Home > A Million Kisses in Your Lifetime(7)

A Million Kisses in Your Lifetime(7)
Author: Monica Murphy

Everything inside me withers and dies. “It’ll just be easier. I’m comfortable with Sam, and Crew makes me…uneasy.”

“In a threatening way?” The concern in her voice is very, very real.

Maybe this is the weak spot, where I can burrow my way into getting what I want. “Yes, he always has such a horrible look on his face.”

“So he’s never actually threatened you in any way?”

This is where my honesty gets me. “No. Not really.”

His mere existence feels like a threat, but I can’t tell her that. I sound like a horrible person for thinking such a thing, let alone managing to say it out loud.

“I think you need a challenge, Wren. You’re always wanting to help people.”

“Girls,” I stress. “What do any of the boys have to worry about at this school?” I’m not condoning it, just stating facts. “They’re all golden. Untouchable. They can do whatever they want, especially the one whose name is everywhere we look.”

My skin grows prickly with awareness when I sense someone approaching. I can feel his warmth, smell his deliciously intoxicating scent, and I know.

I just know who it is.

“Is there a problem?” Crew asks, his deep, rumbly voice touching something foreign inside of me.

I brace myself for Skov to tell on me.

“Miss Beaumont had a few questions on the project. Right, Miss Beaumont?” Ms. Skov smiles broadly at the both of us.

I nod, keeping my head down. I can feel his gaze burning my skin as he watches me, and I’m worried if I look into his eyes, I’ll turn to stone. Like he’s freaking Medusa with a bunch of coiled snakes as hair.

“You two should go sit down and get started,” Skov encourages.

“Okay,” I croak, daring to look in Crew’s direction.

To find him already watching me, the look on his handsome face so dark, my knees nearly buckle.









Wren Beaumont is petrified of me.

I knew the moment she shot out of her seat and went to Ms. Skov’s desk that she was trying to get out of working with me. I could tell. Everyone else in the class was shifting into position, pairing up with their project partners, while I sat there by myself and fumed.

She’s making me look like a damn fool, and for what? Because she thinks I’m going to treat her like shit? Doesn’t she realize she’s only making things worse? She’s just too wrapped up in her own worry to realize what she’s done.

Typical behavior.

In tandem, we turn away from Skov’s desk, and Wren goes to hers, about to settle in when I speak up.

“I don’t want to sit in the front.”

A frown mars her pretty face. Because there is no denying it. Wren Beaumont is beautiful. If sheltered little prudes are your thing—which, apparently, they are for me. “Why not?”

“I’d rather sit in the back.” I indicate with a nod toward my desk that sits empty.

She turns her head, studying the empty desks surrounding mine and her shoulders sag in defeat. “Okay.”

Triumph ripples through me as I watch her grab her notebook and her backpack, my gaze dropping to her legs. She wears the skirt at normal length, which is too long in my opinion, and she has white knee-high socks on today, so I don’t get to see much actual flesh. Those stupid fucking Mary Janes are on her feet, but they’re not her usual Docs. They’re another brand and style, sleek and shiny.

Little Miss Virgin is changing it up. Nice.

I follow her to the back of the room, taking in the straight line of her shoulders, the glossy straight brown hair that falls down her back. She’s got the front pieces pulled back in a white bow like a child, and I wonder, yet again, if she’s ever been kissed.

Probably not. She’s as sweet and innocent as they come, with a diamond on her finger, promising her father she will keep herself pure until marriage.

I have no idea why I find that so damn attractive, but I do. I want to mess her up. Fuck her up. Fuck with her, actually fuck her until she’s completely addicted to me and forgets all about her virginal promises. Destroying this sweet, innocent girl feels like sport.

A challenge.

A game.

She daintily settles into the empty chair beside mine, dropping her notebook onto the desk with a loud slap. I sit next to her and lean back, sprawling my legs wide, my foot nudging against hers purely by accident.

Wren immediately jerks her foot away as if I scalded her.

“Are you going to get a notebook out?” she asks.

“For what?”

“To interview me. Ask questions. Take notes.”

“Skov said we’re getting to know each other. It’s the first day of the project. We still have a long time to go.” This chick needs to chill the fuck out.

“I want to do well on this,” she stresses, her gaze fixated on the empty page in front of her. “I want to get a good grade.”

“I do too. We will. Don’t sweat it.”

“Is that how you approach everything?” She lifts her head, mossy green eyes meeting mine. Don’t think I’ve ever sat this close to Wren in the over three years we’ve gone to school together, and I’m taken aback at how gorgeous those eyes are. “No sweat. Don’t worry about it?”

“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “Have a problem with that?”

“That’s not how I operate. I work hard to get good grades and maintain my 5.0 grade average.”

She dropped that little tidbit on purpose. A total flex for the virgin, big deal.

“We have something in common,” I tell her, making her frown.


“I have a 5.0 grade average too.” We’ve both been in advanced classes since freshman year.

The look of disbelief crossing her face is undeniable. “Really?”

“Don’t sound so skeptical. It’s true.” I shrug.

“I never see you study.”

“We don’t exactly hang in the same areas. I never see you study either.”

Wren says nothing to that because it’s true. We definitely don’t hang with the same crowd in the same places.

“I’m sure the only reason you get good grades is because of your last name,” she retorts.

Whoa. Little Miss Virgin has some bite.

“You think I have a 5.0 grade average because I’m a Lancaster? And I go to Lancaster Prep?” I raise a brow when she dares to look at me.

She drops her gaze, her head bent. “Maybe.”

“I’m offended.” Her head lifts, her expression now full of remorse. “I’m not an idiot, little birdy.”

“Little birdy?”

“Your name is a bird.” My nickname isn’t that original, but that’s what she reminds me of sometimes. A sweet little bird, flitting from branch to branch. Chirping at everyone, the sound light and melodic.

“And your name is a sport. Shall I call you that? What’s up, old sport?” She rolls her eyes.

Huh. She also has a bit of a sense of humor. I didn’t think that was possible. She’s always marching around campus, advocating for her causes. The plight of young rich women, which is totally uninteresting, if you ask me. I don’t care about a bunch of virginal freshmen girls. Not like she does.

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