Chapter 7 #3
We sit in charged silence for what feels like hours, but the time on my phone says it’s only been half an hour.
I’m not claustrophobic, but being stuck in a small space with someone this hot makes it feel like I have no room and like I’m running out of air.
I feel the hair on the back of my neck sticking to my skin, and I wave my hand in front of my face, hoping to cool myself off.
The silence finally gets to me, and I blurt the first thing that comes to mind. “Look, this is probably entirely too much information, but if we’re stuck in here much longer, I’m definitely going to pee my pants.”
He lets out a bewildered laugh, and I smile at the sound. He pushes the call button again. The same voice crackles over the intercom. “Still working on it, guys.”
“Just checking,” he replies before glancing over at me and shrugging.
The intercom static goes quiet as the man hangs up.
I blow my hair out of my face as I push myself to my feet, wanting to get the feeling back in my legs.
“I’m just saying, I’ve got like an hour in me.
Hour and a half tops,” I say nervously as I bounce up and down on the balls of my feet.
“And no offense, but that is not something I need anyone seeing, especially you.”
He slowly gets to his feet before he leans against the wall, smirking. “Why ‘especially’ me?”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, come on,” I scoff.
“What?” he asks, but I can tell he’s trying not to laugh.
“I really don’t want to pee my pants in front of anyone, but especially not the hottest professor in school.”
He raises a pleased eyebrow. “You think I’m the hottest professor at the university?”
“Don’t do that,” I snort. “I think you’re well aware that you’re the most attractive one here.
Most of the professors are old, overweight, or—” I cut myself short before I say something utterly humiliating.
I can practically draw up a roster of all the mortifying moments that have taken place in this elevator; I don’t need to make that list any longer.
“Or?” he insists. Pushing himself off the wall and stepping closer to me. I stumble away from him until my back meets the opposite wall. “I’m still waiting on the rest of that sentence, Summer.”
A pleasant feeling settles low in my stomach at the sound of my name on his lips. His voice comes out deep and raspy, reminding me of whiskey sliding down your throat.
“Summer?” he prompts at my silence.
I take a step to the side, hoping to put more space between us. He says my name like a prayer, like it’s his damnation and salvation wrapped into one.
A low sound emerges from his throat, and he flexes his hands.
Is it just me, or did he just growl?
I open and close my mouth searching for the right words, but I come up blank. I let out a defeated sigh. “They’re just… not you,” I whisper.
His pupils dilate, and he takes a sharp inhale of breath before letting it all out. “Fuck,” he murmurs before his lips are crushing mine in what is probably the hottest kiss of my life.
He crushes me to the wall, one of his hands tangling in my hair. I grasp desperately at his shirt as I try to pull myself even closer to him.
This has to be a dream. I’m at home, asleep in my bed, and none of this is real.
His hands trail down my side, fingering the hem of my skirt, sending shivers up my spine.
His tongue slips into my mouth, warring with mine for dominance.
I scratch my nails down his back, feeling strong muscles underneath my fingers.
He kisses down my jaw and throat before nipping at the sensitive skin between my neck and shoulder, making me gasp.
His hips push into mine, and I resist the urge to moan at the sensation.
It takes all of my self-control not to rip his shirt open and let the buttons go flying. I satisfy the urge by untucking his shirt and slipping my hands underneath the fabric to feel his smooth, hot skin against my palms.
I can count every. Single. Ab. All six of them.
His tongue dives back into my mouth; the way he’s moving it makes me wonder what it would feel like between my legs. I squeeze my thighs together at the thought.
He pulls firmly on my hair, tilting my head the way he wants, and I let out a breathy “Asher,” in response. His grip on me tightens.
I bite down lightly on his lower lip, and he groans. I feel his hands move to the backs of my thighs and the muscles in his back tighten, his knees bend slightly to lift me, and something low in my belly turns to molten lava.
The elevator lurches to life, making both of us stumble and effectively breaking whatever spell we were under.
We both awkwardly rearrange our clothes as the elevator descends to the first floor. A ping sounds, and the doors open.
Asher mutters an apology before darting out into the lobby and disappearing through the front doors.
I run a hand across my swollen lips and use the other hand to catch the closing elevator doors.
This interaction is definitely going to keep me up at night, but not from embarrassment.