Beneath The Skin (A College Obsession Romance) (15 page)

“Or not?” I taunt him.

He lets go at once, despite my foot being pressed firmly against his junk. He looks like a man I’m about to arrest, his face showing surprise and his hands hovering tentatively in the air.

I suppress a smile of amusement, then work my foot deeper, giving him a “foot massage” of my own.

He shuts his eyes and clamps his fingers to the edges of the table. A deep groan of approval escapes his throat. I grin, encouraged by his reaction, and continue to use my foot to help out with his not-so-little “situation” down there.

Then he brings a fist to his mouth and bites it. “You’re making this impossible,” he says through his clenched teeth, muffled.

“Making … what … impossible?” I ask innocently.

“Making it impossible for me to—” I push deeper into his crotch, which seems to push a moan out of his lips. “For me to behave myself.”

“We’re behaving,” I assure him.

Then his eyes meet mine, and boy do they smolder. I’ve never seen blue eyes smolder the way his do in this moment, burning me with their daring, sexualized fury. His eyes have that “I’m gonna get you back” look to them. I suppose that’s the sort of look one earns when one so brazenly plays with fire.

The very next moment, a server—who is a boy with cherry cheeks and bleached blond hair—appears with our orders, announcing them as he sets each plate in front of us.

My foot never leaves Brant’s crotch. Brant’s gaze never leaves mine.

“Bon appétit,” says the server, oblivious, then departs.

And as I continue to torment Brant beneath the table with my cruel toes, I’m just another diner in the restaurant, innocently cutting into my steak and slipping the first bite past my lips. “Mmm,” I moan, our eyes still locked on one another. “Delish.”

He shuts his eyes again, issuing a small moan of his own as I continue to drive him crazy under the tablecloth.

“Aren’t you going to try yours?” I ask lightly.

“You’re evil.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” He struggles to pretend like nothing’s amiss, grabbing his fork and knife like a caveman and gracelessly cutting himself off a chunk, stabbing it into his mouth, and chewing demonstratively. Then, through his mouthful, he blurts, “Tasty.”

“Orgasmic, even,” I suggest.

“Explosive,” he agrees, his wetted eyes growing more and more crazed by the second.

I lean forward a bit and bring my voice down. “This
is
pretty mean, isn’t it?”

“The meanest,” he agrees.

“Especially when I
still
turn you down for sex after this.” I take a forkful of mashed potatoes, moaning as I eat them. “Wow. These are particularly succulent.”

“You’ll turn me down? Really? After working me up?”

“Try the potatoes.”

“Babe, I’m going to have the worst case of blue balls …”

“Potatoes,” I repeat, tapping my plate with my fork.

He scoops up some potatoes just as mannishly, shoveling so much into his mouth that his cheek bulges. Then he chews, his unblinking eyes locked on me as I continue to massage him.

“You have so much tension down there,” I note.

“Let’s skip dessert,” he says through his bite.

“But that’s my favorite part.”

And then I pull my foot back. I see him lurch forward, as if pulling my foot away had more of an effect on him than putting it there in the first place. His jaw hangs open, staring at me in disbelief across the table. I innocently return my attention to my plate.

He sputters before finally getting his question out. “Who are you?”

I just smile and enjoy my meal above the table, as I’ve finished enjoying the one beneath it.

Finally, after a few more bites of his steak, he shakes his head and says, “You’re like night and day, Nell.”

I swallow my mouthful. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, just days ago you turned me into your art exhibit and … I’m pretty sure the message behind that was you didn’t want anything to do with me. And then, through a great effort—”

“That wasn’t quite the message.”

“Through a great effort of mine,” he presses on, “I convinced you somehow this afternoon to actually interrupt your busy artist schedule go on a date with me.”

“Still haven’t declared this a date yet.”

“And now you’re … so fuckin’ frisky that
I’m
feeling caught off-guard. Me. Brant Rudawski.
I’m
caught off-guard. I’m blushing and shit. This isn’t me.”

“Your last name’s Rudawski?” I ask, then take a sip of my water.

He sets down his utensils, eyeing me from across the table. “Forgive me, Nell. I’m just gettin’ a lot of … mixed messages. I know you’re into me. You have to be into me. Basically everyone is. Even dudes.”

I chortle into my glass, then experience a sudden wave of regret. I don’t mean to lead him on so strongly. I’ve always been a bit like the kitty that races up the curtains, then can’t figure out how to get back down. I can’t resist an impulse when it takes hold of my mind. Those impulses are the reason I’m an artist.

They also happen to get me in trouble.

“When we first met,” I reason with him, changing my demeanor to something a touch more serious, “I think it’s clear to say I got a certain impression of you, Brant.”

“A naked one,” he agrees.

“Second time I met you, I got a similar impression.”

“Another naked one.”

“So forgive
me
,” I say, lowering my voice and leaning forward, “if I might need a little time to sort out whether it’s you playing me, or me playing you.”

He nods slowly. “What you’re telling me is, you want to get the hell out of here and play a bit somewhere else?”

His leg is bouncing excitedly under the table. His eyes gleam with a hunger I know has nothing to do with the steak he just crammed in his mouth. I worry that I’m pushing my luck here with a guy I barely know, once again following in my dad’s footsteps, being totally fucking reckless and irresponsible.

Why do I always do this? Why am I such a glutton for danger and darkness? Why is the good girl in me always wanting to do bad things?

“Yes,” I answer him, a challenging smirk on my face. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

BRANT

I drop the keys twice on the way back to the car.

I can barely say anything on the ride over except stupid shit, like asking how she thought the steak was, or whether the restaurant felt too cramped for a Monday.
Who cares, Brant? You’re driving to her place! And if you play all your Kings and Aces right, you’ll win the Queen!

“Here,” she murmurs.

I pull to a stop in front of a tall building just past the bridge over Jefferson Brook. I’m a bit turned around and possibly too intoxicated by horniness at the moment to process whether or not this is the nice side of town. From the look of the seemingly abandoned vehicles and boarded-up stores down the road, I might make a guesstimate as to which side I’m on.

She opens the door to a rundown warehouse-like building and we start ascending a narrow staircase which goes on forever. I’m about to complain until I realize I have a beautifully hypnotic view of Nell’s tight ass all the way up the approximately nine hundred flights. I think that’s enough motivation to shut up and bear the sore thighs. I could almost feel thankful for the lack of a working elevator.

We finally arrive at a sliding metal door, which she unlocks and pulls open with a heavy grunt. She flips on a switch inside, which actually lights up an array of different sized and shaped lamps that line one wall, giving the long room a multihued glow of various oranges and ambers. She lives in an industrial loft that overlooks the Jefferson Brook and the buildings below through its wall of windows that stretch the length of two walls—as we’re in a corner of the building. I’ve never been to New York City, but instantly I could believe I was there right now, staring out the window of some high-rise. I might be wrong, but I think I can even see Klangburg University in the distance. That is, if I’m even looking in the right direction.

“Want a drink?”

I turn away from the window at the inviting sound of her soft voice. She’s in her kitchenette, which is a modest L of countertop, a stove that’s seen better days, and a fridge that groans like it’s clinging to its last breath. Beyond the kitchen is a shadowed space I can’t see too well and a bed farther off by the window. I don’t even see the door to another room, leading my mind to wonder where the hell the bathroom is. I’m not used to such an open living space. I envy it, considering my own cramped living situation.

“I’m good.” I offer a smile, tucking my hands away in my pockets. “This is quite the pad you got here.”

“It’s alright. I hate the lighting in the evening; sun’s right in my face. Horrible for work.” She pulls out a bottle of something, cracks it open on the side of the counter, then kicks it back. I watch her in half-admiration, feeling as if I’m discovering a new facet of her every damn second. I’ve learned more about her tonight than I did all last week.

And I even still have my clothes on.

“You do your work here?” I ask.

“Yes, some of it.”

She takes another swig, leaning back against the counter. It’s very difficult not to stare at her sexy thighs, imagine the warmth between them, and reckon how horny it’d make me to put my face in all of that. Just the thought stirs my cock.

“Want to show me your work?”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Are you that much in a hurry to get chained up naked and turned into another art piece again?”

I grin, a jolt of excitement coursing through me. Honestly, I might totally go for that exact situation again, provided it’s just her and I in the gallery. “Cuffed,” I correct her sassily, unable to resist giving her another onceover with my hungry eyes.

Nell chuckles, then pushes herself off the counter and heads for the shadowy area. I follow, our footsteps echoing all over the room. This loft has to be twice the size of my apartment. How does she afford a place of this size off-campus? I immediately answer my own question, figuring that in a rundown neighborhood like this, even a makeshift loft probably doesn’t go for much in terms of rent.

Or maybe she’s the sole heir to some family fortune and I’m a total judgmental prick.

She flips a switch, startling me, and three overhanging lights I didn’t notice before now bring into existence a cemetery of easels and tiny platforms upon which half-finished structures are perched. I see what looks like a big clay animal without its head—either a puppy or a pig, judging from the tail. There’s a giant papier-mâché spiked heel shoe, painted a glossy black. My eyes move to the easels and I see only two of them that carry drawings. Upon closer inspection, I realize one is a painting, in fact. It’s on a tall canvas—a familiar painting.

“Hey,” I say, pointing at it with recognition. “It’s a naked woman with ‘censored’ over her mouth.”

“I had to paint the idea first,” she explains, coming up to my side, “before making the … the piece of art I never quite showed.”

“Because you showed
me
instead.”

She smirks, but it looks more like she’s trying not to smile. “I much preferred the live version.”

“Me too.”

I study the painting. It’s not that I didn’t previously think Nell was a good artist, but I’m kinda surprised by how good she
actually
is. The painting looks totally professional. The shading on the woman’s legs gives her such a depth, it’s like she’s stepping right off the canvas. Her thighs are gorgeous and full, just like Nell’s, and her pussy is smooth and delicately pink. I stare at that particular area, surprised to find myself admiring its beauty more than being turned on by it.

“Beautiful, really,” I hear myself say.

She doesn’t respond, lowering herself to a nearby pedestal that contains no art and kicking back her bottle again. I turn away from the painting and catch her sharp, green eyes staring at mine. There’s a defiant look about them, as if she resents my comments about her work. Or maybe she’s just one of those artists who doesn’t take well to compliments.