Blind Spot - Katana Collins Page 0,63

study French, we might as well immerse ourselves, right?”

He grinned at the group, shooting me a wink as Reagan’s smile lit up toward me. I like him, she mouthed silently.

The remainder of the bottle was drunk without any further drama, and I think I owed that, in part, to Reagan. The glares she kept shooting at Harrison kept him in line, and combined with my hand clasped around Tate’s, it seemed to be the recipe for success.At least, no one killed one another. So I called it a win.

After about an hour, Reagan and Harrison said their good-byes, and Tate and I hit the books, equipped with a second bottle of wine, cookies, and steak tartare. Rare steak? Ew. I poked mine with a fork for a few minutes before ordering my own Chinese takeout. When it arrived twenty minutes later, Tate gave me a chastising look. “Not very French,” he tsked.

“Oh, please,” I said, sliding one of the Chinese food boxes toward him. “Even the French switch it up now and then, right?”

Studying with Tate could barely be defined as that. Yeah, my attention was split, trying to figure out the phrases in French and create an answer that made even the least bit of sense. But mostly it was just us hanging out, speaking in another language. If only my previous French classes had been this awesome, maybe I wouldn’t have failed my first test.

“What’s that grin for?” he asked, spearing a piece of chicken with a chopstick.

I shrugged, playing off the smile. “Nothing. I just never knew I could like…French so much.”

“How could you not?” He swallowed the chicken and sipped his wine, gaze dipping to my exposed décolletage. With a heaving breath, he cleared his throat, looking back to his chicken and broccoli. He pinched a bite between his chopsticks, but it slipped through, landing on my floor with a splat. “Son of a bitch,” he murmured. “I never did learn how to use these damn things.”

“They didn’t have sushi in prep school?”

“No, we did—I just never quite got the hang of it.” He paused, looking up at me from over his takeout box. “You’re mocking me.”

“Here.” I laughed and got up from the table. “Let me tutor you on something for a change.” Standing next to his chair, I slid my arms around his and placed the chopsticks properly between his fingers. “There. Now pinch. Try the broccoli—chicken is slippery.”

He grasped the broccoli, slowly bringing it to his mouth. Just before it reached his lips, it popped out of the chopsticks, splattering back into the takeout box.

As his head turned, his nose brushed my breast, and I sucked in a breath, startled by just how close his lips were. He made a sort of hmm then parted his lips. A devious glint caught the light in his eyes, and that same heat as before spiraled between my legs.

What was it about this guy? From the moment we met, my body had reacted differently around him. Was it just that I finally found someone I was extremely attracted to? Did our pheromones simply match up perfectly? Or was it more than that? Because it felt as though something larger than both of us had brought us together. I mean, he was so not my type. And not only because he was spoiled and rich and privileged and…and…

God, so fucking hot. And surprisingly smart. The tips of my breasts tightened and pushed, straining against my bra and T-shirt. Tate growled, pulling me against him, and closed his mouth over my nipple. The fabric scraped against me, and I gasped as he tugged the shirt down, freeing one breast. His hot tongue glided in circles over me, finishing in quick, flicking movements.

I scraped my fingers into his hair, dragging him closer and tighter as he pulled my other breast out, repeating the motions.

I tilted my head back, eyes drifting closed as wetness and warmth rushed through my body. His hands trailed down my sides, landing on my hips, and with a squeeze, he pushed me away. When I looked back down, his biceps were tight, and I was at arm’s length, panting, wanting.

He released me, wiping a finger over his lips and tapping the French book. “Sorry,” he said, and his voice sounded hollow, as though I was hearing him through a conch shell. “You need to study. And I need to learn self-control.”

Lowering myself, I straddled his lap, facing him, my legs clamped around his hips and