Page 11 of Hating On Riot

Arie

My heart races. Beads of sweat dampen my forehead. I hold the Nerf gun close to my chest and assess my surroundings.

Riot has me trapped in the parking lot, crouched between two cars, waiting to either pounce on him or make it to the front porch of his place—our designated safe zone.

Rigid plastic presses against the back of my head.

“You took too long to process through your dilemma. Do you surrender?”

“If I don’t?”

He scoffs. “You have a blaster to the back of your skull. What more do you have to offer?”

“A kiss?”

The rigid plastic slips off my head, then presses back into my scalp.

“You’d play dirty?”

“You told me to be less uptight.”

“I didn’t say to give away a kiss.”

“Well, would you?” I ask.

“Would I what?”

“Kiss an opponent and let her go rather than take her out of the game?” Sweat rolls down my back.

“Hell, yeah.”

I groan and stand. “Hell no, you won’t. You’ll take her out no matter what she offers, including a BJ.”

“Jesus, Arie. Your mouth . . . ”

I pop him in the gut with a Nerf bullet. “Gotcha.”

His eyes widen. A grin spans his face. He pulls me into his arms, catching me off guard. “You got me, all right. Next time, don’t do the convo or reverse psychology shit. Just take the shot. Yeah?”

I nod and look up into bright green eyes. Such sexy eyes, framed by dark brows. And those lashes . . . I blink. Goodness, they’re long. Wild. I drop my gaze. And that mouth, the Cupid’s bow, his stubborn chin. What would he taste like? Sweet? Spicy? Undeniably yummy, that’s for certain. And that rock-hard body of his . . . I could spend all day worshipping the lines, curves, and bulges of his fine ass body.

“Arie?”

“Hmm?” I ask, my lips curving into what must be a dreamy smile.

“Are you okay?” He takes my blaster from me.

“Am I not?” I fan my fingers over my flushed cheeks.

“You’ve got a shit-eating grin.”

“I do?” Oh, God, what am I thinking?

I’m not in this to fall deeper for Riot. I’m here to keep him out of trouble and to wrangle my heart out of the clutches he’s held it in since I was fifteen. Then my feelings for him deepened with our first kiss.

The kiss should’ve been something special and memorable. Instead, it taught me a cruel lesson. That what he gave me can be taken back. That three years of friendship and longing for one another can be stripped away with one betrayal, leaving behind nothing but bitterness and anger.

I step away from his body heat and his intense scrutiny.