Alright. I've accepted it. I have a bit of a thing for him. For Tristan. For Zayd. For Zack. Windsor … is just a friend, right? Or … maybe I'm just scared to admit I'm crushing on him when I'm not too sure that he likes me back?

Creed follows me as I weave through the aisles, heading back toward the history section and sliding the binder full of old school newspapers back on the shelf. We're in separate history classes, but we both have the same assignment: put together an essay on Burberry Prep and its relation to politics during the late eighteen hundreds. Ugh.

"Marnye," he repeats, and I spin around. It's still so new to me to hear the boys call me by my name. Zayd still occasionally says Working Girl, and both him and Tristan say Charity, but there's an affectionate little tint to it now that I actually like. I'm all about reclaiming and re-purposing words.

"What?"

Creed leans in close, putting his hands on the metal shelf on either side of my hips. He doesn't touch me, but there's barely a hairbreadth between us. My mind conjures up Miranda's words: For what those boys did to you, they should let you date them all until you make up your mind.

"I've been patient, but on the inside, I'm wasting away."

"Drama queen," I blurt, and then after a second, "drama prince." Creed has always struck me as more of a prince and less of a king. And it's not because he's inferior to Tristan, it's just … he's different. If he spent less time trying to be or beat Tristan, and more time on his own endeavors, he'd be a force to be reckoned with.

Creed smirks, and I do my best not to sigh as his scent overwhelms me. He always smells so damn clean, like laundry detergent on fresh crisp cotton, hung out in the bright sun and brisk breeze to dry. Wow, Marnye, waxing poetic much?

"It's true." He leans in close and presses a kiss next to my left eye. My body shudders, and I hear him make this satisfied male sound. "I've been on pins and needles. And you have no idea how much I want to punch Zack."

"He's a good guy," I whisper, but it's so hard to think with Creed this close to me, his uniform just slightly disheveled, the top three buttons undone and revealing just a glimpse of flat, smooth chest underneath.

He makes a small sound of acknowledgement, but that's about it.

"I want to kiss you so bad right now," Creed drawls, and my pulse skyrockets. I can hear the blood pounding in my head.

"What's stopping you?" I whisper back, and his half-lidded eyes go wide. As slowly and lazily as he does everything else, he moves his front hand from the shelf and places it on my hip. His other hand comes up and he tickles beneath my chin with his long fingers. My head drops back and my eyes close as he leans in toward me.

Our mouths brush, but just barely. It's too much of a tease, and I feel myself start to shake with all of this suppressed need, all these crazy hormones. I've spent two years chasing after and being chased by the Idols. At this point in our relationship, we're working on forgiveness, and trying to build new friendships.

Before, there were obstacles in front of us every time we kissed, whether I was aware of them or not.

But right now, there's nothing but air.

Lifting up on my toes, I complete the contact, my lips pressing tight against his.

Heat sears through me, and Creed surges forward, pressing his entire body against mine. His knee goes between my legs, and his right arm sweeps my waist. My back is now pressed tight to the books, the front of my body rubbing against Creed. I can feel my nipples tighten to hard points, my core flush with warmth.

Creed parts my lips with his tongue, tasting me, and making this rough sound that's so at odds with his insouciant personality that I'm almost startled into putting my hands on his shoulders. He presses deeper into me, testing my limits, but I'm completely relaxed. I want to see what happens when we kiss without restraint.

My right hand slides down, and I slip it inside his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin against my palm. He groans, and I forget for a minute that we're in the library. My hand comes down and I forcefully part a few more of those buttons.

"Fuck," he curses after a minute, turning his head away from mine. We're still all pressed together, and with my right hand, I can feel his heart thundering in his chest. "Damn it. Why do I like you so much?"

"My winning personality?" I joke, and Creed snorts, but we're both panting and shaking. There's a tension inside of me, like a string's been pulled taut between my lips and my core. I want … more. More than this. So much more. "The real question should be: why do I like you? You're a major jerk, Creed Cabot."

"An insufferable asshole," he agrees, turning back to look at me. This time, the heavy-lidded bedroom eyes aren't just for show. This time, I can tell he wants more, too. Creed's kind of a … virgin. That's what Miranda said. Do I believe it? Does it matter?

Or maybe it does?

Maybe I'd rather lose my virginity to another virgin?

Or am I overthinking this?

"We should get back to the project," I whisper, but I don't take my hand out of his shirt.

"I'm not going to lie: I have a raging hard-on right now. I am absolutely not going back to write about crusty old white dudes."

"You …" I start, but then words just fail me. I'm stuck between a giggle and a fresh bloom of lust. My eyes drift down, but Creed beats me to it by grabbing one of my hands and placing it right over the hard bulge in his crotch. I make a small sound, and he groans. When he lets go of me, I don't move my hand.

We're both staring at each other now, panting hard, quivering with need.

"Marnye!" I hear Miranda call my name cheerfully from the study area, and I know she's found our stuff. She'll know we're here.

It's like a bucket of ice water's been thrown over the two of us. Creed jerks back and turns, raking his fingers through his hair and cursing. Me, I shuffle back to the table and find Miranda leafing through one of the old yearbooks I pulled out.

She glances up and then crinkles her brow.

When she sees her brother close behind me, holding a book over his crotch, her brows practically go up to her hairline.

"What the hell are you two doing in here?"

"Discussing how you've always copied me, even as a child." Creed sweeps his bookbag up and levels a devastating glare on his sister. Most people would shrink back from that look, but Miranda barely blinks. She must be used to it.

“Because I wanted my hair cut short when we were five? That's me 'always'”—she makes little quotes with her fingers—“copying you?”

"I'm just saying, the first girl I've ever truly liked and you decide to go after her, too? You're the epitome of annoying little sister."

Miranda chucks a pencil at him, and he dodges, still covering his crotch.

"I'm ten minutes younger than you, you prick!"

Creed sweeps blond hair from his forehead, in the boys' version of a hair flip. He is disturbingly good at it.

"I have to go. Try not to make-out with my future girlfriend while I'm gone." He moves past us, and Miranda tosses another pen at him. This one nails him right in the back of the neck, and he pauses briefly to turn another earthshaking glare on her before he spins back around and gets the hell out of Dodge.

My body is on fucking fire.

Being seventeen sucks.

"What were you two doing in the shadowy aisles, hmm?" Miranda purrs, but I just sit down in the chair with a huff.

"Just kissing," I say, but I wonder … if we hadn't been in the library, and we hadn't been interrupted, how much farther would we have gone?

With off-campus privileges restored, it's actually a possibility for us all to take a little trip into town together. I'm so nervous when we meet in the front courtyard … until I spot Zayd pretending to hump the statue of the stag. Or maybe he's trying to ride it? I'm not sure, but I'm already covering my mouth to hold back a snort of laughter when I walk around to the front of the fountain.

"Don't make a bet you know you can't win," Zayd crows, howling with laughter as he scrabbles up onto the deer's back, and gets out his phone. It's Saturday, and I swear, it's like an electronics frenzy sweeps the school when we all get our phones back. The addiction is real. He takes several pics of himself, and then notices me standing there.

"Zayd Warren Kaiser," I say, putting my hands on my hips. I've got on tight, dark skinny jeans, red leather boots that I stole from Miranda's closet, and a tight, corset-like top with little buttons down the front. I feel good today, confident, but now that I'm standing out in the brisk fall breeze, I'm wondering why I didn't bring a jacket. "What are you doing up there?"

"Uh, riding the stag?" he says, and then cringes when Ms. Felton's voice snaps out.

"Mr. Kaiser, climbing the courtyard statue is worth two marks. Get down from there right now." She marches up to the brick half-wall that surrounds the fountain and crosses her arms over her chest.