Page 158 of Ignition

Chapter forty-eight

Mia

“Shhh, be quiet.”

The melting snow dripped off the eaves, the incessant drip, drip, drip coming in through the library window, which was cracked open a sliver. The cool breeze floating through kicked up goosebumps along my waist where Josh’s fingers gripped me, bunching up the fabric and leaving a patch of skin exposed.

His hand flattened against my mouth, stifling any and all sounds as he nibbled and kissed down my neck, and my body flushed hot all over.

My back pressed into the shelf he’d pinned me against, which lay tucked into a little corner of the mercifully quiet library. Nobody wanted to be here, not on the first day of term, not after a gruelling exam session.

There was no need to hide anymore, but he often stole me away like this, kicking up flutters in my stomach each time. I suspected the whole thing turned him on just as much.

My fingers arrowed into his hair, pulling him lower, until his mouth grazed my collarbone and threatened to dip south. Need rushed inside me, making me dizzy.

The night I’d shattered in his car clung to the corners of my mind, to shadowed nights when I’d snake my hands between my legs and moan his name into my pillow.

Bzzzt.

His phone vibrated against my thigh, yanking me out of it. His mouth unglued from the lacy edge of my bra with a pained groan as he pulled back—pupils blown, lips swollen, panting against my face.

He grimaced, like he wanted to throw the phone out the window, hook my leg around his waist, and take me right there.

And god, I wanted him to.

Then, he squeezed his eyes shut, before glancing at his watch.

“Shit. I’m gonna be late for practice,” he growled, sucking a little bruise just above my collar and buttoning my shirt.

My fingers whispered out of his hair, brushing over the black t-shirt that strained against his chest, and aching to dig in.

I let them fall instead.

My face must have fallen, too, because he leaned in to kiss me again—slower, like he was stealing time.

“Fuck it, I’m not coach’s favourite anyway,” he mouthed, sucking my bottom lip between his.

“You should go,” I murmured, easing out of the kiss and nudging his chest with my palms.

He dragged a hand over his face and growled, before withdrawing to pick up his infuriating monogrammed gym bag off the floor.

“Always a stickler for the rules.” He squeezed my waist in goodbye and brushed past me, stealing another kiss on his way out.

I slumped against the shelf and tried to cool my cheeks with the back of my hands.

My skin tingled, and need tangled with something else, jagged and familiar.

He always pulled back. Even when he got me all needy and flushed, even when I was throbbing for him, even that time I’d nearly begged him to come up to my room.

He’d grit his teeth and refrain, when what I needed him to do was lose control.

But the more I pushed, the more he wouldn’t budge.

I would’ve surmised he didn’t really like me—except he was always around me: at dinner, with a lazy smirk and his casual way of taking up room where he pleased; in the library, across the table from me, his foot nudging mine when I frowned or nibbled on a pen in concentration.

He’d even sat next to me a few times, before I wrote him off as a dangerous distraction and claimed an overwhelming need for personal space—to his infuriating, too-amused laugh.

Not only that, he was staking a claim of sorts on me, and god, was he obvious: guiding me into rooms with a possessive hand on the small of my back, and making sure he left bruises on my neck whenever he had a chance.