Chapter 1: Sparks in Study Hall
The air in the cramped study hall was thick with the scent of old books and teenage tension. Owen slouched at the back, his sharp green eyes scanning the room with a predator’s precision, landing on Ita. She sat near the window, her dark hair spilling over her shoulder, a pen tapping rhythmically against her full lips as she pretended to read. She wasn’t fooling anyone—least of all him. The way her gaze flicked to him every few seconds screamed she was just as aware of the electric current buzzing between them.
'Caught you staring again, princess,' Owen drawled, his voice low but carrying just enough to reach her. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, a smirk curling his lips. 'What’s the matter? Algebra not doing it for you today?'
Ita’s head snapped up, her amber eyes narrowing, but a sly grin tugged at her mouth. 'Oh, Owen, if I wanted a thrill, I’d look at something worth my time. Not a slacker who can’t even spell “effort.”' Her voice was a whip, sharp and biting, but the heat in her stare betrayed her.
He chuckled, the sound dark and promising. 'Keep talking, Ita. I bet that mouth of yours gets you in all kinds of trouble.' He shifted in his seat, deliberately slow, letting her see the way his shoulders flexed under his tight shirt. 'Or maybe it’s just begging for some.'
Her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t back down. Instead, she leaned forward, her blouse dipping just enough to tease the curve of her chest. 'You think you’ve got game, huh? I eat boys like you for breakfast, Owen. Don’t start something you can’t finish.'
The room seemed to shrink around them, the murmurs of other students fading into a distant hum. Owen’s smirk widened as he stood, sauntering over to her desk under the guise of borrowing a pencil. He leaned down, close enough that his breath grazed her ear. 'Oh, I finish, sweetheart. And I’d bet my last dollar you’d be the one begging for more.'
Ita’s breath hitched, but her eyes gleamed with challenge. She tilted her head, her lips brushing the edge of his jaw as she whispered, 'Prove it, then. Unless you’re all talk.'
That was the match to the gasoline. Owen’s hand slid under the desk, grazing her thigh, the heat of her skin searing through her jeans. Her fingers curled around his wrist—not to stop him, but to pull him closer. 'Not here,' she hissed, but her voice was thick with want. 'Janitor’s closet. Now.'
They didn’t wait for permission. The hallway was a blur as they slipped out, the door to the tiny closet slamming shut behind them. The space was tight, smelling of bleach and dust, but neither cared. Ita shoved him against the wall, her hands fisting in his shirt. 'Don’t waste my time, Owen,' she growled, her lips crashing into his with a hunger that matched the fire in his veins.
His hands gripped her hips, pulling her flush against him, already feeling himself grow hard as her body pressed into his. 'Fuck, Ita,' he groaned into her mouth, 'you’re gonna be the death of me.'
'Good,' she purred, her nails raking down his chest. 'Now shut up and show me what you’ve got.'
Their breaths were already coming fast, panting with raw need, the promise of something explosive hanging in the air as their hands roamed, desperate and hungry, ready to ignite.
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