Page 109 of Make the Play

I blink up at him. “What?”

He exhales through his nose, but it’s not calm, not even close.

“This. This fucking rule bullshit.”

“What about it?”

“You’re just making shit up now, so you don’t have to admit you want me.”

My lips part, but before I can even think up a rebuttal, before I can throw up another shield, he’s speaking again.

“Jesus, Zo, you’ve been toeing this line all fucking night. When you were flirting with that guy just to get my hands on you. When you draped yourself over me like I was actually your fucking boyfriend. And now, this?”

I open my mouth and then close it. Heat licks up my spine, and I hate how much I like the way he’s talking. Frustrated but desperate, annoyed but passionate.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I try, too light and too airy.

“Bullshit.”

His voice is sharp now, full of something heated and dangerous.

“You expect me to believe that if you kiss me right now, it means nothing?”

I shrug to deflect. “I mean, we’re at a festival. People kiss at festivals all the time. It’s, like, the rule.”

“Oh, that’s fucking cute.”

My stomach drops, and I scramble for a retort.

“The rule,” he echoes, voice soaked in disdain. “What the actual fuck kind of rule is that?”

I swallow hard. “I’m just saying—”

His lips skim dangerously close to my ear, voice low and lethal.

“You planning on kissing anyone else here tonight?”

“What?No—”

“Huh. That’s weird.” His fingers brush against my hips. “Because it sounded a whole lot like you just said people kiss everyone at festivals, and that’s just”—he makes a mock-confused face, tilting his head—“not fucking happening, baby.”

A slow, traitorous shiver rolls through me.

“If anyone is kissing you tonight, it’s me.”

I roll my eyes, shoving down the way my pulse is rioting. “Possessive much?”

“Call it what you want.” His mouth brushes my temple again. “But let’s not pretend this festival-kissing bullshit applies to anyone but me.”

I need to stop this. I need to regain control. I need to—

“Say it.”

My brain short-circuits. “What?”

“Say you want me to kiss you.”

I scoff. “God, you’re insufferable—”

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