Page 27 of The Storm

I let out a slow, stuttering breath.

We’re way past confusing.

It feels like I’m being punished for something.

And I have no idea what I’ve done.

We’re in detention.

Because of him.

Because he doesn’t know when to shut up, and I keep losing my temper.

He’s slouched in his chair like he owns the school. Like he’s not the sole reason we’re here.

“You’re tense,” he says. Amused again. Satisfied.

I look straight ahead. “And you’re a dick, so it evens out.”

He leans back, his already-dark eyes darkening further. “And yet you keep looking at me.”

It’s a challenge, and it makes me want to wipe that look off his face.

With my mouth.

The thought slams into me so hard I almost lose my balance.

“You need glasses. I’d rather choke.”

His gaze drops to my throat. “Careful,” he murmurs. “I might get ideas.”

I dream about him.

Not soft dreams.

My dreams about him have sharp corners and edges that cut.

His mouth is inches from mine. His hands grip my shirt. We share breaths, angry and hot. Teeth graze skin. Tension makes my blood boil and my skin absurdly sensitive.

I wake up angry, desperate, sweaty, and disoriented, my heart pounding like I’ve been running a marathon at full speed.

I throw my pillow across the room.

It’s ridiculous. It’s him; just him.

The guy from across the hall. The guy who smirks when I lose my temper. The guy who knows exactly which buttons to push and pushes them with surgical precision.

It has to stop.

Somehow.

Just… somebody, make it stop.

Because if it doesn’t… If this pull, this awful, terrible, horrible, no-good, magneticthingdoesn’t fade…

Then I’m in serious trouble.

SEVEN