Hi guys!!🤗

It's your Selenaaa~!

OMG!! I've grown so much to write a romance novel! (⚠️Warning ⚠️ : Smut content, be prepared!!)

Actually it's my first time writing a novel, so I'll try my best😤

Actually about the 'A feeling called Love (Gojo Fanfic)' I actually tried to continue it but due to my unfortunate reasons I couldn't upload the episodes... So I'm extremely sorry to all my fellow readers who were so excited to read that...

But this won't happen again in this novel too... I'll try to upload it consistently as possible, so have hopes on me!!👍😌

And to all my readers and fans... Please support my works in all the ways possible. And I'm always thankful and grateful to your support. Your support will be an inspiration and motivation to me and I'll keep working hard to make you guys happy.

Thank you~!!✨🥰

XOXO,

Selene Quinn.

The cold of the wall seeped through the thin fabric of my dress, a shocking contrast to the heat radiating from Satoru Gojo’s body as he pressed me against it. His hand was a brand on my jaw, tilting my face up, forcing me to meet the turbulent blue of his eyes. The scent of cheap beer and something sharper, like frustration, wafted from him, fogging the air between us.

“W-What is wrong with you!! Dumbass!!” The words tore from my throat, sharp and panicked, but they sounded weak, even to me. My heart wasn’t just pounding; it was a trapped bird beating against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that echoed in my ears.

He didn’t flinch. A sharp smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, the one I’d seen a hundred times across a lecture hall, usually right before he’d make some comment designed to get under my skin. Now, it was different. Intimate. Dangerous. His fingers dug lightly into my jaw, holding me firmly in place. “C’mon, don’t act like you don’t feel this tension too, rival.” His voice was a low rumble, his breath warm and damp against the shell of my ear as he leaned closer. “Isn’t this way more fun than fighting over grades?”

Every instinct screamed at me to shove him away, to knee him in the groin, to re-establish the distance we’d maintained for years. But my body betrayed me. My knees felt like water. The anger in his words was a familiar song, but beneath it was a new, terrifying chord of wanting. *Isn't this way more fun?* The subtext hummed in the air: *I'm tired of the old game. I want this one.*

“S-Shut up!! And what do you think you're doing?!” I managed, my voice trembling as his hand slid from my jaw down to my waist, pressing me harder against the unyielding wall. The cold was a shock against my back.

His blue eyes darkened, the playful glint replaced by something heated and bitter. His thumb brushed slowly, deliberately, over my lower lip. The touch was electric, a jolt that stole my breath. “What's it look like? I'm showing you exactly who's better, just like we always do.” His knee pressed between my thighs, pinning me in place, eliminating any chance of escape. The pressure was undeniable, a claim. “Don't pretend you aren't just dying to beat me at this too.”

Beat him. The word, our constant battleground, now felt filthy and thrilling. “WHAT THE FUCK?! STAY AWAY FROM ME!! I'M NOT A SLUT, OKAY?!” The protest was a last, desperate stand, my palms flat against his chest, but I wasn't pushing. I was clinging.

He chuckled, low and rough, the sound vibrating through his chest into mine. His knuckles brushed my cheek, a mockery of a caress that was somehow more intimate than any real touch I’d known. “Who called you a slut? I'm just proposing we put all this stupid rivalry to good use.” His gaze dropped to my mouth, then back to my eyes, holding me captive. “Don't act like you haven't thought about this too, pretty rival.”

I had. Of course I had. In the silent moments between classes, when our eyes would meet across the cafeteria and the air would crackle with unspoken challenge. I looked up at him, the fight draining out of me, replaced by a wave of sheer, uncomfortable vulnerability. My mask of icy control was shattered. He could see it. He could see all of me.

He paused, seeing the discomfort flash across my face. His grip on my waist loosened slightly, a fraction of an inch, but his eyes still burned with that competitive heat. “What? Scared I'll be better than you at this too? Or...” He leaned in, his lips barely grazing my ear. “...are you actually into the idea, you're just too stubborn to admit it?”

The question hung there, stripping me bare more effectively than any physical act could. It wasn't about fear of him being better. It was the terrifying admission that I wanted to find out. That this raw, messy collision was more alive than any A+ I’d ever earned. The carefully constructed walls around my heart crumbled, not with a bang, but with a soft, surrendering sigh.

“Just... Tell me how to play this game.”

The words were barely a whisper, a white flag raised in the dim, pulsating light filtering through the window from the party outside.

A sharp, triumphant grin spread across his face, swift and blinding. His fingers slid from my waist to tangle in the hair at the nape of my neck, pulling me just a little closer. The gesture was possessive, final. “Simple. Publicly, we're still the same old rivals. Privately...” He leaned down, his mouth brushing the shell of my ear, warm and teasing. “We get all this tension out. Whoever falls first loses. Sound good?”

I nodded, a slow, deliberate movement. The game was set. The stakes were my heart, and I was already terrified I was losing.

He hummed in satisfaction, a dark, pleased sound. One hand slid down to grip my hip, pressing his body flush against mine, erasing the last millimeter of space between us. I could feel the hard planes of his chest, the relentless beat of his heart. His blue eyes darkened, full of a hungry, competitive fire that made my breath catch. “Good girl. Now let me start proving I'm the best you'll ever have, yeah?”

Before I could process the condescending term, the claim, his mouth was on my neck, his teeth grazing lightly over my pulse point. A shocked gasp escaped me. “H-Huh?!”

He chuckled low against my skin, the vibration a delicious friction. “What's wrong, scared already? You said you'd play. Don't go backing out on me now, rival.” His fingers slipped under the hem of my shirt, calloused and warm against the sensitive skin of my stomach. The contrast between his rough hands and the gentle scrape of his teeth sent a shiver straight to my core.

This was Satoru Gojo. The boy who laughed too loud in the library, who challenged my every answer in class, whose mere presence had been an irritant and a fascination for years. And now his hands were on my bare skin, his mouth was branding my neck, and the only thing I could think to say was the most basic, human request for acknowledgment.

“C-Call me Lisha... That's my name...” It was a plea for identity, a reminder that I was more than just his rival in this moment.

He froze. For a half-second, the entire world stilled. Then he pulled back just enough to look at my face. The competitive edge in his gaze softened, just a little, replaced by something more complex, more genuine. His thumb brushed my cheek slowly, a gesture so unlike him it made my heart ache. “Got it, Lisha.” He said my name like it was a secret he’d been keeping, something precious he was finally allowed to touch. “I'll remember that.” Then he leaned back in, and his lips were on my jaw, not with biting passion, but with a soft, lingering pressure that felt like a promise.

His arms wrapped around my waist, lifting me easily as if I weighed nothing. My back met the solid wood of the door he’d locked behind us, the noise of the party a distant, muffled thrum. His lips trailed down from my jaw to the base of my throat, sucking softly at the sensitive skin there. The sensation was electric, pulling a low moan from me. “So...” he murmured against my skin, his voice husky. “...are you gonna let me touch you, Lisha? Or should I make you wait and let the party hear how good you sound for me?”

The threat was a dare. The choice was an illusion. My eyes widened, my mind a chaotic swirl of fear and a desperate, clawing need. I hesitated for a moment, suspended between who I was supposed to be and who I was becoming in this locked room with him. Then, I nodded, a jerky, surrendering motion. “Yes...”

A low, satisfied groan rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure victory. He yanked my shirt up over my head, the cool air a shock against my heated skin. His blue eyes darkened with a hunger I’d never seen before as they raked over me, taking in the exposed curve of my breasts, the rapid rise and fall of my chest. “Fuck, you look even better than I imagined, Lisha.”

His mouth latched onto one nipple, sucking gently while his hand fumbled with the button of my jeans. The dual sensation—the hot, wet pull of his mouth and the frantic struggle with my clothing—drove me wild. “Aaah... You even imagined about me...?” The question was breathless, incredulous. I’d imagined him, too. In dark, secret moments I’d never admit to.

He pulled back with a sharp, smug smirk, finally popping the button open. His hand dipped inside my jeans, brushing against my inner thigh. “What, you think I only think about beating your grade? C’mon.” He nipped at my neck, a sharp, possessive bite, as his fingers found their way to my core, pressing slowly, deliberately against my clit. “A rival this pretty? Of course I thought about it.”