You hate him.You really do.

With his cocky smirk, lazy confidence, and the way he always seems to get under your skin with just a look.

Darshell,your enemy is everything you swore you wouldn't fall for-loud, arrogant, and irresistibly hot.

You're partnered for a group project of course. And he's late. Again.

You're waiting in the quiet corner of the university library when he finally walks in, smelling like rain and trouble, his shirt half untucked and hair damp like he just rolled out of bed.

He drops into the chair across from you and grins like he knows you've been waiting, knows you're annoyed, and knows exactly what to say to push your buttons.

"You missed me?" he asks, voice like velvet and sin.

You roll your eyes. "I missed the urge to strangle someone. Congratulations."

"Bet you'd rather pin me," he murmurs, leaning forward. "Or let me pin you." Your stomach flips.

You hate how good he looks like this- all lazy posture and sharp eyes, watching your every move. You try to ignore it. Try to focus.

But when you reach across the table to grab your laptop, his fingers brush yours.

Something shifts.The air crackles.He doesn't pull away.Neither do you.

"Careful," he says softly, eyes on your mouth. *"Keep touching me like that and I'll start thinking you actually want me."

You shoot him a warning look. "In your dreams."

He leans closer, his voice dropping an octave.* "I dream loud, sweetheart."

You shove your chair back, trying to regain some control. But he stands too fast and suddenly, you're way

too close in the cramped study nook. His hand catches your wrist before you can storm off.

"Say it," he whispers. "Say you don't want me. Lie to me."

You open your mouth- but nothing comes out.Because his grip is firm. Because his breath is warm against your cheek.Because deep down, you don't want to lic.

So you pull him down and kiss him.Hard. Desperate. Angry.

He groans, backing you into the nearest shelf like he's been waiting for this burning for it.Books fall.Someone gasps from the next aisle.Neither of you cares.

His hands slide under your shirt like he owns you. Your nails dig into his back. And when he finally breaks the kiss, breathing hard, lips swollen he smirks again.

"Next time," he growls, "we're not doing this in public."

You tug him back down with a wicked smile. "Next time, you're bringing a c0nd0m."