Ninja At First Sight (7 page)

Despite all the raging emotions and fluttering and twistings and hot flashes and yearning, his words struck me as hysterically funny. I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing.

His tone turned mock-stern, “Prepare yourself. I’m going to kiss you now.”

I nodded once as I searched his eyes, finding them slightly hazy, dark and hot; and I knew—despite his protests to the contrary—his motives weren’t entirely selfish. He’d guessed how I felt about him. He might be taking something, but he was also giving me a gift in return.

Greg paused, giving me a chance to push him away, though I sensed something like desperation behind his stare. I didn’t push him away.

He closed his eyes.

I held my breath.

His generous mouth brushed mine.

A spike of something new and warm raced through me, making me tremble.

My eyelids drifted closed.

His fingers tightened on my legs.

I pressed my mouth to his.

He retreated a fraction, our lips separating, then returned, his head tilted slightly to the side, his mouth moving against mine, massaging.

I breathed him in, lifted my hands, and cupped his jaw, feeling like I needed to hold him in place.

He retreated again, again just a fraction, and returned to bite me lightly and lick my bottom lip.

I moaned.

His hands slid up my thighs, sending shivers straight to my lower belly.

I arched my back.

His grip settled on my waist, his palms on the bare skin of my midriff, his thumbs stroking my lower ribs.

I pressed my mouth more firmly to his, feeling a building sense of urgency.

But then, he retreated a third time, and this time he did not return.

I groaned.

He chuckled.

I opened one eye.

He was grinning.

I frowned. “No tongue?”

He laughed, obviously surprised, his smile brilliant, and cocked his head to the side as my hands moved to his shoulders.

“No guy should give you tongue for your first kiss. Tongue requires practice and feels like a slimy alien creature if you’re not prepared for it, or if it’s not done properly.”

I laughed at his description. “So what do I need to do? How do I prepare for it?”

“Well…” his eyes unfocused as they moved to some spot behind me, and his voice adopted an instructional air. “First you have to want it-”

“I want it.”

His smile was quick and just as quickly suppressed. He cleared his throat. “Well, then, I shall give it to you.”

I closed my eyes immediately and lifted my chin in offering, expecting him to lean forward as he’d done before, feeling giddy and excited and a bit intoxicated. I waited, my hands on his shoulders, his on my stomach.

When he didn’t come to me, my lashes fluttered open. I found Greg watching me, his brown eyes looking lost, almost mournful, as they moved over my face.

“Ask me when I knew,” he said.

I frowned, confused by his request, and studied him, hoping I’d discover his meaning. At length, still perplexed, I did as he instructed.

“When did you know?”

I watched him take a breath, and with it all pretense fell away. All his walls, all his cleverness, all his grandstanding and pretending. He looked vulnerable, and it made my chest ache.

“When I saw you…” he whispered, leaning forward, his eyes on mine, until he became blurry. He slid his nose against my nose, nipped my bottom lip. My mouth parted in response.

“I saw you…” he kissed my parted lips, “you’d bent over to pick up your pen, or some such item…” he kissed me again, this time on the corner of my mouth, and my eyelids fell, my heart swelling, my breath catching, “and I thought to myself…” one more press of his lips on my jaw, “I thought, I am going to tap that ass.”

My eyes flew open, as did my mouth, and my head reared back, “Greg!”

“And other things!” He grinned, wagging his eyebrows, pulling me forward, “I thought,
I am going to tap that ass,
as well as other things, all having to do with how lovely you are and how much I respect you as a person.”

Uncontainable laughter erupted from my chest, and I pushed him away, “You’re unbelievable!”

“Yes, darling.” He kissed my neck as I leaned away. “I hear that all the time.”

I barked another laugh and shook my head, his kisses hot against my neck, sending tremors of delight racing through me. “Get off of me!”

“I will, but first I must taste you…” He bit my neck, making me moan.

He did this for a while, kneeling before me, his hands roaming, my limbs growing limp, and heat gathering in my stomach. Eventually his mouth found its way back to mine, and he kissed me, this time with tongue.

He was right.

It did feel like a slimy alien creature—for about three seconds.

Then it felt wonderful.

I had a nice
time on my Valentine's Day date with Mark from art history.

I did.

I really did.

No, really. I did.

He was… nice. He had polite table manners. He didn’t argue when I insisted we split the check. And when the conversation ebbed, I would ask him a question about class or feign ignorance of nineteenth century impressionists.

I felt guilty about the periods of stunted conversation because they were usually my fault. Mark would be talking and my mind would wander to Greg. I’d wonder what he was doing. I’d wonder why he didn’t object when I insisted that I go on this date with Mark. I’d wonder whether he’d decided to spend Valentine’s Day with someone else…

And then my heart hurt, and my throat would become suddenly dry and I would be slightly nauseous, and the conversation would stall, and I would feel bad.

Aside from my fixation on another man, the date was nice.

Well, it was nice right up until the point where we were ten snowy steps from my dorm and I was just about to thank him for the very nice evening. He blindsided me by affixing his lips to mine, assaulting my mouth with his tongue. I was unprepared and didn’t immediately respond. Apparently, he was also unprepared because we just stood there unmoving, his hands gripping my arms, his lips pressed to mine, and his tiny tongue impaling my lips, like he was only giving me the tip.

It was stiff and straight. He didn’t move or relax it, and given my lack of experience I wasn’t sure what to do. Honestly, I was afraid to touch it with my tongue or suck on it, like I’d done with Greg, because Mark might interpret that as permission to take up residence in my mouth for a longer period of time with his small, stabby tongue.

I just wanted this imposter of a kiss to be over.

I started counting in my head, figuring when I got to ten I would gently push him away, thank him for a very nice date, and rush into my building.

That is not what happened.

When I reached number four, I heard a throat clear.

Then I heard a familiar masculine voice with a familiar posh British accent drawl, “I do wonder, are you quite well?”

Mark stiffened further—which I hadn’t thought possible—and pushed me away slightly, releasing my upper arms and turning wide eyes in the direction of the interrupting voice.

“I… uh, what?”

“I said, are you well? I was worried you’d gotten stuck like that. Oh, I do hope I didn’t interrupt an experiment of some sort.”

Greg was leaning against one of the double doors of our dorm, propping it open, and… smoldering. I was half surprised he didn’t melt the snow around his feet.

And I felt it.

The attraction, the pull.

This feeling between us—of expectation and excitement—wasn’t something I knew how to compartmentalize. When I’d thought it was one-sided, it had been easier to control, explain away as an unrequited crush. But now I knew he felt it too. I wanted to be with him all the time. Concentrating on anything other than him was almost impossible.

His hair was ruffled, askew, like he’d been asleep or he’d run his fingers through it several times. He was dressed in dark jeans, boots, and an olive green long-sleeved T-shirt that highlighted his long, narrow torso. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his expression was all solicitous and concerned curiosity as he peered at Mark.

And yet, behind the polite façade I sensed something lurking. Something not concerned or solicitous. Something impolite.

Despite the pull of my attraction to him and the way my body instantly responded to his voice and mere presence, Greg wasn’t the only one feeling impolite. Throwing a glare in Greg’s direction—hoping it disguised the extent to which he flustered me by existing—I turned my attention back to Mark just as he spoke.

“Um, I- no. We’re not experimenting. I’m kissing my date goodnight here, man. Could you give us a minute?” Mark’s eyes flickered to mine, his pale cheeks flushing pink; the color contrasted with his wheat complexion. He took a step away from me. “I’m sorry.”

I tilted my head to the side and gave him a reassuring smile. I was about to yield to my instincts and ease his discomfort, when Greg called to us again.

“Kissing? Is that what you call that?” He whistled low then added, “If that’s how you kiss then you
should
apologize.”

I tried not to grimace. I tried, and failed.

Mark’s attention moved from me to Greg, then back again. “Who is this guy?”

I sighed, my flustered frustration punctuated by the puff of white condensation as I exhaled. “That’s Greg.”

“Greg?”

“Yes. Greg. He… lives on my floor.”

Mark’s eyes narrowed.

“Is he your boyfriend?”

“No,” I said.

“Not yet,” Greg added helpfully.

My grimace morphed into a scowl and my betraying heart quadrupled with traitorous glee as I sought to clarify, “Greg lives on my floor. He’s not my boyfriend. I wouldn’t have gone on a date with you if I had a boyfriend.”

Why I felt the need to clarify wasn’t exactly clear since I had no intention of going out with Mark again; yet the thought of Mark walking away from this evening thinking of me as a bad person didn’t sit right either.

Mark’s expression softened just before Greg volunteered, “That’s right. We’re not dating. We just make out sometimes, like yesterday.”

I couldn’t help it, I groaned. And it wasn’t just a grown of embarrassment, but a semi-moan of remembering what it was like to make out with Greg. Making out with Greg was beyond divine and he certainly never rationed his tongue.

Out of nowhere, I was having a hot flash.

I closed my eyes and let my chin drop to my chest, painful mortification expanding like an inflating balloon from the pit of my stomach to the back of my throat. Strangely, I didn’t feel embarrassed for myself; rather, I felt terribly sorry for Mark and regretful of the situation.

And I felt like a bad person.

I heard Mark’s boots crunch on the snow as he backed away from me, his voice ripe with disdain. “I thought you were a nice girl, Fiona. I guess I was wrong. You don’t have to worry about me calling you again, that’s for certain.”

Cringing, bracing for what I felt sure I would find, I lifted my gaze and found Mark staring at me with resolute indictment.

When our eyes met, he warned hatefully, “And don’t come to me for help when you can’t tell Manet from Monet.”

With that he huffed, turned, and stomped off. I watched him go until he moved beyond the perimeter of the dorm lights and was swallowed by the dark Valentine’s night.

Mark really was a nice guy. It really had been a nice date. Just nice. Not great, not fun, not interesting or thrilling or exciting. Just… nice.

And very, very wrong.

Maybe Mark was right. Maybe I wasn’t nice. Maybe my feelings of self-reproach and guilt were warranted. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone on a date with Mark when I was more than interested in—and by interested in I mean utterly infatuated with—Greg.

This was messy.

I heard Greg clear his throat again, rather obnoxiously, pulling me from my thoughts. I gathered a steadying breath and affixed Greg with a suspicious glare, hoping it communicated the weight of my ire.

“I’m not talking to you,” I said through gritted teeth. I was mad of course, but mostly at myself.

“I see. You’re struck speechless with gratitude. Don’t fret too much,” he gave me a half smile as his gaze swept up, then down my body, adding darkly, “I’m not all that interested in talking anyway.”

I made a sound in the back of my throat that I wasn’t expecting, a half swallow-misfire half huff, and turned completely around to face him. And, confound it, I was blushing.

He was beyond exasperating. Just yesterday he’d encouraged me to go on the date with Mark. In fact, after he gave me my first kiss and first French kiss, he’d
insisted
I go on the date with Mark. Then he packed up his tequila and left. Then he’d avoided me all day. So why was he now standing there behaving like the jealous boyfriend?

I leveled him with what I hoped was an incendiary stare as I stomped past him into the dorm, and made a beeline for the stairwell.

He was close behind me. At first I felt his nearness, then as we ascended the stairs I heard the resonance of his footsteps in rhythm with mine.

We climbed two flights, the atmosphere between us crackling with tension, each step a chapter of unsaid words. My accelerated heartbeat had very little to do with the stairs I was taking two at a time. I kept expecting him to touch me, stop me, ask me to listen to some explanation for his behavior.

But he didn’t.

Unable to endure another second of this silent torture, I spun abruptly and pointed my finger at his face, demanding, “Why did you do that?”

If he was surprised by my questioning, he didn’t look it. To my complete exasperation, he appeared entirely unfazed.

“Why did I do what?” He shrugged.

“Why did you interrupt my date with Mark?”

“I’ll give you three guesses.” His voice was steady, but his mouth curved into a derisive twist, and his eyes narrowed.

I studied him, his achingly handsome face and his dark eyes glaring at mine with mocking accusation. “Greg, you insisted that I go! You could have asked me not to go.”

His left eyebrow hitched and I wasn’t surprised when his words arrived deadpan and sarcastic. “What? After he’d already made the reservations for Applebees'? That would have been extraordinarily poor form. That is where he took you on your
Valentine's
date, isn’t it? Applebee's?”

“No,” I groused, then rolled my eyes, admitting, “He took me to Olive Garden.”

Greg made a clicking sound with his tongue and walked around me to the next flight of stairs, mumbling, “Of course he did.”

Now I was climbing after him. “There is nothing wrong with Applebee's or Olive Garden and you didn’t answer my question. If you didn’t want me to go, why didn’t you say something? Why encourage me to go on a date with another man if you didn’t want me to go?”

Greg’s laugh was loud and sharp and sudden. “Fiona, you didn’t go on a date with a man. If Mark from art history had been a man I would have sabotaged the evening early on. As it was, you went on a date with a nineteen-year-old boy. I didn’t need to raise a finger. Nineteen-year-old boys are harmless.”

“And when you were nineteen you were harmless?” My voice echoed in the cavernous stairwell.

He stopped suddenly and turned. His jaw was set and his usually generous lips were pressed together in a firm, angry line. Greg backed me up against the stair railing and peered down at me with heavy-lidded eyes shadowed by thick black lashes.

When he answered I felt the heat from his body, scant inches separating us; his words were low and dark, just a rumble above a whisper. “You know better, Darling. I’ve never been harmless. And it’s a good thing too, because you don’t want harmless.”

I succeeded in maintaining eye contact—I even managed a stubborn chin tilt—and was able to toss back, “You might be right, maybe harmless doesn’t appeal to me much. But this feels a lot like playing games, Greg. And playing games doesn’t appeal to me either.”

His eyes darted between mine. I could tell I’d surprised him because his angry expression was eclipsed by thoughtful deliberation. He appeared to be struggling.

At last, with measured sounding gentleness, he asked, “What appeals to you, Fiona?”

“Honesty. Sincerity.” Then, because I’d just told him to be honest and I didn’t want to be a coward or a hypocrite, I added weakly, “You.”

Greg visibly relaxed, the tight line of his lips smoothing. “When I’m being honest?”

“Yes.”

He continued to scrutinize me as he gathered a deep breath, and in doing so his chest brushed against mine. I felt debilitated by his nearness. Seconds ticked by. He said nothing.

If I’d known him better I might’ve been able to decipher the puzzle of his expression. It occurred to me that the feeling between us, this intangible magnetic field of mutual esteem, might be fleeting. Perhaps it was premature, and based on presumption rather than reality. He was so handsome, so charming, so uniquely charismatic. But what did I really
know
about him?

Before I could travel too far down the road of doubt, he said, “I’m going to start calling you Fe.”

“Why? A nickname for Fiona?”

“No. Because you have nerves of steel. I’m not typically a game player. When I’m around you…” He stopped, swallowed, his dark eyes a little desperate. “I was going to say,
you make me crazy
. But it’s not you, it’s me. I make me crazy, thinking about you. Does that make sense?”

I nodded, feeling myself thaw.

He continued haltingly, “I
did
want you to go on this date with Creepy Mark from art history.”

“He’s not creepy-”