See Me After Class(92)

I want him. I never stopped wanting him. And now there’s a chance where something with him might not be a standstill, but might be something more.

I glance at him, and his eyes flash to mine. So much vulnerability in the depths of them. Worry and hope colliding together. It’s my undoing.

“There might still be hope.”

His brows shoot up to his hairline in surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah, really,” I say.

He nods and takes a bite of his cookie. We both turn away from each other and instead stare at the empty parking lot. From the cool night, a chill runs up the base of my spine, causing me to visibly shiver. Arlo catches it and says, “Jesus, are you cold?”

“I’m okay, just caught a chill for a second.”

“Here,” he says, taking off his cardigan and draping it over my shoulders.

And, oh my God. Someone hand me a tissue, because I’m about to weep from how good it smells.

Like someone bottled up a man and sprayed it all over this cardigan. All I can really say at this point is the pheromones are on fire.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

We both pick at our cookies, when I finally say, “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Why the change of heart?”

“Because, for once, I listened to a different voice than my own.” He pauses and moves a few stray strands of my hair away from my forehead gently. “I felt the absence of you in my everyday routine, and I had no idea that you’d already encroached upon that. I noticed your avoidance, the awkward air between us, and . . . I didn’t like any of it. Frankly . . . I missed you. Every smartass, prank-loving, beautiful part of you.”

I smile shyly. “I missed the teasing.”

“Anything else?” he asks, his voice growing deeper.

“And other things.” I don’t have to say it for him to know what I’m talking about.

“Good to know.”

He smirks, and I melt right there on the spot. There’s no denying it, I’m developing strong feelings for this man, and they’re charging at me, ready to cling on and hold on tight.





“Thank you for the cookie.”

“Glad you enjoyed it,” he says, walking me to my car, which is only a few feet away.

“You didn’t have to walk me to my car.”

“I know.”

“So why did you?”

He reaches out and picks up my hand, linking our fingers together. My heart flutters from the feel of his palm pressing against me, then how he closes the space between us.

“I wanted to ask you something.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

He brings our linked hands up to his mouth and presses a sweet kiss across my knuckles. “Will you go on a date with me this Wednesday?”

“Wednesday?” I ask, sounding breathless.

“Yes. I don’t want to wait a week, but figured I’d give you some time to change your mind if you say yes and then realize what a horrible mistake it was once the cookie wears off.”

I laugh and smile up at him. “I’d love to go on a date with you.”

“Good,” he says as his other hand reaches up and cups my cheek. “So Wednesday it is.”

“Yeah,” I answer dreamily.

His thumb drags over my cheek, and he whispers, “I need to kiss you, Greer.”

“I need you to kiss me too,” I whisper.

He steps in closer and tilts my jaw up with his thumb, keeping his eyes trained on mine. “I’ve wanted these lips for a long fucking time.”

“Then take them.”

He wets his lips and lowers his mouth, leaving an inch between us. I breathe him in, let the moment swirl around us like a tornado of lust as he holds out, taking me to a level of anticipation I’ve never felt before.

And when I think he won’t close the distance, his soft lips press against mine. The lightest of presses, right before he brings me closer, power propelling me against him as his mouth takes charge.

It isn’t sloppy.

It isn’t awkward.

It’s . . . perfect.

Slow, but the perfect amount of pressure that tells me how much he’s wanted this. That his yearning matches mine.

I move my hand up his chest, to the back of his neck, where I cling tightly, keeping me in place as his mouth feels out mine.

Dizzying lust consumes me, filling me up from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. Building and building until it almost feels difficult to breathe. Because I know what it’s like to have this man’s tongue on me, inside me, torturing me.

Divine.

And his hands . . . strong hands that caress with urgency.

Fervor.

His tongue runs along mine, and I have no choice but to succumb to the passion rolling over me in waves, drowning me in his masculinity. I open my mouth and his tongue clashes against mine. And with every swipe, I mirror him with reckless abandon.

He growls against my mouth and presses me against the car.

My hand gravitates to the short strands of his hair.

He unlinks our hands and presses his hand against my hip, pinning me in place.

“Fuck,” he whispers, pulling away for a second. “You taste so good.”