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He presses his lips together and nods like that explains it. I drop onto the bed next to him and scoot until my back is against the wall and I am looking at the back of his head. He doesn’t protest. Not that I expected him to. It’s just what we do now.
“You smell.”
I sniff, offended. “My sweat smells like roses,” I joke.
That gets the smallest huff. Not quite a laugh. He turns a page. I open the homework I actually have to finish and try to make myself concentrate. I’ve read the same sentence twice. He clears his throat, and I tap his leg with my toes.
He doesn’t acknowledge my attempt at distracting him. So I go back to trying to read. It’s an easy class, and reading this text book isn’t a big deal, I like this science class. I have three this semester.
He shifts a little, and I eye him. He uncrosses his legs and scoots back until he’s sitting beside me instead of in front of me, spine to the wall, his homework dragged with him. Our legs end up parallel. His knee brushes mine when he crosses them again, and he leaves it pressed against me. He probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
I stop caring about the chain of custody evidence is supposed to take.
The contact is barely anything. We’ve done more than this during our lessons. But this isn’t a lesson, he doesn’t have a reason to be comfortably resting his knee against my leg. We’re doing homework, or at least he is. I’m floundering in my fucking emotions like a baby deer on new legs.
My skin lights up, sending a rush of warmth straight between my legs. Okay, body, now’s not the time.
He shifts, and my eyes zero in on what might be his dick in his jeans. Wait, is he hard?
I lick my lips and pull my gaze away, but all I can honestly think about is touching him. Making him hard if he isn’t already, before giving him the best blow job he will ever have in his life. That would be an epic lesson.
I stare at the page until everything blurs.
Do not offer that.
Do. Not.
He asked me to teach him how to kiss. He did not, in fact, ask me to put my mouth on his dick on a Monday afternoon because Blue got in my head and made me imagine him experiencing that before. And I can’t stop thinking about him saying he had a crush on me.
I knock my knee back against his, lightly, as though I can pretend I’m just adjusting. He still doesn’t move or look at me. Fine. I won’t look at him.
I stare at the paragraph about evidence bags and think about the degree on the other side of this school year. I start my internship at the lab soon. That will take me away from spending time with Quinn even more. I haven’t mentioned it to him yet. I want to spend every available moment with him. And that’s why this is a problem. I need to focus on my future, not get hung up on a guy.
“You’re not turning pages,” he says.
“I’m thinking.”
“About evidence collection?” he asks, peering down at my book.
“Sure.”
He glances at me sideways. “You’re a bad liar.”
“I’m not lying. I’m considering the material.”
I turn the page I didn’t finish and pretend to start reading the next one, and he goes back to his work. Silence falls again, and my brain happily supplies mental visuals of exactly how he would look as he comes down my throat.
Fuck.
I slam the book shut, slide off his bed, toss my book on my bed, and head for the bathroom. I’m going to go literally insane. He’s so fucking tempting.
“Daniel?”
“Bathroom,” I say, and I don’t look back, because if I look back, I’m going to get on my knees and call it tutoring.
THIRTY
QUINN
