“Most of them unpleasant.” I’m blushing, I know I am.Sohard.
His brows lift, amused. “But that one?”
I swallow. In the softest whisper, I answer, “The one where I moaned your name? That was my favorite.”
His lips part like he might say something cocky, but what comes out is just a low, satisfied hum that goes straight to my core, that doessinfulthings to my body. “Mmm. Mine too.”
I lean in, helpless, drawn to his flame.
“Ms. Turner.”
The voice cracks through the air like thunder.
I jolt upright, heat flooding my face as the professor’s tone, sharp and unmistakably annoyed, shatters the quiet bubble around us.
“Please keep conversation to a minimum,” she says coolly.
“I—yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.” I sit up straight, blinking hard, as the classroom snaps back into focus.
Is it my imagination, or does my professor pale a little when she sees who I’m sitting with? Like she knowsexactlywho he is and is afraid of him? I follow the direction of her gaze, but Carrson isn’t paying her any attention. He’s too busy watching me, his eyes full of mischief. Not at all sorry he got me in trouble.
For the last twenty minutes of class, I face forward and try to focus on the muted grace of Renaissance oil paint, but it’s difficult with Carrson right beside me with his thigh still resting firmly against mine.
He’s in my space, in my head, in my freaking pulse.
When the lecture ends and the lights flick on, I shoot to my feet like my chair’s on fire. Carrson slowly rises, unfolding with way more grace than I did.
Silently, he follows me out to the courtyard.
The autumn sun is a high bright ball in the sky that provides little warmth. I shiver and pull my sweater sleeves down to cover my hands. Spanish moss sways from the oak limbs along the quad, and somewhere in the distance a single cicada sings like it doesn’t know that summer is long gone. Students flow around us, making their way to the library or student center. A few do double takes when they see Carrson. Some call out greetings, which he answers with a distracted smile and a wave, but his eyes never leave me.
He clears his throat. “So…”
I glance over.
He looks a little lost. Not dramatically so. Just like he showed up without a plan and doesn’t quite know what to do next. Like instinct brought him here, and now he’s standing in the sunlight beside a girl who won’t stop smiling at him.
I kind of love it.
“You followed me to class,” I say, bouncing on my toes.
His eyes flick to mine. “I didn’t follow, I just decided to…broaden my mind. That’s different.”
“Oh, so now you’re a scholar?”
“I’m a man of many talents.” He smirks, cocky, unapologetic. “You experienced several of them last night.”
I choke on a laugh, my cheeks flushing. A warm tingle coils low in my stomach. “Wow. Modest, too.”
His phone buzzes. He frowns and pulls it out. I brace for him to say good-bye, but he barely glances at it, just mutes the call and slips it back into his pocket.
“Do you need to go?” I ask, hope blooming that he might stay.
“In a little while, but first I thought I could take you to coffee.” Again he has that hint of awkwardness, of hesitation, when he adds, “If you want to.”
“Coffee sounds amazing.” I give him my brightest smile.
We turn to go, but a young woman stands before us. A Sister I’ve met before. She twists a strand of blonde hair nervously around her finger, her gaze focused on Carrson. The silence stretches until her cheeks turn red.
