ENOUGH

The camera's locked on me, and it's not moving. I catch a glimpse of myself on the huge, pixilated screen — a pale, dark-haired girl in a fancy black dress and ratty black sneakers. Too many curves, too many curls, and no one to kiss. I know there's panic flashing in my eyes — hell, I can see it, blown up to jumbo proportions on every screen in the arena. And so can everyone else.

I'm a freaking ant beneath a microscope.

The crowd starts to titter — oh, honey, look at that poor girl — and I'm getting a little desperate, so I swallow hard, throw back my shoulders, and sneak a glance at Ralph. He's still on his phone, the bastard, totally unaware that we've become the central act at the kiss-cam circus. Forcing a smile to cover my deep mortification, I elbow him sharply in the side, but he just bats me away with a hand and a glare before returning to his phone call.

I groan.

The crowd explodes with laughter.

I try to smile too, like I'm in on the joke, but it's wobbly — I can feel it trembling on my lips — and I begin to wonder if the man behind the camera is some kind of sociopath, because frankly, the fact that he's still filming right now — while surely entertaining for everyone who, you know, isn't me — is pure evil.

I look up at the camera and shrug my shoulders, hoping the yes-my-boyfriend-is-in-fact-a-total-asshole expression translates to the crowd. I think I succeed, since the laughter gets even louder, but suddenly I'm distracted by the wall of man blocking my view of the jumbotron.

Green Eyes is out of his seat.

His eyes are on mine, and he's reaching for my hand.

The crowd is going wild and my brain is short-circuiting, but apparently my hand doesn't need executive functions to tell it what to do, because it's lifting from my lap and slipping into his.

Before I can form a single thought, he's pulling me out of my chair.

Sliding one arm around my waist.

Slipping one hand behind my neck.

His eyes never leave mine as he leans in, bending me backward over his arm in a full-on, movie-star dip, and the only thought in my head is ohmigod, there's no way he's going to kiss me right now, but then even that disappears when his lips move closer and my mind blanks entirely.

Because he's kissing me.

And it's good.

No, actually, it's great.

It's not the soft, sympathetic, pity-kiss you'd expect in a situation like this.

It's a full on, invade-your-senses, shatter-your-world, boil-your-blood kiss. With tongue.

For a moment, I'm so stunned, I just hang there limply... but then my brain catches up to my body and I realize that the hottest freaking man I've ever seen is kissing me like I've never, ever been kissed before, and that I might never be kissed like this again for the rest of my whole pathetic life, so I damn well better enjoy it while it lasts.

Without another thought, my arms twine around his neck, my mouth opens under his, and I'm returning his kiss without hesitation, with abandon. He feels my response and a low growl vibrates from his throat — for a second, I think he's angry, but I quickly realize it's a good growl when he pulls me tighter to him, so I'm fully plastered against the hard plane of his body. Thoughts long-chased from my mind, I don't even try to think of reasons this is a bad idea. I melt into him like my limbs are made of water.

It's easily the best kiss of my life, which doesn't make any sense at all, because I don't even know the man whose lips are devouring mine — hard, hot, with just the right amount of teeth and tongue to make things interesting.

I can hear the crowd going crazy, twenty thousand people screaming at the top of their lungs, but somehow the sound of my own heartbeat is drowning them out. The kiss goes on for way, way longer than it should, but I don't worry about that, or anything else for that matter, because there's no room in my head for worries about my dickwad soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend or the crowd or the cameras.

Not when every mental faculty is consumed by Green Eyes and his perfect freaking kiss.

* * *

When our mouths finally break apart, I feel like I'm floating.

It takes me a minute to realize that's because I am. His muscular arms are still wrapped around my back like steel bands, holding me near parallel to the ground. He's lunged so deeply, I can feel the weight of my hair pooled against the court.

My lashes open and he's right there, his face less than an inch away from mine. My eyes blink a little too rapidly as I stare into his — pure icy green, without any flecks of hazel or brown to dilute the color, and currently half-lidded with something that looks a lot like desire... and maybe just a hint of surprise.

I swallow hard, trying to catch my breath, and stare at him for a moment, waiting for him to stand upright and put me back on my feet.

He doesn't.

Another few seconds tick by, and I can't contain myself anymore.

"You must do a lot of lunges," I blurt.

His eyes fill with amusement and his mouth twitches. "Excuse me?"

"At the gym." I feel my cheeks flush with color. "You must lunge a lot because, I mean, jeeze, you've been holding me here for, like, two minutes and you aren't even winded. Are your thighs burning? They must be burning right now."

He stares at me, an unreadable expression on his face.

Great job, Gemma. Scare off the hot stranger mere seconds after he's finished kissing you.

I fight the urge to groan at my own stupidity. "Sorry, it's probably not proper etiquette to be talking about your thighs, since, you know, I've just met you and all. But, we also made out... so I don't know where we're located on the bodily-function-sharing-scale."

"There's a scale?" His voice is thick with mirth.

I widen my eyes. "Of course there's a scale. I mean, you wouldn't jump into a first date talking about how often you pee or how many times a week you have s—"

His eyebrows lift.

"You know, I'm just going to stop myself right there."

His lips twitch again.

"So, do you?"

"Do I what?" he asks.

"Do a lot of lunges."

A full smile breaks out on his face. "You'll have to come to the gym with me sometime, find out for yourself."

"Oh, no. Working out isn't exactly my thing. Seriously, the last time I did a lunge I think I sprained my vagi—" My lips slam closed. "My leg. A muscle in my leg."

He laughs.

"Really, though, I tapped out at about ten seconds, and that was just supporting my own body weight." I shake my head, grimacing. "Any kind of strenuous physical activity...Not my specialty."

His eyes glitter with dark humor, and I have a feeling he's envisioning an entirely different kind of strenuous physical activity. Shit.

"Sports! I mean sports." I swallow nervously. "I hate sports."

"And yet, you're courtside at a playoff game."

I open my mouth to retort, but before I can get out so much as a word, I'm interrupted by Ralph, who sounds decidedly pissed off.

"What the hell is this, Gemma?"

An instant later, I'm back on my own two feet. Blood rushes to my head, but Green Eyes steadies me with a light grip on my arm. When my brain stops spinning, I manage to focus on Ralph, who's finally hung up his cellphone. There's a glare pinching his face, and his head is swinging from me to Green Eyes and back again.

"Hi, Ralph." I lift my arm and do a little finger-wave in his direction.

The crowd bursts into a thunderous chorus of laughter and cheers.

When he hears them, Ralph's hands fist at his sides and his face begins to redden. "Don't give me that cutesy little 'Hi, Ralph.'" He takes a step closer to me, and I feel Green Eyes tense at my side. I notice his hand hasn't let my arm. "Want to explain who the hell this guy is and why the hell you were kissing him like a little slut in front of the whole fucking world?"

My spine snaps straight and, though I can't see him, I actually feel the anger pouring off Green Eyes. I hear the overhead announcer giving a play-by-play of what has, by this point, become a huge spectacle.

Well, folks, there's always plenty of drama on the court during a playoff game, but tonight it seems there's just as much happening on the sidelines!

I try to ignore him and focus on defusing the situation before it becomes national news and ends up — if it hasn't already — on YouTube for the rest of eternity.

"You were on the phone, and the kiss-cam—" I start.

Ralph cuts me off. "Oh, I was on the phone for two seconds—"

"Try two hours," I mutter.

"—and god forbid no one's paying attention to Gemma for a single minute of the day!" Ralph sneers. "I swear, you need more validation than a preteen girl on her period."

I flinch.

Ralph steps closer and his voice drops to the condescending whisper I'm all too familiar with. "I'd always heard artists were self-absorbed, but you..." He shakes his head and a smirk twists his lips. "Then again, can you really even call yourself an artist if you've never sold a single one of your stupid paintings?"

That's low, even for him.

I try — and fail — to bite my tongue. "I don't know, Ralph, can you really even call yourself a man if your sexual stamina hasn't improved since your wet-dream years?"

"Good one, Gemma." He smiles, but it's laced with a cruel edge. "You know, Susie from 3B doesn't seem to mind. And Emily from the building next door? She's never complained. Especially not last night, when I nailed her in your apartment."

I feel my face pale. The hand on my arm tightens reflexively, but I barely notice.

"Twice." Ralph grins, beyond pleased with himself. "You know, Gem, you really shouldn't leave your key under the mat."

"You—" I swallow. "You were—"

"Cheating on you?" He takes another step forward, so only a foot or so separates us. "Oh, Jesus, Gemma. Did you really think we were exclusive? Hell, I would've ended things after our first date but..." He shrugs and his eyes drop lasciviously to my chest. "You're hot. And you live ten feet from me. Doesn't get much easier than you."

The double meaning in his words is not lost on me. I feel myself beginning to fall apart, and bite my lower lip so the tears gathering in my eyes don't escape.

Ralph laughs and leans closer. "These tickets were just the icing on the cake. The fact that I've been screwing you for the past four months—"

I never get to hear the rest of his insult because, in a motion so fast my eyes can barely track it, Green Eyes' hand flies out and locks around Ralph's windpipe in a bruising grip that cuts off all sound from escaping and all air from entering.

My mouth falls open.

Holy shit. I'd completely forgotten he was still standing by my side.

For a few seconds, Ralph tries futilely to escape, but when Green Eyes takes another step forward and drags his body up so he's balanced on the tips of his sneakers, Ralph goes limp as a rag doll and his eyes flash with panic and fear. He looks like a terrified mouse caught in the paws of a massive lion.

Green Eyes is so tall, he has to lean down a half-foot to bring his face level with Ralph's. His body radiates controlled power, but I can see his face is composed in a blank mask. Only his eyes, somehow simultaneously cold as ice and burning bright with fury, reveal the depths of his anger.

His face is centimeters from Ralph's when he opens his mouth and growls one word that sends chills racing down my spine.

"Enough."