“What do …” I start, thinking about the way he used to look at her, like she was his long-lost love who'd galloped away on a different knight's horse. But … that was the way he used to look at her, right? I try to think of the last time I saw his gaze soften in her direction. It’s been awhile, that’s for sure. “What do you mean?”

“Do you want me to get with her? Do you ship me and Lizzie for some reason? Because I swear to God, it feels like you do sometimes.” He stares at me so hard that I feel like all my inhibitions are being shed like a banana peel, stripping right down and leaving my pale yellow flesh quivering. Whoa. That was a totally weird metaphor. Scratch that. Pretend I never said anything at all.

“Why would you think that?” I whisper as Tristan breathes in and out, big, harsh, angry breaths. He presses in even closer to me, and I feel myself coming apart at the seams.

“Look, I hate Zack as much as the next asshole, but what you said to him, about how you wanted him to fight for you … do you ever take your own advice, Marnye?”

“I …” My throat feels too tight to talk, like it's impossible to breathe in without sharing a breath with Tristan, without getting two lungfuls of his beautiful scent. He's enticing, a little dangerous, exactly the sort of man I should stay away from. And at the same time … when I think about going to the same college as him, studying together, building a new life together … I get the chills in the best possible way. “We could really have something, me and you.”

Tristan growls at me. I kid you not. He seriously growls under his breath and clenches his teeth.

“Right. So why are you so pro-Lizzie?” he demands, and I blink back in confusion. “And why do you smell so damn good?” he adds, almost under his breath, glancing to the side for a moment before looking back at me.

“I'm not pro-Lizzie,” I tell him, and there it is. All these feelings come rushing to the surface, and I can't seem to hold them back. “I've … I wanted to be friends with her. And I felt selfish. She loves you so much, and I'm dating five guys, and …”

“So fucking what?” Tristan slams his palm against the bookshelf, still clinging to my wrist with his other hand. “You're dating five guys because we all refuse to let you go. What does that have to do with Lizzie? You want to trade me like a baseball card, so she doesn't feel left out?”

My jaw drops open and Tristan takes that moment to sweep in and kiss me. Hard. His lush mouth against my parted lips. His tongue dives in, taking complete control, encouraging me to tilt my head back and give into him. He's the cruelest boy I know. He really is. He'll never be perfect. He'll never even be good. But maybe … he's just right for me?

I move my free hand to the side of his face, and he grabs my wrist again, pinning me to the bookcase. One of these days, I'm going to be up to no good in this library, and I'm going to get caught. My cheeks flame with embarrassment, but that color soon darkens to the heat of lust when Tristan bites my lower lip.

He pulls back just a bit and looks me hard in the face, still panting. He's so strong, I'm completely trapped there, my arms out on either side, my chest rising and falling with rapid breaths.

“I just wanted you to choose me,” I whisper, and I see his silver gaze move from my mouth back up to my eyes. “That's all. I was just … waiting to see if you'd pick me.”

“Maybe I was waiting for the same?” he whispers, and I close my eyes. Tristan makes a frustrated sound, and I open them back up. He releases me suddenly and steps back, pushing his hair from his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Fucking hell, Marnye.”

I bring my arms in close to my chest, trying to work the numb feeling out of my fingers as Tristan glances back at me, his face full of shadows.

“You were waiting for me …” I start as he looks up at the tin ceiling tiles above us.

“I was waiting for you to fight for me,” he says, turning back to look at me, his gaze slashed through with violent heat that seems to ripple in the air between us. “What's that old saying? Don't be so sweet that people will eat you up, and don't be so bitter they spit you out?” He pauses and exhales. “Sometimes I think you're too sweet. But then I wonder if it's my job to be your bitter.”

He turns like he's about to walk away, and I take off after him, grabbing onto his arm and holding him there.

“This is a habit of yours,” I whisper, putting my face against the crisp sleeve of his blazer. “Spouting some epic shit, and then taking off. You can't do this to me anymore.”

Tristan turns around, and we're suddenly standing so close that I can't breathe.

“I'm no good for you,” he says, but his voice holds so much less vitriol than it did before, like he can't keep up the facade any longer. “You really would be best off heading for college and leaving us all behind.”

“But?” I ask, lifting my face up to look into his beautiful eyes. They seem so much lighter now. Like, instead of a stormy sky, his irises are the color of a freshly polished silver teapot.

“I might be cruel, but I'm selfish, too. I want you too much to let you go.” Tristan puts his hands on my hips, and I feel my body start to quiver. The tension between us is making me sick. “It kills me to know they've all touched you, that they've all been inside of you …” His voice softens, but seems to get darker at the same time, like velvet shadows wrapping me up in a cocoon. “Every crush of yours but me …”

I swallow hard as Tristan guides me back to the bookshelf behind us, leaning in and pressing a kiss to the fluttering pulse in my throat. My eyes close and my fingers curl around the edges of his blazer. He runs his tongue down the side of my neck, leaving a hot fire in his wake.

“We could go back to your room?” I whisper, and I feel this crazy overwhelming surge of adrenaline, so powerful that I'm not sure I can stand for much longer.

“I won't make it back to my room,” he breathes, putting his mouth next to my ear. I look up, past the towering bookcases to the ancient chandelier flickering in the rafters. I know all about that chandelier, where it was made and when and out of what materials because, well, I'm a history buff and architecture freak, but … in that moment?

I couldn't give a fuck less.

Tristan's right hand slides down and then slips underneath the pleated black folds of my skirt. He runs his palm up my thigh, but unlike Creed, he's much less polite. His fingers tease the waistband of my panties before he drops them down and cups my core in his hand.

A sharp gasp escapes me, and Tristan chuckles, this warm, velvety sound that penetrates my darkest depths.

“Shush, or someone will hear us,” he whispers, leaning in and searing my lips with his. Our tongues tangle, and I find that I can't breathe without pulling his essence into me.

“Hear what?” I whisper back, still shaking. “What exactly are we doing here?”

“You know exactly what we're doing,” Tristan tells me, and then his hand slips into my panties and his fingers dance over my wetness, making my knees buckle. He just barely manages to catch me with an arm around the waist, licking and nipping at my lower lip as his fingers work my already aching body into a frenzy.

He clearly knows what he's doing. Jealousy flares hot inside of me as I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him back hard enough to make him cringe slightly.

“Oh no, did I nick you?” I ask, and Tristan draws back just enough to give me this awful, awful little cocksure smile.

“That's what I'm talking about, Marnye. Show me some teeth.” Tristan removes his hand from under my skirt, and I can't decide if I want to kill him or if I'm grateful for the reprieve. Pretty sure I was just about to … “Let's go.”

He takes me by the wrist, leaving our stuff all laid out across the table. On our way across the massive expanse of the library, we run into Creed, lazily dragging himself across the room with his hands tucked into his pockets, ice-colored eyes half-lidded and bored senseless.

When he sees us, he opens them wide and his jaw drops.

“Watch our stuff, Cabot. Keep the Harpy claws off of it.”

“Are you serious?!” Creed shouts as we move past him, and I can hear him cursing under his breath as he watches us slip into the beautiful old bathroom with the vintage hexagon and subway tiles.

Tristan heels the door shut behind him and locks it while I stand there wondering if maybe I've lost my mind.

“What are we doing in here, Tristan?” I ask as he grabs me and sets me on the edge of the counter, leaning in so he can run his tongue across my lower lip.

“Satisfying your curiosity,” he whispers, and I raise an eyebrow.

“My curiosity?” I ask as he slides one hand down the curve of my waist, over my hip, and under my skirt. His second hand joins the first, and I realize I'm about to lose my underwear.

He smirks at me and then drops his hands to the garters holding my socks up, popping the clips and making me groan as he rubs his thumbs against my inner thighs. Each touch is like fire; each touch burns.