Chapter 19
NO MORE WALLS
Clover
Two hours ago, my TA emailed the final story grades for my creative writing class. Ninety minutes ago, I submitted them. I’ve been sitting in my living room ever since with my phone in my hand, text message composed, my finger hovering over the send button. The screen goes blank every five minutes.
Fifteen minutes ago, Maverick sent a question mark.
I know I should decide one way or the other. But now that I’m here, at the end of the semester, I don’t know what the right choice is anymore.
The knock on the door startles me, and for a moment I worry that Gabriel is showing up unexpectedly again. It’s late, though, and the knock is coming from the back door, not the front.
Maverick’s last exam finished hours ago. And I haven’t seen him since he left my office last week.
I push out of my chair and cross the living room on unsteady legs, phone still in my hand. He stands on my back deck, wearing dress shoes, black pants, a gray button-down, and a black wool jacket—the kind someone would wear for a nice dinner out. He looks older. Refined. Not like a student.
He tucks one hand in his pocket and quirks a brow.
I hit send on the message:
Clover: Submitted
He pulls his phone out of his pocket, and the right side of his mouth tips up in a questioning half grin that makes my stomach flutter. He taps the door handle, and I drop my phone on the dining room table and open it for him.
Snow swirls in the air, melting in his hair as he steps in out of the cold. “When did you submit them?”
“Ninety-seven minutes ago.” I try to smile, but my nerves make it feel strained. “And I had my TA grade your final, just like everything else.”
I won’t jeopardize his chances at a future, or my own. This tells me everything I need to know about where I am with him, even if I’ve been trying to weave a different narrative until now.
“So I’m not your student anymore.” He shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it over the back of a chair.
“You’re not my student anymore, but you’re still a student.” It’s a weak argument, but I’m struggling with what it means if I do this.
He tips his head fractionally. “You need to do this dance with me one more time?”
I bring my fingers to my lips and drop my head.
“It’s okay if you do.” He strokes my cheek with the back of his hand. The contact is all too brief. “I’m only a student for one more semester. I looked into the guidelines. As long as I’m not your student, we can do whatever we want.”
I grab the sides of my cardigan and pull them over each other. I’ve been through the school’s code of ethics. I know it’s not grounds for termination for me to be involved with him at this point, but the optics are something else. “I’m thirty, and you’re twenty-one.”
“You’re twenty-nine, and I’ll be twenty-two soon enough.”
“I turn thirty first. You should be dating girls your own age. Students your age.”
He rubs his jaw. “I’ve never dated girls my own age, and I’m sure not going to start now. They’re not who I want. They’re not you.”
“Maverick.” It’s just his name, but I feel the weight of it in my heart.
Because it’s not a plea or an admonishment, it’s filled with longing and desire.
With need. With defeat. It’s been more than three months since we were together, and the memory of that night is as clear as if it were yesterday.
“Sitting in your class has been a torture I willingly endured. I’m not imagining that there’s something here.” He motions between us. “You wouldn’t have let me in if we weren’t on the same page. You keep saying it’s because I’m a student, but you didn’t have a problem with this back in August.”
“I didn’t know there were eight years between us then, and we were acting on attraction. Things are different now,” I whisper.
This is what I’ve been telling myself this entire semester. My role made it easier, not wanting the power dynamic to be unbalanced.
He lets me voice my fears before he continues, “I get that you were worried about the risks, but now that I’m not your student, there aren’t any.
I understand that it’s complicated for you, being in the position you are.
But it’s temporary. You’re going to move on after this year, and I’m going to get called up to the NHL.
” He bites the corner of his lip. “No one has to know. This can just be ours.” He runs his hands down his face and brings them palm to palm, his index fingers touching his lips.
“I know my being a student is a sticking point for you, but I’m so fucking old inside, Clover.
No one my age gets what this is like, how the things I’ve been through have changed me. But I feel like maybe you do.”
I will my body not to react, but no matter what, when Maverick is close, I warm to his proximity.
My heart rate quickens, my palms grow damp.
It’s so much easier to ignore when he’s dressed in jeans and hoodies, looking the part of the student—harder when he’s dressed for business and looks very much like the man I know him to be.
“Clover. Look at me.” His voice is a gritty whisper.
I swallow and lift my gaze.
“Tell me you don’t want me, and I’ll leave.”
“It won’t work between us,” I whisper.
“That’s not what I asked. And I’m not asking you for long-term anyway.
I’m asking you for now. Tonight. A week.
A month. Until your contract is up, or you get tired of me, whichever comes first. I can be your rebound.
I’ll be the in-between guy until someone you can get serious with comes along.
But if this is too much for you, all you have to do is tell me I’m alone in this, that my feelings are misplaced.
Doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. I’ll go.
I’ll walk away. I don’t deserve you anyway. ”
It’s that final sentence that crumbles what’s left of my defenses.
I put my hand over his to stop him when he reaches for his coat. My action speaks louder than any words, but I say them anyway. “You’re not alone.”
He exhales slowly and flips his hand over, bringing us palm to palm. His fingers curl gently around mine. “I’m losing my mind over you. This semester has been fucking torture.”
“I agree. But I still don’t think it’s a good idea for us to get involved.
” For so many reasons. However, that doesn’t mean I have the willpower not to give in.
My feelings have been building since he walked into my office, apologized, and handed over the key to the athletic facility. Probably even before that.
His eyes lift, grin rueful. “It feels a lot like we’re already involved.”
I lick my lips, my mouth dry. “I don’t want either of us to get hurt,” I admit.
With his eyes still on mine, he raises our clasped hands and drags my knuckles down his cheek. “I promise I will never do anything to intentionally cause you pain. So if you need me to leave, I’ll go.”
I close my eyes, warring with myself. I should tell him to go, but it doesn’t mean I want to or that I will.
Because he’s right. Despite all the reasons we shouldn’t be together, there’s something here. He’s an old soul, whether from experience and trauma or because he’s lived his entire life in everyone else’s shadow while still being forced into the limelight. He’s wise beyond his years.
“I don’t want you to go.” It’s more breath than words.
He squeezes my hand. “I’m sorry I’m making this so hard for you. I wanted to leave you alone, to step back and fuck off. But being close to you calms me in a way I can’t fully explain.”
“Like you said, if I didn’t want you here, I wouldn’t have let you in the door.” This is the honesty he seems to need.
His lips hover over my knuckles. “Can I kiss you?”
I give myself permission to submit to the wanting. “Yes.”
“Are you sure, Clover?”
I lift my gaze to his. “I’m sure.”
He holds it for several long seconds and then reaches out and sweeps his fingertips from my temple to the edge of my jaw. “We’re not doing anything wrong. It’s okay to want.”
I’m not sure if he’s reassuring me or himself. He flips my hand over and presses his warm lips to the inside of my wrist. I smile as a slight grin turns up one corner of his mouth.
“I didn’t say where I was going to kiss you.” His expression turns serious as he lifts my hand and wraps it around the back of his neck. “Is this okay?”
The way he seeks permission is unbearably sexy. “Yes, it’s okay.”
“Good. That’s good.” He nods once as he drags a fingertip along my cheekbone. “Can I kiss you here?”
“Yes, please,” I whisper.
His lips brush my cheek, and his thumb sweeps along my bottom lip. “What about here?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?” He murmurs the words against the corner of my mouth.
“I’m sure.” I start to turn toward his lips, but he cups my face in his palms, expression so earnest, it nearly breaks my heart.
“I don’t want to take what you don’t want to give, Clover.”
“I want this, even if I’ve been trying to convince myself otherwise.” I tug on the back of his neck, and his lips meet mine, soft and tentative.
Until I take the last step and close the space between us.
It’s been months since I’ve been this close to him without barriers. I’ve been trying to keep boundaries, mental and otherwise. Now, though, I can feel every ridge and angle, the soft and hard of him.
A low groan leaves him, and he pulls my bottom lip between his, sucking gently. His hand comes around my waist, pulling me in tighter as we angle our heads, lips parting, accepting each other in.
I push aside my fears and give in to the heady desire.
Our tongues tangle in languorous, drugging sweeps that make my knees weak and awaken primal need.
He breaks the kiss, and his mouth moves along my neck, all soft lips, wet tongue, and a hint of teeth.
“So fucking sweet. I’ve missed the way you taste.
” When he reaches the hollow behind my ear, the fingers of his free hand sweep down my side and settle on my hip. “Will you let me take you to bed?”
“Please.”