How to Date the Guy You Hate by Julie Kriss Page 0,15

slowed me down, but she turned furiously and dashed after the ball before I could grab it. She was quick, and as she circled the court again, dodging my blocks and heading for the basket, I realized something: Megan was upset. Not just at me, but at something else. Something big that was making her edgy and angry and just a little bit crazy.

I knew the feeling.

I was being nice, because she was right: I was bigger and stronger than she was, trained and warmed up. But now I pushed her limits, dodging in front of her, stealing the ball out of her hand. She should have given up, but I knew she wouldn’t; she gave a yowl like a pissed-off cat’s and pounded after me, trying to get the ball back as I turned my back to her, left and right.

She got around me and faced me, her knees crouched, both her hands out. I stopped dribbling the ball and held it in one hand, mirroring her. I looked her right in the eyes. Rain was soaking her hair now, dripping down her face, but her gray-green eyes were fixed on me and blazing in a way that made my blood pound so hard I could feel the pulse in my neck.

“Bring it,” I said to her.

One eyebrow quirked just a little, but still she stared at me. And then I committed my fatal flaw.

I noticed that her dress was wet. The rain was making it stick to her body, the dip of her waist and the curve of her hip. It was sticking wetly to her breasts and her belly and I could even see the faint outline of a V between her legs. She wasn’t showing it off; it was just there, and my dick radar was on, and I noticed. My eyes dropped from hers for a split second as I checked her out.

Megan feinted left, and when I twitched in reaction, she dodged right and scooped the ball out of my hand, running for the basket again.

“Fucking hell,” I shouted, running after her, too slow. Megan bellowed a shout of triumph that echoed through the deserted park as she did a perfect layup this time, tipping the ball into the basket. When she landed, my momentum crashed me into her, and we stumbled off the edge of the court into the grass. Our feet tangled and we fell, Megan on her back, me on top of her.

We were both breathing hard. I could feel her chest moving beneath mine. She was on her back on the wet grass, but she didn’t move, she didn’t squirm. She didn’t push me off her. Instead she stared up into my eyes and her angry triumph was overtaken by a look of slow surprise as she felt me against her. I’d gone hard, and the basketball shorts hid exactly nothing.

“Jesus, Jason,” she breathed.

I should have been embarrassed, but I wasn’t. She’d seen it before, anyway. I shrugged, still looking down at her. “Sorry,” I said. “It happens. I’ll get off if you want.”

But she didn’t tell me to get off. She slid her hips beneath me experimentally, sliding them along mine. She watched me wince at the jolt of sensation, and then she moved her hips again as a drowsy, drugged, totally turned-on look came into her eyes. It was not a fake look meant to flirt; it was not even close. I pressed my hips into hers, and watched as she took a little gasping intake of breath.

I leaned down and touched my lips to the side of her neck, brushing them lightly, smelling rain and sweat and aroused girl. She shivered when I touched her, so I did it again. “Now you remember,” I said softly, my mouth against her skin. “I’m packing some heat.”

She shivered again, and her hips flexed up against mine, her thighs opening so I notched between them. She took a deep, panting breath. I pressed against her through our clothes, slow and hard, watching her feel it. Watching her back arch a little.

I’m not gonna brag, but my dick is one of my best features. It’s… sizeable, let’s say. And I knew she was remembering every line, every contour of it as it pressed against her. Her eyes went half closed.

We had heat between our bodies now despite the rain, and I slid against her again, feeling the perfect torture of rubbing on the cleft between her legs. I gasped a little,