Of course, that was before Veronica Mars kissed him and he found himself holding on to her tiny body like it was his lifeline. He doesn't know what possessed him to do it. There was never a conscious thought that said, "You really need to taste that mouth to shut it up". In fact, there was never anything inside him that thought much of her except that she was a somewhat worthy adversary when he felt flaunting his talent at being a smart-ass.

That's not entirely true, but he needed to believe it as she drove away, and needs to believe it now, because otherwise he's really sitting in his bedroom thinking about the girl who used to be Lilly's best friend in a way that makes him want to get her naked. He can imagine what she'd look like naked - he's seen enough girls and, truth be told, he saw her the night of Shelley Pomeroy's party when he'd checked to make sure she and Duncan were having a good time.

But seeing her and imagining her are two different things. Seeing her was a quick flash of flesh before shutting the door, and imagining her is picturing her wearing nothing but her sassy smile as his hands skim over her thin frame, her delicate features to the pert swell of her small breasts that fit in his hands as if they were made for them.

Lilly was always easy, even when she was being difficult. She always wanted sex and was willing to put most anything aside to get it - assuming she wasn't getting it from someone else. He knows Veronica isn't that way and never will be, though the thought of her hungry and panting for him as she lies beneath him, her breath coming in shocked gasps like it had after their kiss, makes him harder than he thinks he's ever been.

He wants her, and he can't reconcile it in his brain, though he thinks it's mostly because for some reason he thinks she wants him too. It makes him think about things she'd disapprove of - like the homeless boxing thing, but it also makes him want to do stupid stuff again, just so she'll get mad and he'll have to make it up to her. He wants to make it up to her with wine and flowers and sweaty, naked, dirty sex up against a wall or on the floor or, if nothing else presents itself, on the bed. He wants to do things to her he knows no one has ever done, and he wants to hear her beg him to stop. Mostly he wants her not to mean it.

His cock is aching and he doesn't care as he picks up the phone and dials. She's a bitch and she's bossy and she's sexy like some femme fatale in the kind of movies his father aspires to make and simply can't. She answers the phone and she sounds tired, or maybe turned on.

"Mars Investigations."

"I have a problem."

"You have many."

"I have a problem only you can solve."

"You can't afford me."

He can hear the laugh in her voice and it takes all his restraint to not drive over to her office and put her up on the desk so he can kneel at her feet and taste the thick sweetness of her cunt. "Are you going to take my case?"

"I'd have to hear the details."

"Where? When?" My house. Now. He thinks the words and wonders if he's said them as she doesn't respond.

"The girls' bathroom in the North wing. Tomorrow at 11."

"I have a class."

"Skip it." Her voice is throaty and husky as she laughs and he knows he's not getting any sleep tonight, but his dreams are definitely going to be sweet.