She's Too Young (She's Too Young #1)(3)

By: Jessa Kane



“I wasn’t going to jump.” I say it fast, because there’s a serious rebellion in my stomach at the idea of her leaving. “Although, a man ought to be able to jump off his own building without being interrupted. Technically you’re trespassing.”

Worrying her lip between two rows of white teeth, she gives me a once over, looking completely unimpressed that I own jack shit. “Are you going to take me prisoner?”

Unbelievable. She’s flirting with me. When was the last time I allowed a woman to flirt with me, instead of treating any physical situation like a business transaction? Maybe never. I have a feeling I would have loathed such behavior coming from anyone but this girl. Why? “I could call the police,” I say, propping my hand on the ledge behind her, getting another whiff of bubble gum. “A minor wouldn’t be judged too harshly.”

Her brave smile wavers. “I thought I looked older in this dress.” She runs a hand down the sparkly discount garment that isn’t worthy of her body. “They served me a glass of wine at the open bar inside.”

“Then they’re fired.”

She flinches at my hard tone, straightening a little against the wall. There we go. She has finally realized I’m not one of her schoolyard admirers. “I’m seventeen,” she whispers. “But that wasn’t my first glass of wine.”

Seventeen. Fuck. I thought I was prepared for the confirmation that I’m in all-out lust with a high school student, but I was wrong. Because I thought knowing her age might force me—through my conscience—to pat her on the head and walk away. Only, our faces are still mere inches apart and my dick is still hard. Hard. And I’m counting the ways I’d like to introduce myself to her angelic mouth.

“Not your first glass of wine,” I say, echoing her words. “How about a different kind of first?” Unable to stop myself, I lift a hand, settling it on her hip. Not exactly her hip, though. More like the area where her hip turns into her high, taut bottom. And her glossy, doll lips pop open, like she’s never been touched by someone who knows what they’re doing.

“I’ve…I’ve had my first kiss already,” she says, staring at my throat, then up at my eyes, then back to my throat.

There’s the jealousy again, bubbling up like boiled poison. “With a man or a boy?”

“Boy.”

I feel like a predator, here. I really fucking do. So if you’re judging me, we’re on the same page. But if you were in my position, standing in front of the only thing to make your blood move in what felt like a century—have I been a vampire all this time?—you would be throwing rules out with the fucking bath water, too. I’ve gone too long without someone saying no to me or telling me I can’t do or have something. I recognize that as part of the problem, even as I’m moving closer, getting ready to ruin her for the little boys she’s allowed into her orbit. I’m hungry and lonely and she’s got life radiating behind those eyes; from her ripe, too-young body and I want it for myself.

I will have her for myself.

When my lips touch down, she whimpers, like I’ve scared her, and that’s the last thing I want. I rule my company with fear and look where it’s gotten me. Alone. Disconnected. Resented. No, I want her to feel the same need I’m experiencing. I need her to fucking require me, and have that feeling not scare her, but make her feel secure, instead. I have no idea how to accomplish that, nor do I understand why this girl—this girl—is making me feel like this.

But I have no time to question it, because when I meet her gaze, I swear she heard everything I just told you. The blue of her eyes loses its fear, even if the nerves remain. And then she presses her tight curves against my body—testing, testing—and her breath teases my lips, and I’m fucked. Forever.

I go in with a groan that trails off into stunned nothing, because there’s no description of her taste. Not in the entire English language. To say that her mouth tasted like wine and bubble gum would never be sufficient, because there was an additional succulence there that I would do a disservice to by attempting to name. I actually have to open my eyes to make sure she’s not a wet dream, that I’m not thrusting against my mattress downtown, starved for something that isn’t real.

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