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This was unfuckingbelievable.
The wall pressed against my back. My eyes fluttered open. Samir had guided me into a dark corner, just off the dance floor. His body blocked out most of the crowd, his lips made the rest of the club disappear. His hands were everywhere, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. Parts of my body I never knew could be sensitive tingled—the curve of my neck, my collarbone, the little spot behind my earlobe. I had no idea what I was doing but somewhere along the way, between the dancing and this, I’d learned the moves. He was good. Very, very good. And I never wanted him to stop.
His hands played with the neckline of my dress, his fingers trailing along my skin, dipping underneath the fabric. They hovered dangerously close to my breast.
And then suddenly he wasn’t touching me at all.
Samir broke apart from the kiss first. My eyes widened, staring at him in breathless anticipation, frustration flooding my body. My gaze drifted to a point just over his shoulder. An enormous guy dressed in a black T-shirt stood in front of us, scowling, his beefy arms crossed in front of his chest. He looked like a bouncer. I didn’t hear what Samir said to the guy, but money changed hands. The bouncer disappeared.
Samir turned back to me, his expression hooded, those eyes that just minutes ago were drunk with lust, now unreadable. I stared at Samir; pretty sure my expression nearly mirrored his. He stared back at me, something that might have been shock flashing across his face. It was there for only an instant before his cocky smile slipped back into place.
“Sorry. Got carried away.”
I couldn’t speak. Could barely think. Music pumped through the club. The pounding sound mimicked the mad thumping in my heart. A girl bumped into me. I stumbled forward. Samir reached out, catching me. “Want to go sit down?”
I nodded, my brain still running in circles, my body a mass of confusion. As soon as he pulled away from me it was like a bucket of cold water had been thrown over me. What had I just done—what had I nearly let him do—in public? The worst part? As horrified as I was that we’d even started making out, part of me was just as upset we’d stopped.
What the fuck?
Samir walked me back to the table, his arm around me keeping me from stumbling. Just that touch was enough to send another wave of desire running through me. I tried not to lean into the curve of his body.
“Please don’t tell anyone,” I blurted out, struggling to not freak out. I was the new girl. The last thing I needed was for Fleur to hate me more than she already did.
Making out with her boyfriend was likely a hanging offense.
“Promise,” I repeated, my tone desperate.
For a second something flickered in Samir’s eyes. But as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. “Sure. Have it your way.” He hesitated for a beat, his gaze running over me. “I’m going to go say hi to some friends at another table.” He placed a swift kiss on my cheek. “Thanks for the dance.” He winked. “And everything else.”
I watched him walk away, my jaw hanging open in shock. I somehow still couldn’t wrap my mind around what had just happened. My first kiss wasn’t supposed to be like this. I’d had it all planned out. I was supposed to go to Harvard, meet the guy at Harvard. He would be my first kiss, the guy I would have sex with for the first time, the guy I would eventually marry. Maybe it sounded naive, but I didn’t care. I had it all planned out. This had definitely not been in my plans.
I ran my fingers over my lips. They felt soft, swollen. My breasts felt sensitive, my nipples tight. My body felt as if it belonged to someone else. No one had ever touched me like that before. I’d never wanted anyone to.
“Where’d you go?”
I jerked my hand away from my lips. Mya stood in front of me, a bottle of water in her hand.
“Bathroom,” I lied. “I just needed to get away from the loud music and everything.”
“I think we’re about ready to go soon. Michael is gathering the group.”
I took the water from her, taking a long swig from the bottle. Mya plopped down next to me on one of the stools.
“Do you know where everyone else is?”
I wasn’t going to fess up to knowing anything about Samir’s whereabouts. “No idea.”
Mya groaned. “Well, I’m leaving in fifteen minutes regardless of who is ready to go. I’m exhausted and my feet are killing me.”
“Same.”
“You ladies had enough for the night?” Michael appeared in front of us.
I nodded, beyond relieved to see him. “Yeah, I’m pretty tired.”
“Come on, then. We can make our exit. The rest of the group can find their own way home.”
My hand clutched in his, I followed Michael out of the club. Mya trailed behind us, her hand pressed against my back. I turned my head to the right, my gaze drifting across the room to the tables pushed up against the far wall.
I couldn’t help it.
Samir sat at one of the tables, two blonde girls flanking him, his arms wrapped around their lithe bodies. His head jerked up and he met my gaze across the crowded room. Heat flared between us. I tore my gaze away.
So much for my first kiss.
Chapter 6
Firsts. There was something about the first day of school. Today felt like the start of everything, not just the start of classes. Today was the day I would finally get to take the classes I wanted to take, to focus on subjects I actually cared about rather than having to sit through boring biology classes and the like.
My inner nerd hummed with excitement.
I stood in front of my small wardrobe, desperately trying to decide what to wear. When I packed for London, my clothes had seemed decent enough. But after Saturday’s party I began to realize fashion was a serious business at the International School. And I had no idea how to play the game. These were the moments when I wished I had a mom.
“That really doesn’t go together.”
I gritted my teeth, not bothering to turn around and look at Fleur. “Gee, thanks. I hadn’t realized.”
Her hand reached out, thrusting something orange and pink in my line of sight. “Try this. It’ll help the outfit out.” Fleur paused. “Without it you look a little sad.”
I grabbed the scarf out of her hand. I had ten minutes to get to my classroom building. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than being late on the first day.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, wrapping the scarf around my neck. I stood back, studying my appearance in the mirror. She was right—it was better.
When I turned around, Fleur was gone.
“You look great,” Noora called out from her side of the room. “I like the dress.”
“Thanks. Do you have class this morning?”
She shook her head, her silk hijab swinging with the motion. “I have my first class in the afternoon. I’m just going to spend the morning reading a bit. What class are you headed to?”
I had my schedule memorized, printed out, and tucked in my planner in case I forgot. Introduction to International Relations, British Literature, History of Mathematics (yep, they were actually going to give me math credit for that one), Introduction to Political Science and Creative Writing.
“Intro to International Relations with Graves.”
Noora wrinkled her nose. “Have fun with that. It sounds like the kind of class that makes me glad I’m an Art major.”
It was the class I was most looking forward to. At the International School you didn’t declare your major until sophomore year, but I’d known I wanted to study IR since my sophomore year of high school.
I rushed out of the room, hurrying through the hall and down the stairs, weaving my way through the groups of students standing in the lobby. I left the building, trying to settle the nerves in my stomach. I had to make a good impression today. The International School was small; it was likely I would have the same teachers throughout my four years here. Being late was not an option.
King’s House was the main residence hall at the International School. The building housed most of the dorms along with the cafeteria, several staff offices and a common room that contained several leather couches, a large flat-screen TV and a pool table. The other residence building, Queen’s Hall, was a few streets over. Our classes were all held one street away from the main residence hall.
I made the trip in seven minutes, barely walking through the classroom door in time for class to start. I sneaked into the back of the room. The room was small, but filled with students. I counted about forty in all. There was only one empty seat.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
Samir lounged in his chair, his legs crossed at the ankles, right next to the only open chair. He grinned. “Miss me?”
“Hardly.” I rolled my eyes, sliding into the seat next to him. “Are you even supposed to be in this class? Aren’t you a sophomore?”
“Junior.”
My eyes narrowed. “Why are you in an intro class? What’s your major?”
He beamed at me. “IR.”
“Bullshit.”
He laughed. “I speak the truth.”
“You’re a junior and you’re just now taking Intro to IR? How is that even possible?”
“It used to be at eight. I don’t do morning classes.”
“You don’t do morning classes?” I didn’t bother to keep the incredulity out of my voice.
“I like to keep my mornings open…for other activities.” He winked at me.
I shook my head in amazement. “I can’t deal with this right now.”
“You love it.”
I laughed. He was so ridiculous I couldn’t even stand it. “Does this whole persona you’ve got going normally work for you?”
“All day…and night long.”
I mock shuddered. “I feel like I need to take a shower.”
He tossed me a wolfish grin. “I might be able to help you with that. After all, I know what you look like without a towel on. All that creamy white skin…”
My cheeks flamed. Please tell me we didn’t have a seating chart. No way could I handle this proximity to him for the rest of the semester.
“Okay, it looks like it’s time to start.” My head jerked up at the sound of our teacher’s voice. He stood at the front of the room—somehow I had completely missed his presence. “If you’re in here, then you’re supposed to be enrolled in Introduction to International Relations.” The professor, Dr. Abbott, a tall man with a British accent, paused for a moment. No one got up and left. “Good. Let’s begin.”
I spent the hour furiously scribbling down everything he said. International Relations—as the professor explained it—studied the relationships between countries. He walked us through introductory concepts, handing out the syllabus and going over his expectations for the class. For an hour he talked about some of the world’s major conflicts; it all sounded like a giant soap opera to me. Even Samir’s presence couldn’t distract me.
I was hooked.
Few people spoke in the first class; instead the professor just lectured while we all took notes. Well, some of us took notes. It was easy to tell the students who were really into the subject and the ones who wished they were anywhere else.
Samir didn’t bother picking up his pen.
“Good class,” Samir commented as class came to an end.
I tossed him a skeptical look. “Were you even paying attention?”
He grinned. “Can I help it if I was distracted by the great pen shortage? The suspense of whether you would run out of ink was way more compelling than anything Abbott had to say.”
I stared down at my desk. Four pens stared back at me.
Was that unusual? It seemed prudent to have back-ups. For my back-ups to have back-ups.
“There’s nothing wrong with being prepared.”
He grinned at me, an almost goofy grin that seemed totally at odds with his cocky persona. I waited for him to say something, waited for a joke that never came. Instead he just stared at me. Not the stare that made me feel like he’d seen me naked, but another stare. One that made me feel like he saw through me, one that felt impossibly more intimate.
We hovered in the doorway for a moment. Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of Fleur leaving one of the other rooms. Guilt and nerves filled me. Time to move on.
“See you around,” I offered lamely before heading toward my next class.
Samir stood in the doorway for a moment and then he turned and walked off with Fleur.
* * *
By Friday I had somewhat settled into academic life at the International School. My Intro to IR class did have a seating chart, so I ended up stuck sitting next to Samir. Surprisingly, after the first day, he wasn’t so bad. He backed off and I kept repeating the same mantra over and over in my head—
He’s your roommate’s boyfriend.
My class schedule was full—fifteen credit hours—but for the most part, the classes were interesting. My professors were nice enough. Just like the student body, the faculty was a diverse group. I had five professors total, each from a different country.
I also had a ton of reading to do for the weekend.
After classes got out on Friday afternoon, I took the Tube down to Westminster. I was still learning the way the complicated system worked, trying to feel like a real Londoner. Luckily the color-coded lines helped a bit. I took the green line down a few stops from High Street Ken. When I left the station, I turned my head, struggling to get my bearings. Then I saw it.
The Houses of Parliament were one of the most awe-inspiring things I’d ever seen. They dominated the landscape, proud and strong. I crossed the street, standing in a grassy square opposite the buildings. I basked in the moment. This was the epicenter of history and politics. Greatness happened here. And somehow I was a part of it.
I hadn’t totally chosen the International School on a whim. When I received that horrid letter from Harvard, I panicked. I didn’t have a backup plan—not a good one, anyway. I had no desire to stay in the same town where I’d lived my whole life, feeling like I never quite fit in. I wanted a chance to do something different. If I couldn’t make one of my dreams happen, I wanted a chance at another one.
Ever since I was a kid I’d been fascinated by England. I couldn’t say for sure when the love affair started. Maybe it was all the pomp and majesty that came with the monarchy, so different from my quiet life in South Carolina. Or maybe it was the history or my romanticism, the love of books filled with dukes and earls. Whatever it was, London had been a dream, one I promised I would indulge when I graduated university and made something of myself.
Now, standing in front of Parliament, I felt the sense of accomplishment that had eluded me since my Harvard rejection. I was living my dream now.
Chapter 7
“So how is it? Are you homesick?”
I leaned back against my pillow, shifting the phone in my hand. My roommates were out for the day and it was the first time I had really had any privacy to call home. I talked to my grandparents before calling my best friend, Jo.
