Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
I’m still smiling about it the next morning.
Even though I didn’t want to leave his side and that hot little cocoon of his dull gray room and rumpled sheets, I had to come back.
So Arrow, after helping me shower, where he proceeded to lick me to another orgasm while soothing my sore pussy, and dressing me up in his t-shirt, dropped me off at the spot in the woods where I could sneak back in.
I didn’t go to sleep though. Not right away.
Not until dawn broke in the sky, but still, I woke up at the designated time, got ready for classes, went to breakfast, and chatted with my friends, all of whom gave me knowing looks because I left with him in the middle of my dance with a smile on my face.
That’s how I spend my entire day, smiling.
Even when Miller gives me extra homework – because I was smiling too much and daydreaming in her class – that I have to finish before next week, I still have a smile and that’s how I enter the library, too.
Smiling.
I even greet the girl behind the reception desk with a friendly wave, which she obviously does not return but it’s okay.
I’m happy.
I’m perfect. For him.
That’s what he said, right? That I’m perfect.
I mean, yes it was only for sex but still. It was something.
I never had much interest in being perfect but ever since I was ten, I wanted to be perfect for him. I wanted to somehow bridge the gap between us and match him.
Turns out, I do.
I do match him and oh my God, I can’t stop smiling.
And I thought this was the extent of my happiness, what I’m feeling right now. The bubbly, floaty sensation in my limbs and my stomach.
But I was wrong.
My happiness can be doubled. My happiness can be red hot. It can be bursting and pulsing and seeping out of my skin.
Because as soon as I turn around from the reception desk, my books against my chest, looking for an empty table where I can park myself and solve all the goddamn equations, I find him.
He’s here and he’s looking at me.
Like he was expecting me.
He’s at a table in the corner, directly beneath the overhead light that brings out the gold in his hair. It brings out the gold in his skin too, especially in the curve of his bulging bicep when he raises his arm to rake his fingers through his strands.
My own fingers twitch when I see him do that, comb back the fallen strands, and my throat dries out at the sight of his beautiful face. At the hollows of his cheeks and the seam of his lips.
The blazing blue of his eyes.
It’s wrong what they say. That when you die, your body turns cold and blue. No, blue doesn’t mean winter and death.
Blue for me will always mean warm summer and life. Fire.
Blue for me will always mean him.
My Arrow.
He’s sitting back in his chair, wearing his usual V-neck gray t-shirt, and when I simply keep standing in my spot, he folds his arms across his chest and raises his eyebrows, making him look all kinds of arrogant and sexy.
Then he does something even sexier, something that causes flutters to explode in my belly.
With his eyes on me, he nudges the chair by his side out with his foot. In a silent invitation to sit by him.
And I have to smile at that as well. I have to.
There’s no way that I can’t.
There’s no way that I can’t walk up to him now, my breaths and heartbeats a mess. My thighs a mess too. Of pulses and my wetness.
When I reach him and press the aching juncture between my legs against the table he’s chosen, his gaze drops to it.
He licks his lips as if he knows that I’m wet down there and he’s reliving my taste.
“You’re here,” I whisper.
He lifts his eyes. “I ran into your friends out in the courtyard. They told me you’d be here.”
“So you came to see me?” I ask, breathless.
Resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, he commands, “Sit.”
“What?”
“I heard you got extra homework.”
“Uh, yeah.”
“So I’m here to help you.”
I press my books to my chest. “You’re here to help me with my trig homework?”
Without answering me, he repeats, “Take a seat, Salem.”
Confused and so totally floored because he came here to help me, I sit and put my books on the table. He straightens up and goes for them when I say, “Where were you all day? I was looking for you.”
He pauses then, his hand in the process of opening my notebook. With his head bowed, I hear him sigh.
I’m not sure what that sigh means but I keep going, nonetheless. “I even came by your office but you weren’t there.”
I did go by his office during lunch.
Not sure for what. I mean, I wanted to see him but I wasn’t sure what I’d do when I saw him.
Okay, I’m lying.
I knew exactly what I’d do when I saw him. I’d throw myself at him and climb his body and demand that he fuck me right then and there.
Again, he doesn’t answer me and I frown.
He simply resumes flicking through my notebook until he comes upon a blank page. Then, he writes something on it.
I watch, mesmerized. Like I’ve never seen him write before. I have; we lived in the same house. I have seen him do his homework in the living room with my sister, but for some reason I can’t stop watching.
I can’t stop watching the way he grips the pen, so authoritatively, so possessively – like he gripped me last night – and how large and dominating his fist looks.
When he’s done writing, he slides the notebook toward me.
In case you didn’t realize it yet, we’re at the library and the girls at the next table are watching us.
They’re watching every move you make. If they tell anyone and you get in trouble for flirting with the coach, I’m not going to like that.
Personally when I don’t like things, I choose to make it known.
Very clearly. But I guess you don’t want me to do that, do you?
Since you’re always telling me to be nice.
So unless you’ve changed your mind, I suggest you stop acting like an infatuated schoolgirl and let me help you with your homework, which you probably got because of me anyway.
There are so many things in this note that fill me with fluttery happiness. But then there are things that make me look up at him in outrage.
I even gasp before saying, “I’m not acting…”
Like an infatuated schoolgirl.
I don’t say that but I think it, and of course he knows what I’m thinking. Because his lips twitch, amused at my reaction.
“Drama,” he whispers, shaking his head slightly.
I gasp again. “I’m not…”
Damn it.
Taking a deep breath – because apparently some girls are watching and I can feel their stares now that he has mentioned it– I throw him a sweet smile. Then as calmly as possible, I go for the notebook and slide it toward myself so I can write him a very calm reply.
I’m not drama.
Okay, maybe I am. But in this instance, I’m righteously outraged. I’m not acting like an infatuated schoolgirl, you asshole. I was just happy to see you. And how do you know I got the extra homework because of you?
The minute that it takes me to finish the note, my dramatic antics are back, and I thrust the notebook at him.
He takes it with a slight smirk and his eyelids flicker and dip to read it. When he’s done, he writes something back and inches the notebook toward me with his index finger.
Because I heard you were daydreaming about me while Miller was explaining the law of cosines.
What is the law of cosines, I wonder. But that’s not important. There are other important things that we need to discuss.
How do you know that I was daydreaming about you?
To which he answers, Because I fucked you into a coma last night. I’ve never seen a girl go straight to sleep after sex. I thought that’s what guys did. So it’s easy to deduce that you were dreaming about me and my legendary cock when you should’ve been focusing on the class.
I peek at him through my eyelashes when I finish reading his note. His smirk is still in place but his eyes have become heavy.
Heavy with intensity and knowledge. With all the things he did to me last night, and whatever little outrage that I had melts away.
Jerk.
Why do I find him so adorable?
Why do I want to smack him and kiss him at the same time?
Biting my lip, I pretend to be irritated. Oh please. *insert eye roll* I was not dreaming about you. And your cock isn’t that legendary.
It is. But he doesn’t need to know that.
His answer is quick to come. It is and you were. Because I was dreaming about you too.
“You were?” I ask out loud and he sighs again, shaking his head once.
So I take to the notebook and pen another note. What were you dreaming about?
Eating a peach.
I read his note two times. Then, three.
By the time I’m done reading it the fourth time, my thighs are clenching and I’m squirming in my chair. I’m also crinkling and folding the corner of my page with sweaty, trembling fingers.
Do I really taste like that?
He does his lip-lick thing when he reads my note and when he’s done reading, he shoots me a look. A hot blazing look, and I swallow.
Then he writes, pressing the tip of the pen really hard on the paper, You mean do you really taste like a ripe fruit? All sweet and soft and made of sugar that when I take a bite, juices spill out of you and run down my chin? Fuck yeah, you do.
I’m a mess down there.
A complete fucking mess. More than I was before. The wetness is seeping into my thong and going beyond it. Also I think I’m breathing too hard.
I’m breathing so loudly that the girls who are watching us still – I can feel their eyes – can hear me. They can tell that I’m on the verge of combusting and leaving my wetness in this chair.
My fruity, peachy, sugary wetness.
You have to stop talking like that, I write to him.
Then you should stop squirming like your peach is bursting to be eaten. You wet? he writes back.
My pen almost slips away from my grip when I answer, Yes. So much.
Yeah, I bet. I bet your pussy is all swollen and messy. Whining for me, isn’t she?
Yes, she is. She wants you. I want you. Are you hard?