Need Me (Broke and Beautiful #2)(14)

She sat back down feeling as though no time had passed since he’d kissed her in the storage closet. Her nipples had formed hard peaks beneath her shirt, so she crossed her arms to hide them. When she chanced a glance at Ben, she saw him take notice of the action from beneath heavy eyelids. It was as if they were the only two people in the hall, but that couldn’t be right. After what he’d said to her, the justified things he’d said to her, this was supposed to stop. Maybe it couldn’t stop?

Did she want it to stop?

No. God, no, she didn’t. How could she have forgotten what it was like to merely be in the same room as him? Like every particle in the air around her was charged, electric. His voice, the passion he exhibited for teaching, had captured her. Initially. Then he’d focused it on her, and she’d seen that intensity was reserved for every area of his life. Possibly her. And now that she’d felt his touch, it almost felt like torture. She felt starved and miserable, while at the same time exultant that these kinds of feelings were even possible. When they were this close, she felt . . . like a woman.

Honey realized her thighs were clenched tight on the wooden seat to the point of shaking, and she forced them to relax. She had to get through the next hour without disgracing herself in a room full of her fellow students, and that meant not having a spontaneous orgasm in their midst. As Ben started his lecture, she wondered at her own mental state. She couldn’t be the only woman in this room attracted to the professor. Could she? Had she created a fantasy Ben that didn’t translate to real life? Nope. A chic brunette had taken her seat in the front row and looked seconds from creating a drool puddle. Honey had met the real Ben on Friday night, though, and proven he wasn’t some mirage sent to make her horny. He was a person with ambitions, just like herself. Ambitions she could jeopardize. She needed to stop feeling this way, stop wanting him. But her mind couldn’t come to a truce with her body.

Needing to look anywhere but at Ben, she turned over her graded paper. An A. He’d given her an A. She waited for the rush of relief, but it didn’t come. She must have known instinctively that he wouldn’t hurt her academically because of what had happened. She flipped to the final page and tried not to snatch up the document when she saw a note in his clear, crisp handwriting.

Flawless, Ms. Perribow. Except you didn’t list the items you carry. Professor Dawson.

Her heart rate turned erratic, the organ throwing itself against her ribs like it wanted to sprint down the aisle and slide into an imaginary home plate at Ben’s shiny wingtips. He was right. For the assignment, she’d written a comedic reflection of the book he’d assigned, an updated twist on the classic. While she’d listed the often absurd items her classmates carried in their backpacks and pockets, she hadn’t included herself. Why did he care? Had he written the note before their little closet rendezvous?

Knowing she shouldn’t but unable to help it, she reached into her purple JanSport backpack and withdrew her extra-credit assignment on Lolita. She turned to the last page and wrote:

The Things Honey Carries: A sealed letter my mother wrote for me the day I left home. My first-place blue ribbon for pig wrestling (2013 Kentucky State Fair). House keys (keys are a good thing . . . you never want to get locked in an enclosed space with a stranger, right? Heh . . .). Life Savers. Pepper spray. Index cards for jotting down recipes. A diagram of the human anatomy. Number two pencils. Clean socks. Thank you cards (when someone does something nice, you should send one right away or you’ll forget). A mixed CD my brother made me when I had appendicitis. Laffy Taffy.

She shoved the assignment back into her backpack, already debating whether or not she should trash it and print out a new one. Without the note. It was early, anyway. He’d never know about the note. Yes, that’s what she would do. If he’d written his note and forgotten, he’d only be confused and exasperated by her subsequent note. Yes, he’d forgotten. That had to be it. He hadn’t been able to get away from her quick enough.

The lecture took years. At least, that’s how it felt. Every time he paused to take a sip of water, she’d grow rapt at his bobbing Adam’s apple. The way his brows would furrow as he swallowed, as if deciding which point to bring up next. He needed a haircut, the dark ends climbing down over the edges of his collar, so incongruous with the rest of him. When he started shoving his lesson plan into his leather bag and students around her began to disperse, it took her a moment to realize class was over.

Without looking, she stood and started to sidestep out of her row. Big mistake. Winker was still sitting there—why?—and her foot caught in the strap of his backpack, sending her flying down onto the hard floor, contents of her backpack scattering in every direction. For one long moment, she was in denial. Nope not happening to me. This is happening to someone in a romance novel or a Disney Channel movie. Time sped up again when Winker hunkered down beside her and began handing her papers, notebooks, pens, and other embarrassingly private items, such as the ones she’d listed for Ben.

“Oh God, kill me now,” she muttered, shoveling everything into her bag as fast as possible. “Thank you,” she managed to utter in Winker’s direction.

“Nah, it’s my bad. I was waiting for you to come out of your trance so I could ask you out to, uh . . .” He snatched up a flyer that had come from her backpack, scanning it with a frown. “This poetry reading. You’re going, right?” Once again, he consulted the paper. “It’s at Barnard Hall on Wednesday night.”