Page 27 of I Want to Know What Love Is

He laughs at my dig and I swear the way he enjoys my shit every time is like drinking a shot of whiskey, going down warm and bursting into drunken pleasure when it hits bottom.

“I’ll have to score a touchdown for you and prove my worthiness.”

“You’d better pass for a TD or the coach really will put Bane in.”

“No, I mean score myself. Not a pass. I’ll run it into the end zone just for you.” His smirk is in full force and he’s toying now.

“Don’t pull a muscle on my account, Jonesy.” I take a deep breath and try to feel as cool as I hope I sound because I can’t stand his flirting. It makes me feel vulnerable. Makes me feel like we’re two adults on even ground and we’re not. So I add, “My date and I will be super impressed.”

He raises a brow. “Paul? I don’t think they let dogs into the stadium.”

I can’t help my snort of laughter.

“Not Paul. A real man this time.” Or at least I hope so. He nods.

“No doubt you have a dozen real men lined up outside your office every day ready to take you to the game.” He pauses and grins. “But Dean Lassiter wouldn’t approve of you dating a student.”

I squint at him because that is the exact truth he needs to hold to heart. I’m grasping at that same elusive truth and having a hard time keeping my grip.

“Very funny. Don’t worry about my date. My sister is fixing me up with someone from New York. Couldn’t get further from a St. Paul U student.” I wave a hand, sputtering at myself for sharing too much. He doesn’t need to know and I have nothing to prove. “Enough about my love life. What about yours? I hear you’re the cat’s pajamas on campus, girls jumping out windows when you walk by and all that.”

He laughs. “Sure. But having strange girls throwing themselves at me hardly makes a love life.”

I study him because my interest, along with my heart rate, picks up with the seriousness of his answer to a question that was meant to be rhetorical. For the most part.

I pat his arm, trying to ignore the heat of his skin, the solidness of his muscles, and struggle to keep my cool. “Don’t worry. One of those strange ladies is bound to work out. The odds are in your favor.”

He snorts. “Too bad I’m tired of playing games.”

“I hope not because it looks like your whole life is set to be about playing games, football being the main one.”

He smirks. “You’re making me dizzy, sha. Slow down.”

I snap my fingers. “And I thought you were up to speed. I’m disappointed.”

His smile this time lacks the smirk, but not the charm. It’s chock full of that girl-melting message that screams you’re adorable and sexy and so special I want you and only you.

Or I could be projecting because that’s what I’m thinking—well, not exactly thinking—more like feeling. That sizzle in my panty region seems to be gaining traction. My survival instincts kick in, sensing a direct threat to my livelihood if I continue down the lusty path where my hormones are taking me. I check my Apple watch, and it’s telling me the time and that my heart rate is elevated. No kidding.

“Oh, look at the time. It’s been fun. Guess we’re done for tonight,” I say, heavy on the sarcasm. “I’ll see you in a week.”

“Or maybe at the game.”

I stand and grab my hoodie from the rack behind me because I’m now hyperaware of my nipples. They’re at full alert and trying to lead me to the source of their excitement, begging to be touched. Damn. I turn and put on the jacket, ignoring his comment like I should have been doing all along.

He stands and slides his backpack over one.

I don’t know what to say besides goodbye or see ya later, but apparently, it’s not in me to be so banal when faced with a good-looking man.

“You never know,” I say. Then I want to snatch the words out of the air and swallow them. What is wrong with me?

He nods and opens the door, waving for me to leave first, but I wrest the door away from him. “This is my office. I’ll need to lock up.”

“You sure do,” he says, very ungentlemanly, reminding me of my failure to lock the door earlier. I give him a withering stare. Best I can do while keeping my cool and behaving professionally. Super hard to do with him so close, the scent and heat of him penetrating everywhere, every cell of me, begging me to respond.

Thank god he steps outside into the hall. But then he waits. I can hardly wait him out or ask him to leave without me since I’m in the process of locking my office. Damn it. But the last thing I want to do is continue to keep company with him while we walk down a narrow, dark hall. Not that I don’t trust myself to resist him. Hell no.

Maybe I can’t trust him to resist me. Ha.