Undecided(44)

“Tell me what you want,” he says, his voice slightly hoarse.

I swallow. He seems sincere and a little on edge, and I understand—certain parts of me are howling at the mere prospect of doing the responsible thing and sending Crosbie Lucas back to the frat house to bang Miss Maryland. So instead I do as he asks, and tell him the truth. “Walk me home.”

He nods. “Fine.”

“And promise that no matter what happens, my name will never end up on any lists.”

He flinches, so fast I’d have missed it if I blinked. “I promise, Nora.”

We start walking, our brisk pace due only in part to the cold. We don’t touch and we don’t speak, and when we reach my block I look up and down the street to make sure we’re alone. Crosbie glances around too. “Want me to go around back?” he offers. “Come in through your window?”

“Oh. Would you—”

He growls and snatches the keys from my palm, hauling me up the steps to the front door. “I’m not crawling through the f*cking window. That was a joke.”

“I thought maybe with the Superman thing—”

“He leaps over buildings. He doesn’t break into places.”

“Well, I really don’t know a lot about Superman, Crosbie.”

He shoves open the door and nudges me in first. “I don’t want to talk about this right now.” And then the tentative kisses from the tree are gone, replaced by hot and wet and dirty. Soon my coat is on the floor and I’m kicking off second-hand cowboy boots, not caring where they land. Crosbie scoops me up like I weigh nothing and I wrap my legs around his broad waist, hard muscles pressed against the tender insides of my knees.

He carries me into my bedroom, flipping on the light and closing the door. When he sees my gaze catch on the knob he must realize I’m worried about the lack of a lock because he says, “He won’t be home tonight. I’ll be gone before he comes back.”

I nod and swallow as Crosbie toes off his sneakers and drops his coat on top. Now he’s waiting there in that ridiculous costume, a very conspicuous bulge in front making it clear where we stand. “I really wish I wasn’t wearing this,” he says, reaching behind his neck to fumble with the zipper.

“Let me help,” I say, stepping close. He turns to face the door and I slide the zipper down, watching the fabric separate to reveal the very broad, very muscled plane of his back, dotted with freckles. Impulsively I lean in and press a kiss to the warm skin, goose bumps popping up on contact. The muscles ripple as he reaches up and shoves the sleeves down his arms, the attached cape catching and tearing slightly, though he doesn’t seem to care. When he turns around he’s naked to the waist, the shiny fabric bunched around his stomach.

My mouth goes dry. Crosbie is almost accidentally perfect. Too broad, too big, too hot. He looks like the guy who can lift a tractor with his bare hands, hands that are now reaching for me and slowly, intently, undoing the myriad buttons on this two-dollar shirt.

“You can just tear it,” I murmur, fighting the temptation to do it myself. I want this. It’s been too long and I want it all right now. “I’m never going to wear this again.”

“Nora,” he says seriously. “I’m going to need you to wear this outfit on many, many occasions.”

I fail to stop the unladylike snort of laughter that escapes, and Crosbie laughs too, though he never falters in his task. Finally he pushes the cheap denim over my shoulders and lets it fall to the floor so I’m left in a white lace bra and Thelma’s high-waisted jeans.

He sighs and steps back, blatantly eying my chest. “Can I tell you something?” he asks, never lifting his gaze.

“Ah, okay?”

“I have wanted to touch these for a long time.”

I laugh, surprised. “What?” I suppose I shouldn’t be so shocked: he’s a guy, these are boobs. It’s like peanut butter and jelly.

He reaches around and I feel his fingers slide under the bra’s lace band, undoing the hooks. “That first day,” he whispers against my hair, “when you showed up with that tight little sweater with the buttons on the front? I think about that a lot.”

My whole body floods with desire at the words. Because the grittiness in his tone, the feel of his erection bumping my belly as he stands so close and guides the straps down my arms—I know he’s talking about jerking off as he thinks about that cardigan.

I want to laugh but I don’t think I can anymore. When he finally bares my breasts for the first time, the sound of his sharp breath steals my own. Very slowly he trails his hands up my hips, over my stomach, until he’s lifting a breast in each calloused palm, his touch as reverent as his skin is rough and scratchy. And while his fingers stroking back and forth over my nipples feels great, it’s the look on his face that’s really turning me on. He’s completely absorbed. Like he’s memorizing this moment. Like he’ll never forget it.

“Crosbie.” I slip my hands up over his big biceps, his wide shoulders, his neck, his ears, before finally tangling in his hair.

“Nora,” he replies, shifting forward so I have to step back, my calves hitting the bed frame. He releases my breasts long enough to skate a hand between my shoulder blades, anchoring the other on my ass and lowering me onto the mattress before kneeling between my parted legs. His big hands go to the button on my jeans and he looks me in the eye. “Okay?”