The Sweet Taste of Malice

Chapter 9

Ryan

I couldn't stop looking at her fingers.

They were small, delicate, and tipped with neat, unvarnished nails that she kept biting when she thought I wasn't paying attention. Every time she turned a page, the pale skin of her hand looked so fragile against the dark wood of the table that a fierce, irrational urge to reach out and cover it with my own slammed into my chest.

We were in her kitchen this time. It was Saturday morning, and her house was entirely too quiet. Her mom was at work, leaving just the two of us sitting at a small, cluttered table that smelled faintly of coffee and cinnamon.

She was trying to teach me about rhetorical analysis, her voice a steady, rhythmic hum that should have been boring. But all I could focus on was the way her lips moved, the slight pink color that flushed her cheeks whenever she got frustrated with me, and the way her oversized sweater occasionally slipped off her shoulder, revealing the pale, elegant curve of her collarbone.

She was driving me insane.

For the past three days, she had been a ghost in the hallways, slipping past me without a single glance. She thought she was being smart. She thought she could put up these neat little boundaries, do her duty as my tutor, and then go back to her quiet, invisible life.

But every time I got close to her, the restraint I had spent my entire life cultivating just started to evaporate. I didn't want to be the golden boy. I didn't want to be the polite quarterback who said all the right things. I just wanted to reach across this table, wrap my hands in that ridiculous sweater, and pull her onto my lap until she had no choice but to look at me.

"Ryan, you're not paying attention," Klara said, a heavy sigh escaping her lips. She tapped her pencil against the legal pad between us. "I asked you what the author's purpose was in the third paragraph. You've been staring at the same sentence for five minutes."

"I'm paying attention," I muttered, my voice rough.

"To what? Because it's definitely not the text." She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. Her gray eyes were sharp, filled with a defensive defiance that only made me want her more. "Look, if you don't want to do this—"

"I want to do this," I interrupted, my hand shooting out across the table.

This time, I didn't touch her sweater. My hand slid over the smooth wood, my fingers deliberately brushing against her bare forearm where her sleeves were pushed up to her elbows. Her skin was incredibly soft, like silk, and the moment my fingers made contact, I felt the familiar, violent tremor pass through her.

She didn't pull away immediately. She just stared at my hand, her breath catching in her throat, her chest rising and falling in a quick, ragged pattern.

"You're always trying to push me away," I murmured, my fingers sliding slowly up her arm, savoring the warmth of her skin. "Why are you so afraid of me, Klara?"

"I'm not afraid of you," she whispered, though her voice lacked any real conviction. She finally pulled her arm back, tucking her hands between her knees as if she could hide from the sensation. "I just... I know who you are, Ryan. And I know what people like Sophie say about girls like me. I don't want to be a part of whatever drama you're trying to create."

"Sophie doesn't know anything," I said, my voice hardening as I leaned over the table, reducing the distance between us until I could see the tiny gold flecks in her gray eyes. "And I don't care about the drama. I care about this."

I reached down, my hand moving beneath the table before she could anticipate it. I didn't touch her hand this time. My fingers brushed against the denim of her jeans, resting just above her knee, my thumb tracing a slow, heavy circle against her thigh.

Klara gasped, her entire body jerking as if she’d been shocked. She tried to slide her chair back, but the space was tight, and my grip tightened just enough to keep her anchored. The denim was a barrier, but the heat of her leg was unmistakable, firm and perfectly curved beneath my palm.

"Ryan, stop," she breathed, her hands coming down to grip my wrist, her small fingers trying to pry mine away. "Someone could come in. Your parents—my mom—"

"No one is coming," I whispered, my gaze dropping to her mouth. The desire to lean in and taste her was a physical ache in my chest, a dark, possessive hunger that was growing more dangerous by the second. I let my hand slide a few inches higher up her thigh, feeling the sudden, rigid tension in her muscles. "Tell me you want me to stop, Klara. Look me in the eye and tell me you don't feel this."

She locked her jaw, her gray eyes widening with a mix of fear and something far more intoxicating—pure, unadulterated longing. She didn't say the words. She couldn't.

For a long, agonizing moment, the only sound in the kitchen was our tangled, heavy breathing. I had stolen the touch, breaking through her defenses when she least expected it, and as I finally let my hand slide off her leg, I knew the dynamic between us had shifted permanently.

The tutoring was a lie. We both knew it now. It was just a countdown until the fire caught completely