Chapter 7 #2
Kensington turned a shade of puce. He cleared his throat, adjusting his tie.
"Right. Well. Yes. Of course." He stammered. "Good to... good to hear you're focused, Max. Carry on."
He practically ran away.
Imogen stared at me. Her mouth was slightly open. Her eyes were wide, shimmering with something wet.
"You didn't have to do that," she whispered. "I can handle old perverts."
"I know you can," I said, turning back to her. "But you don't have to anymore. That’s the deal. We’re a team."
She swallowed hard. Under the table, her foot slid up my calf, hooking behind my knee.
"Team," she repeated.
The waiter arrived with the steaks.
"You two," the waiter said with a warm smile as he set down the plates. "Are terrifyingly good looking together. It’s actually intimidating."
Imogen laughed. It was a little breathless. "He's the scary one. I'm just the decoration."
"No, miss," the waiter winked. "He hasn't looked at anything else in the room since you sat down. Enjoy your dinner."
He walked away.
Imogen looked down at her steak. She picked up her knife. Her hand was shaking slightly.
"Max?"
"Yeah?"
"If you keep looking at me like that," she whispered, cutting into the meat, "we aren't going to make it to dessert."
"Eat your steak, Imogen," I growled, picking up my fork. "We need the protein."
But I knew she was right.
We were walking a tightrope over a pit of fire, and I was starting to think I wanted to fall.
The drive home was a blur of tension.
We didn't talk. We didn't turn on the radio. The air in the truck was thick with unspoken things. Every time I shifted gears, my hand brushed her leg. Every time she breathed, I heard it.
We parked in the garage beneath the apartment complex. I killed the engine.
The silence rushed in, loud and heavy.
I turned to look at her. She was already looking at me. Her eyes were dark in the shadows of the garage.
"Thank you," she said softly. "For dinner. For... standing up for me."
"He was an ass," I said. "He deserved worse."
"You called me the prize," she whispered.
"I called you an investment," I corrected, though my heart was hammering against my ribs.
"Same thing to a guy like you."
She unbuckled her seatbelt. The sound of the click was like a starter pistol.
She didn't open the door. She leaned across the center console. The silk of her dress rustled. The scent of her—peonies, wine, and warm skin—filled my senses.
"Max," she breathed.
That was all it took.
I met her halfway.
My hands tangled in her hair, pulling her to me. Her hands grabbed the lapels of my coat. Our mouths crashed together.
It wasn't like the first time in the hallway. That had been desperate, angry, fueled by a week of frustration.
This was... claiming.
This was ownership.
I kissed her deep, drinking her in. She tasted of red wine and chocolate. She made a whimpering sound in her throat and climbed over the center console.
"Imogen," I groaned, trying to help her without getting kicked in the face. "Wait. The gear shift."
"I don't care," she gasped, straddling my lap in the driver's seat.
It was a tight squeeze. The steering wheel dug into my back. Her head hit the roof of the cab. But neither of us cared.
She was on me. Her dress rode up, the silk pooling at her waist. I felt the heat of her thighs through my dress pants. She ground down, right on my zipper.
I saw stars.
"Fuck," I swore, gripping her hips. "Imogen. We're in a parking garage."
"It's private," she murmured, biting my ear. She moved her hips again. A slow, circular grind that nearly ended me right there. "Take me upstairs, Max. Take me upstairs and finish what you started on Tuesday."
I wanted to. God, I wanted to.
I ran my hands up her back, feeling the delicate line of her spine through the silk. I cupped her face, pulling her back for another searing kiss. My tongue swept into her mouth, tasting, taking.
She was so responsive. So eager. Every touch made her shiver. Every kiss made her melt.
I moved my hand down, between us. I found the hem of her dress. I found skin.
Soft. Warm. Wet.
She gasped into my mouth. "Yes. Please."
I started to lift her hips, ready to carry her upstairs, ready to throw the rulebook out the window.
Then, my phone buzzed.
It was in my pocket, vibrating right against her thigh.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
It broke the trance. Just enough.
I pulled back, breathing heavily. Imogen was flushed, her lips swollen, her eyes blown wide. She looked wrecked. She looked perfect.
"Ignore it," she panted.
"It might be the team," I said, my voice sounding like I’d swallowed gravel. "Or your dad."
I fished the phone out.
It wasn't the team. It wasn't her dad.
It was a calendar notification.
REMINDER: MIDTERM EXAM - HISTORY OF ART - 8:00 AM TOMORROW.
I stared at the screen. Then I looked at Imogen.
She saw the notification. She groaned, dropping her forehead against my shoulder.
"No," she whined. "No. That’s unfair. That’s cruel."
"You have an exam in nine hours," I said, the Warden slowly, painfully clawing his way back to the surface.
"I don't care about the Renaissance!" she cried, lifting her head. "I care about your hands!"
"Imogen," I said, gripping her hips to stop her wiggling. "If you fail this exam, you get kicked out. If you get kicked out, you leave the apartment. If you leave the apartment..."
I trailed off.
If she leaves, I lose her.
The realization was a splash of ice water.
This wasn't just about sex anymore. If we did this tonight—if we stayed up all night exploring every inch of each other—she would fail. She would crash. And she would be gone.
I needed her to stay.
"We have to go up," I said firmly. "And you have to sleep."
"I hate you," she whispered, but there was no heat in it. She rested her forehead against mine. "I hate how responsible you are."
"I know," I kissed her softly. "It’s my worst quality."
"It’s your best quality," she admitted.
She climbed off my lap, smoothing her dress. The loss of her weight was physically painful.
We walked to the elevator in silence. But it wasn't the awkward silence of strangers. It was the charged, heavy silence of two people who knew exactly what was waiting for them on the other side of the finish line.
We got into the elevator. Max pressed the button for the penthouse.
Imogen leaned against the wall, watching me.
"Hey, Max?"
"Yeah?"
"Pass or fail," she said, her eyes serious. "Tomorrow night... we're celebrating."
I looked at her. I saw the promise in her eyes.
"Get an A," I said, my voice rough. "And you can have whatever you want."
She smiled. A wicked, dangerous smile.
"I want everything," she whispered.
The doors opened.
We walked into the apartment. I sent her to her room. I went to mine.
I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sound of her breathing in the next room.
I was in love with her.
The thought didn't scare me as much as it should have.
It just made me realize that I had to win. I had to get her through this semester. I had to get the NHL contract. I had to secure the future.
Because now, the future had a face. And she wore emerald silk and ate rare steak.
I closed my eyes.
Get an A, Imogen. For both our sakes.