Lust - 1 by Robin Wasserman Page A

wrapped around him, her lithe body tangled up in his, her hair splayed out on his bed. He wanted her—al of her.
    And she wanted him, too—he could tel . So what was holding her back?
    She didn’t trust him. That was obvious. And completely unjustified. He was absolutely, total y devoted to her. And if he thought about other girls sometimes, wel , that was normal too, right?
    No harm, no foul.
    Unless it’s just one other girl, a smal voice in his head pointed out, and Kaia’s flawless figure suddenly sprang, unbidden, into his mind.
    Now there was a girl who knew what she wanted and went for it.
    His dream Kaia smiled mischievously.
    “I want you ,” she said silently to him, licking her lips and peeling off her damp, clinging shirt.
    With horror, Adam realized that he—or at least, his body—wanted her, too. He shifted around in his seat and surreptitiously pul ed a notebook onto his lap to cover up, a move he hadn’t had to make since the hormonal nightmare that was eighth grade.
    And in his mind’s eye, the dream Kaia tilted her head back and laughed, chest heaving. And then she went back to the task at hand: stripping off her clothes.
    It was just a fantasy, right?
    No harm in that.
    Just a fantasy, Beth told herself. No harm in that . She’d whipped through her quiz in a few minutes and was now left with nothing to do but stare at the front of the classroom, where Jack Powel was relaxing, feet kicked up on the desk and hands clasped behind his head. What was he thinking about, she wondered. Parisian cafes? African safaris?
    When they’d last met, he told her al about his travels around the world, and it set her mind on fire. And his voice—she could listen to those words spil ing over her, the impeccably crafted sentences and delicious accent, for hours. For days.
    She pictured the two of them sitting across a breakfast table from each other, exchanging sections of the New York Times (she’d once seen this in a movie, and it had since seemed to her the epitome of sophisticated romance). Or maybe they’d be working their way through a crossword puzzle together … in bed.
    Beth blushed furiously, and Mr. Powel looked up, as if he’d somehow sensed that she was picturing what he looked like beneath his chambray shirt and khakis. Their eyes met, and he grinned at her and winked.
    God, she loved that smile.
    Kane always had a hint of a smile on his face. It was one of the things Miranda loved about him. And that perpetual smirk in his voice—as if al of life was a joke, and only he knew the punch line.
    Which, Miranda supposed, was enough to make most people think he was a jerk. And he was. Cocky, pampered, self-centered, lazy, a confirmed believer in “never walk when you can ride” and “never do today what you can put off until tomorrow.”
    But it was al part of his charm.
    She loved watching him in class, the way he leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on the rim of the seat in front of him, as if he were kicking back in an armchair after a long day’s work, rather than suffering through forty-seven minutes of American History. Sometimes he scrawled something on the single piece of paper atop his desk, sometimes he tipped his head back and closed his eyes—occasional y, he even sat up straight and looked at the teacher, though the smoldering disdain never left his eyes. And the cocky smile never left his face.
    He was a jerk, al right. A slimy asshole who sailed through life on his good looks, who probably, if asked, would tel you he had never truly cared about anything or anyone but himself. And he would probably be tel ing the truth—or at least he’d think he was.
    But Miranda wasn’t fooled. She’d watched Kane for years now. Laughed at his jokes, insulted his attitude, admired his effortless skil at almost everything—noticed the way, every once in a while and only when they weren’t looking, he would actual y be there for his friends.They didn’t see it, they weren’t