even hide it. It was just a kiss. Yet, he won't leave me alone. He won't fuck off. He replays in my head like a torturous tape, only this time it doesn't cut off mid-film. And that's even more torture because I wake up, clutching sheets and cursing myself.
I reason with myself that it was a mistake and then I reply to his texts. And then I come to this party. And I say to myself that it's because I want to kick Herrera's ass to keep him quiet but it's also because I want to kick Herrera's ass for interrupting. And it's also because he asked me to come.
My stupid fucking head turns away from Dima right as he steps back into the room, Herrera in tow.
Aryan whistles, nice and low, capturing everyone's attention over the music. "Alright, ladies and gents," he says, clapping Raf on the shoulder. "This party's moving down to the beach because Herrera over here wants to use his two remaining brain cells to kick a ball around in the sand and you're coming with him. Everybody say happy fucking birthday."
There follows a hearty chorus of Happy fucking birthday.
Charlie lets out a heavy sigh over my shoulder.
Aryan's eyes flick to our little group, lingering on me before sparkling upon his best friend's facepalm. He grins. "And to save Charlie the migraine, take the fucking food and booze with you. Let's go!"
He swings an arm over his head and waves it back and forth, spurring the party into motion. They scamper like ants and I stand still, eyes lingering too long on the line of his jaw as he orders people around.
By the time almost half of them are through the balcony doors, I'm still standing at the pool table, while girls peel off high heels to walk down the stairs leading to the sandy beach where they can feast their eyes on abs— I mean, soccer. I don't blame them though. The urge to eye-fuck Aryan Shankar on the beach is stronger than I want it to be.
But I stay rooted where I am, deciding then and there that this was a mistake. I feel Dima's eyes on my back and Charlie's on the side of my head. My money's still on you. Fucking hell. Was it that obvious?
I had to get out of here.
So, I shake my head no when Kenna loops her arm through Charlie's and offers me the other. She frowns but she's quick to pipe up again, green gaze flitting to Khadija. Her eyes light up and she drops Charlie's arm entirely. "Hi! Nice to meet you! You're super pretty. I'm Kenna!"
If the heart eyes emoji was a person, it would be Kenna Westbrooke.
Dija blinks at Kenna's bubbly introduction but she soon smiles, her entire face warming up and Charlie smiles too, a quiet one behind Kenna's head that I don't miss. Is everyone in love nowadays?
I catch sight of Dima and Kajal, arms linked as they dip out of the house. When Kajal kicks off her heels, Dima swoops her up without warning, saying, "I got you, Twinke Toes." I can hear her high-pitched laughter even from inside as he carries her down the stairs. Jeez.
Kenna seems to be in love with Dija just from that single smile too because she throws an arm over the smaller girl's shoulders and begins to pull her away from Charlie and I, asking a million and one questions after Dija's single reply of, "Hi, nice to meet you. I'm Khadija."
"Oh my god! I love your name! It's so pretty. I love your dress! Where'd you get it? I love your accent! Where are you from? I love you!" Kenna belts out.
Charlie has competition.
Khadija's laugh is easy, amused and she throws a bright-eyed look at Charlie over her shoulder. As Kenna pulls her out the door, she begins to answer her questions one by one. His eyebrows dance across at her and then she's down the stairs. That look alone could give them away but I was the only one looking.
Guests continue to trickle out when I turn back to Charlie, brows lifted. "You two should get into acting. I'm sure your father can set something up."
"My father, Mira," says Charlie, scowling for the first time, "is number one on the list of people who do not know."
"Charles Ross," I observe with a playful gasp, hand on my chest, "when were you going to tell me you had daddy issues?"
His scowl whispers away into a grin, his humour dark as he replies, "I thought you of all people would smell it from a mile away."
I shake my head, biting back a grin of my own. "No," I say, "you're full of surprises, Charlie."
He gives me a mock bow.
I'm still smiling, fond of the little understanding he and I have fostered, when he lifts his head. I jerk my chin toward the balcony doors and lower my voice. "Go be with your girlfriend. Or pretend to not know her." I shrug. "Whatever does it for you. Better get there before Kenna steals her."
"Ah, shit," he says. "You're right."
With that, Charles drifts to the door, mumbling about his thousand dollar shoes and sand. Aryan, still busily directing people, overhears him and shouts across the room, "You can afford a new pair, Ross!"
"They're custom made, Shankar!"
"Hey, Aryan," Herrera dips in and I catch his wicked grin as he rifles through the fridge, returning with a fistful of beers. "Do you think we can play football with Charles' fancy shoes?"
I don't even have to look to know that Charlie whips around at that, hand on the door as he exclaims to his laughing friends, "You are not playing soccer with my shoes."
"No," Aryan replies. "We're playing football with 'em."
I hide a smile and decide that this is distraction enough for me to slink out the door, given that the few remaining partygoers have all paused to overhear this exchange.
I drift past Aryan, even going so far as to tip toe in my heels, but he doesn't notice and I exhale.
He's busy explaining all the sports he could play with Charlie's shoes.
The conversation ends by the time I'm three steps away from the door. I only get to make one more step before a throat clears behind me. I twist my head over my shoulder to the now empty living space, except for Herrera and Aryan, the latter of which has his arms crossed over the grey chest of his shirt, a dark brow raised at me. "Going somewhere, Zahed?"
He's shaken the glitter from his hair and now it's a welcoming mess. He has so much hair and it's all jet black, sticking up in some places. His arms cross over one another, forearms flexing, tapering off into large hands, long fingers and a fuck ton of trouble for me.
Ah, shit. I'm eye-fucking him, aren't I? It's not my fault. Why does he look like that? It's not fair. Fuck him.
Not like that, Mira.
"I don't like sports," I say flatly.
Herrera snorts behind him. Aryan rolls his eyes.
"Scared of a little sand in your shoes?" He challenges.
It's my turn to roll my eyes. "You're not playing soccer or football or whatever with my shoes, Shankar." My eyes cut to Raf, lingering over his shoulder. "Unlike Charlie, I make good on my threats."
Aryan blows out a breath. Then, he shakes his head at me. "Don't bring my mate Charlie into your threats, Mira. Man's got a heart of gold."
My lips quirk. "If you like him so much, why don't you go make out with him?"
Aryan doesn't miss a beat. He tosses a look over his shoulder and jabs a thumb at Raf. "Herrera's gonna beat me to it."
At that, Raf scowls and proceeds to walk away, mumbling under his breath—mostly expletives, mostly in Spanish.
I wave him goodbye, unable to resist calling after him, "What should your ship name be?"
Herrera turns as he walks and sticks his middle finger up at me.
"Be careful," I warn as he flips me the bird and continues to walk backwards on the terrace. "Don't fall down the stairs or anything. That would be unfortunate."
Aryan laughs under his breath. It's a warm sound. I refrain from looking to him at that sound, keeping my eyes on Herrera's disappearing back as a distraction.
The sky outside has bloomed into a pretty explosion of orange, dipped in lilac, soon to fade into never-ending blue. It should be the most beautiful thing my stare focuses on in that moment but one pair of rather intent dark eyes settled on my face takes that prize.
Aryan's arms are no longer crossed. They hang at his sides and I pretend I don't recall what they were like holding me up.
I tilt my chin at him and muster words, "Shouldn't you be heading down there?"
"After you," he replies easily, even going so far as to gesture with his hands and dip his head toward the door.
"I'm leaving," I repeat.
"You just got here," comes his rebuttal.
"I did what I had to do— I threatened the birthday boy. Now, I'm leaving."
Aryan lifts a brow at me, crossing his arms again. "So, you show up at a party just to threaten the birthday boy? You're an interesting one, Zahed. I'll give you that."
He's mocking me.
My eyes narrow and I cross my arms too, peering down my nose at him. "Not everyone wants to drink vodka and watch boys play soccer on the beach, Shankar."
"So, what you're saying is— you want to drink beer and watch me play football on the beach?" His grin is easy. I'm already rolling my eyes while he carries on, "Come on, Zahed. I'll even take off my shirt for you."
"You were going to do that anyway," I tell him plainly.
Aryan relents with a shrug. "Okay, yeah. True."
"You're an attention whore, Aryan Shankar."
"What can I say?" He replies. "I like it when you stare. It's good for my ego."
The lie is on my lips before I can help it, "I do not stare."
"Yes, you do." He nods, eyes flashing at me, summoned with the exact memory I'm thinking of. "Ogling is a good word for it too."
I scowl, absolutely refusing to flush. "Yeah, bye."
I drop my arms and turn on my heel but I don't make a single step before Aryan moves and he moves quick.
My hand is in his before I know to pull it away and— hell, it's hard to want to pull it away.
He tugs me forward gently but he might as well have thrown me over a cliff side because I feel like the ground below my feet has shifted and I'm floating on air. Or sinking.
I know his hands well. I've pored over them even before the kiss. Ever since he'd shown up on driveway and called me a brat. They're warm and rough-skinned yet they slide better than silk on my skin and set a raging fire in every single fucking place he dared touch me. My hand in his is no different. I could burn up just from holding his hand.
I know he's on fire too. I can see it just from the look in his eyes, dark, dark, dancing with starlight, or hellfire, as he holds my hand.
God, I need to leave. I need to leave now. We can't do this. It was a mistake.
But then he opens his fucking mouth and says a single word, "Stay."
Fuck me.
"Aryan," I start and his eyes fall like smooth darkened molasses across my face at the sound of his name. Shit. Fuck. I should've called him asshole. I clumsily weave past the way he's looking at me. Why is he looking at me like that? Fuck. "We can't. That was a mistake. I don't even like you. You don't even like me. We fucking hate each other. It was a mistake and it can't happen again."
I'm yet to pull my hand away from him and I soon realise that's my second mistake when it comes to Aryan Shankar. I didn't even realise it until his breath is on my cheeks, my nose inches below his. He'd pulled me close, pitching me over that fucking cliff side so that all I had left was a glare.
I made sure to glare up at him, hard and hot, the sky behind him darkened into grey. He holds my stare, his hand like an anchor in mine, tugging me down, down, down. I don't pull away. I need to pull away. But then he talks, voice like honey, and I can't make my feet move as he says, "Sorry." He's not the least bit sorry, eyes unapologetic on mine. Asshole. "You were saying something Zahed?"
My glare drops to his lips before I can stop myself. I look back up. His eyes are dark. My lips carve into a snarl. "I hate you."
Aryan's curl into a grin. It's straight from fucking hell. "Oh really?"
And then he's kissing me.
Fuck.
You had one job, Mira.
But I fail, making my third mistake in regards to Aryan Shankar and I kiss him back.
I let his free hand drift to my jaw where he lightly tilts my head to the side so our noses don't bump as his mouth wreaks havoc on mine. His other hand is in mine, fingers interlocked, and he uses that to drag my arm over his shoulder. It stays there even as he lets my hand go, both hands dropping to the curve of my waist. He clutches me hard, as if trying to grasp skin through fabric. I almost pull away entirely, falling, falling, falling, just to tell him that there's a zipper at the back but I don't want to leave his lips and it seems he feels the same.
Without breaking the kiss, tongue sneaking past my lips, Aryan spins me and pushes me further into the room, further from the door that I barely remember exists. All I'm aware of is him.
He smells like cologne. He tastes like vodka. My hands find his hair. It feels like satin and silk, pulled right from the midnight sky. But he's solid, not a drifting cloud at midnight, not the passing breeze. He's solid and he's whole and he's like an anchor. Down, down, down.
Again, I barely register it when my ass hits the pool table, the marbled edge cool where he's warm, blazing. I'm perched, sitting on that edge in a single breath and I'm not sure whose air it is I breathe in that moment— mine or his.
My legs part and Aryan stands between them, my knees pressing into his hips on either side. He wantonly sucks on my bottom lip. When his hands trail down from my waist, leaving a path of destruction in his wake, past the hem of my dress that's ridden up somewhat, right onto the bare skin of my thighs, down unfortunately, even further, until his fingers grasp the backs of my knees and he tugs me forward so abruptly that I gasp, we break away.
We tear apart for the first time but only slightly. I'm still unbearably close to him.
His breathing is rough and ragged as he looks down at me, his chest rising and falling against mine, fighting for all the oxygen I'd stolen from him, chest on mine, because we're that close. I can feel his heart. It's hammering.
His eyes are pitch. His fingers still hold the backs of my knees and he'd dragged me down the edge of the pool table entirely, marble biting coldly into the exposed skin of my thighs, my dress indecently high and his body, pressed right between my legs, right where he'd wanted me.
I suck in a breath, eyeing him starkly. I can feel him though his jeans, pressed right against my flimsy lace panties. I think I want to glare at him, the space between my legs throbbing, heart racing, mouth swollen into a pout from his kiss, and I think he knows it, knows it all because I can't hide from him. I can't stop myself. I can't filter myself. Not with him. Every ugly word, every wild kiss. It's too easy to come out.
How'd I end up here?
Before I can glare, Aryan's fingers steeple below my chin, tearing my eyes up to him.
He wants me to glare at him.
I can't manage it. I'm falling into myself in a blaze of hellfire. He's pulling me down.
His voice is low and rough and too fucking hot for me to handle right now. His other hand tightens on my leg, drawing me even closer. "Tell me no."
God. The word is lost somewhere. I don't even know where it is. I can't find it. I don't even want to find it.
He grabs one of my hands and presses it to his chest. "Push me away." His eyes spark like fireworks. "Go on. I dare you, Zahed."
And he knows me. He knows I rise to every dare he throws my way. So when my silence stretches thin, when my hand stays still, Aryan's lips descend to the hollow of my neck.
My head falls back immediately, his breath fiery on my skin, and he's there too, hands expertly weaving through my waterfall of hair, clothing his fist in a bundle of my hair which he uses to his advantage. He pulls my head back with his hand in my hair, laying victory over more terrain on our little battlefield. His lips close over a spot below my ear and he sucks hard.
His other hand stays planted on my thigh and he's not moving it. I want him to move it, sink his hand below my dress just like he'd done in the lockers. But he doesn't.
I take matters into my own hands. I tighten my legs around him and grind my hips into his hard enough that his breathing falters dangerously against my skin.
Then, Aryan's at my ear, sending tendrils down my fucking spine. "Stop that."
I do no such thing. I do it again, and again, until I feel the air rush clean from his lungs.
Yeah, take that motherfucker.
I give him a tiny little smirk and just as I'm about to march onto the battlefield myself, hands about to drop to his belt buckle, Aryan returns my smirk.
Then, he pulls away entirely, hand unknotting from my hair, palm departing from my thigh, creating a six foot gap between us.
My body starts to scream at the loss of his solid warmth. My finger curl around air. I'm going to kill him. "What are you doing?" I demand.
Aryan's lips tilt at the edges. His smile is evil. I hate him. "Like you said," he tells me, plain and cruel, "we can't do this."
"What the fuck?"
"Watch your fucking language, Emira," comes his playful retort as he begins to straighten his collar, eyes falling away from me.
To say I'm about to commit first degree murder is an understatement.
He looks back up. My palms have curled like claws onto the edge of the pool table, eyes latched onto him like a sniper's. Aryan grins. "I like it when you stare."
Give me a bullet, I plead with the universe. Give it to me. I'll shoot him dead.
He fixes his hair that I ruined and drops his hand, holding it out to me, not the least bit scared that I'll grab it and tear him to pieces. His shoulders even shake with barely concealed laughter as he says, "Come on, Zahed. Let's join the party."
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I don't take his hand.
But I follow him onto the beach anyway.
When we arrive, I'm not surprised to find shirtless boys running around the beating waves, a ball passing between their feet while girls sat on the sand, uncaring of the sand clinging to their dresses. Music plays from the makeshift station the poor DJ has to set up on the shore, though the song is lost to the roar of the sea. Someone started one of those bonfires and there are logs about them for people to sit on. I spot Kajal and Dima easily beside the fire, Kajal's glinting gold earrings marking her. I drift away from Aryan as Dima's eyes rise to mine.
One of the soccer players breaks away from the game and claps a manly hand on Aryan's shoulder, inviting him into the game. To my surprise, he declines.
I keep walking though, even as he stops to chat with the boy anyway. I hate him. I hope he changes his mind and goes to play soccer and breaks his fucking arm. I'll laugh.
As I near the fire, flames licking against the sky, casting shadows onto the sand and making Kajal's black hair, hair like her cousin's, shine, I pause. Dima looks up and notes my confusion.
"She's arm-wrestling," he informs me.
Indeed, Kajal Shankar, the size of a fairy princess, had her fingers interlocked with Charlie's, their elbows braced on a turned over plastic beer crate. Both of them appeared extremely concentrated, lips pursed as they fought for dominance.
"Is she really beating him?" I ask, blinking.
Dima lowers his voice. "I think he's taking it easy on her, honestly."
Kajal hears him and she snaps at Charles, "Don't. I'm going to win this fair and square."
Dima pats an encouraging hand on her shoulder. "You've got this, babe."
He looks over and his eyes say to me, She does not have this.
I chuckle under my breath but it dies when a familiar presence settles at my side and laughs loudly. Aryan wipes a tear. "Is this because I told you that a mosquito could beat you, Kaju?"
Kajal growls. I didn't know Kajal did that. It's impressively threatening coming from her, considering she's wearing a white off-shoulder dress with puffy sleeves that make her look like she belongs in Lord of the Rings and could give Arwen a run for her money. Dima did have a crush on Arwen when we were younger.
Aryan continues to laugh, crossing his arms beside me as he observes his cousin and best friend.
"Go, Charlie," he cheers. Kajal growls again.
I ignore Aryan, falling onto the empty log opposite Dima and Kajal's. When he settles beside me, I scoot away, just barely resisting the urge to pitch him right into the bonfire. The flames colour his cheekbones in yellow and red, making his eyes blaze to life. He looks ethereal. I hate him.
Charlie's hand slumps over, knocking against the beer crate that I hope they pick up from the beach afterwards, considering it's plastic. He lets out a heavy sigh of defeat and Kajal beams.
Dima looks very unbelieving behind her but when she whirls around and kisses him, he smiles encouragingly. Idiot. He's so whipped.
His smile dies totally when she presses her palms to his face and decides, "You're next."
"What?" Dima looks over to me for help.
"Are you scared of your girlfriend, Nazarenko?" comes my reply.
Betrayal flares in his eyes. "Who's side are you on?"
"Kajal looks prettier than you tonight so I'm on her side for this one," I state.
Kajal shoots me a thankful look at that then she blinks. "Aren't I always prettier than him?"
"Dima has his moments," I inform her. "Have you seen his Legolas Halloween pics?"
Dima scowls at me.
"No," she says. "I haven't."
"He was the prettiest girl at our prep school's party, trust me."
"I can confirm," pipes in Charlie.
There sounds a shriek behind him and though it comes from the boys playing soccer, I know without having to look up that it's Kenna. Her feet are bare, her hair whipping over her shoulder as she lays one final kick at the white and black ball, sending it into the air, straight into Raf's chest. He scowls but she doesn't notice, skipping away from them, sweat on her brow, makeup running, still pretty. Behind her, Dija slinks shyly, her arms crossed over her black dress. She and Charlie share one of those secret smiles again as Kenna claps her hands, green eyes sparking on Kajal. "You did it! You beat him!"
"Totally," I hear Dima mumble.
Aryan leans back on the log beside me. I'm painfully aware of everything he does. His hands press into the sand behind him as he fixes a stare on Kenna. "You were playing?"
"I took your place, Shankar," she answers, hands on her hips. "And I did a better job than you ever could."
"I can confirm," Dija joins the conversation.
Charlie's lips twitch at her voice while Kenna squeals again. "Dija here was my own personal cheerleader and she gave all of the UCLA cheer team a run for their fucking money."
Charlie pats the empty spot beside him and says, "Come on. We're having an arm-wrestling tournament apparently."
"Can we somehow turn this into a drinking game?" inquires Kenna, sinking onto the other empty log as Dija finds the spot beside Charles.
There's a resounding chorus of No, Kenna.
Kenna rolls her eyes and her eyes flick to me and Aryan. "You stayed!"
"I convinced her," Aryan says.
Kenna's grin turns into a smirk.
I tear my gaze across the fire but neither Dima nor Kajal heard that.
First, he leaves me high and dry. Then, he tells everyone that he left me high and dry.
I eye the bonfire. Roasted Aryan Shankar sounds tempting.
Dima and Kajal begin their arm-wrestling and Dima wins almost immediately.
"Sorry, babe," he tells her. "But you told me not to take it easy on you." Whipped.
We continue on like that until eventually everyone has wrestled against someone.
The highlights include: Kenna beating Dima, Kenna beating Charlie, Kenna beating me, Aryan almost beating Kenna only for Raf's ball to come flying straight at them and interrupting the game before anyone could win.
We're all getting tired by the time Aryan and I go.
I glare across the crate at him. He grins at me and his fingers lock around mine in that familiar dance.
I give him a run for his money but it's no surprise to me that he's stronger. He doesn't take it easy on me either. Of course not. His forearm flexes, veins running up and down his arm, hand clenched around mine as my arm starts to tilt sideways, losing. I narrow my eyes at him. Then, I kick the crate out from under our arms, sending it knocking against his knee, sprawling our hands apart.
Aryan laughs.
"That's cheating," he tells me.
"Fuck off," I tell him.
Charlie clears his throat. "Is that it? We've all gone?"
"Yup," replies Kenna. "I'm the mightiest of all you bitches." She evil laughs. Dija laughs at that. And by default, Charlie laughs.
Dima and Kajal float away from our group, falling into their own little world. They drift away from the fire, towards the lapping water of the Pacific.
I watch my best friend's arm snake around her shoulders as they trail wet footprints, marked side by side, in the sand.
"Fuck," one of the UCLA soccer boys curses, garnering my attention. He's braced over a cooler. "We're all out of beer, man."
Kenna looks mortified, springing to her feet and bounding over to him. She all but pushes the burly dude away and stares into the cooler. "No."
Charlie clicks his tongue. "There's more in my car—,"
"I got it," decrees Aryan and he's on his feet in no time like the true hero of the college party, towering over the lopsided crate. "Zahed can come with me," he adds.
Before anyone can interject, his hand is in mine and we're walking away. I shoot a glance over my shoulder but Kenna's busy mourning the beer, Dima's swinging Kajal off her feet again by the water and Herrera is bouncing a soccer ball from knee to knee like a professional. It's only Charles who watches us go and his eyes sparkle like the rings on his fingers as he does. My money's still on you, Mira Zahed.
I look away from him and drop my hand from Aryan's. But I still continue to follow him, up the stairs, onto the balcony where we wash sand from our feet and hands and I slide my heels back on, through the house where he picks up a ring of keys from a little dish, out into the front yard where cars line the street and gateway around the house, the moon shining above head, a watchful crescent.
The slam comes not wholly unexpected but leaves me breathless anyway.
I'd always been waiting for it, for him to slam me into the locker, the pool table. Because he hates me and I hate him and that's how it works. Well, my back collides with the side of a car harshly, breath stealing past my lips as Aryan brackets the distance between us, eyes on me, palms on either side of my head and keys dangling from his fingers.
I look up at him, moonlight wrestling his hair. Even without the bonfire, he's still ethereal as he leers above me.
"I'm not gonna kiss you, Zahed," he says to me.
"Oh really?" I find myself replying, eyes lowering to his lips and back up again.
"Yeah, really," he says. "You're gonna kiss me."
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guys i'm not actually going to name the next chapter 'choke me like you hate me'
unless...