Haunted by Meg Cabot

mean, this was the same guy who’d tried to kill me not so long ago….
    Only now he was saying that this wasn’t true, that I’d never been in any danger.
    Except that I knew this was a lie. I was in plenty of danger—not of being killed but of completely losing my head for a guy who was bad for me in every way and even worse for the guy I loved. Because that’s exactly how Paul Slater’s kiss made me feel. Like I’d do anything— anything —to be kissed by him some more.
    Which was just plain wrong. Because I wasn’t in love with Paul Slater. Granted, the guy I was in love with was
    A. dead, and
    B. apparently not real interested in pursuing a romantic relationship with me.
    But that didn’t mean it was permissible for me to fling myself at the very next hottie who happened to come along. I mean, a girl has to have some principles….
    Such as saving herself for the guy she really likes, even if he happens to be too stupid to realize they are perfect for each other.
    So even though Paul’s kiss made me feel like throwing my free arm around his neck and kissing him back—which I may or may not, in the heat of the moment, actually have done—it would have been wrong, wrong, WRONG.
    So I tried to pull away.
    Only let me tell you, that grip he had on my wrist? It was like iron. Iron .
    And even worse, thanks to my having encouraged him by kissing him back a little, half his body ended up over mine, pressing me back onto the bed and probably wrinkling Dr. Slaski’s thesis pretty badly. I know it wasn’t doing any good for my Calvin Klein jean skirt.
    So then I had like a hundred and eighty pounds or something of seventeen-year-old guy on top of me, which is not, you know, any picnic, when it isn’t the guy you want to be on top of you. Or even if it is, but you are doing your best to stay true to someone else…someone who, to the best of your knowledge, doesn’t even want you. But whatever.
    I managed to wrestle my lips away from Paul’s long enough to say in a sort of strangled voice since he was crushing my lungs, “Get off me.”
    “Come on, Suze,” he said in a tone that, I’m sorry to say, sounded as if it were heavy. With passion. Or something, anyway. I’m even more sorry to say that the sound of it thrilled along every nerve in my body. I mean, that passion was for me. Me, Suze Simon, about whom no guy had ever felt all that passionate. At least so far as I knew. “Don’t tell me you haven’t been thinking about this all afternoon.”
    “Actually,” I said, pleased that I was able to answer this one truthfully. “I really haven’t. Now get off me.”
    But Paul just went on kissing me—not on the mouth, because I had fully turned my head away, but on my neck and, at one point, part of one of my ears.
    “Is this about the student government thing?” he asked between kisses. “Because I could care less about being vice president of your stupid class. If you’re mad about it, just say the word, and I’ll drop out of the race.”
    “No, this has nothing to do with the student government thing,” I said, still trying to wrench my wrist from his fingers and also to keep my neck away from his mouth. His lips seemed to have a curious effect on the skin of my throat. They made it feel like it was on fire.
    “Oh, God. It’s not Jesse, is it?” I could feel Paul’s groan reverberate through his entire body. “Give it up, Suze. The guy’s dead .”
    “I didn’t say it had anything to do with Jesse.” I sounded defensive, but I didn’t care. “Did you hear me say it had anything to do with Jesse?”
    “You didn’t have to,” Paul said. “It’s written all over your face. Suze, think about it. Where’s it going to go with the guy, anyway? I mean, you’re going to get older, and he’s going to stay exactly the age he was when he croaked. And what, he’s going to take you to the prom? How about movies? You guys go to the movies together? Who drives? Who pays ?”
    Now I was