He runs his hands through his hair and loosens his tie, while I watch his internal battle play out on his sexy face. A shadow of stubble has appeared, and I realize he’s probably had a long day.
“You couldn’t just wait until tonight, huh? Crosby Dashen, a woman who never learned that patience is a virtue.”
“I’ve been waiting for almost twenty years. I think we’re past low blows about my virtue. You know how many girls in my class are virgins? Do you know how many girls I met in Italy who were virgins—exchange students or not? A big fat zero, Weston. None. I’m the only unicorn left, and if you don’t hurry up, this flower is going to wilt before you pick it.”
“I thought you liked all the stuff we did? Don’t tell me you want an office quickie for your first time, ’cause I sure as hell don’t. Shouldn’t it be at home in my bed with candles and roses?”
“Are you up to something creepy like waiting until Asa is home to ask his permission?”
“Absolutely not.”
Weston has risen from his office chair, a look of determination etched on his face. He didn’t like my last insinuation, and that’s part of why I made it. The other part is me feeling genuinely confused about why he hasn’t had his way with me. I’m ready, I’m willing. Hopefully, I’m appealing. I’ve never felt insecure about my looks, but maybe what Weston wants is someone experienced. A woman he can’t easily picture at ten years old, crying after skinning her knee. Someone he hasn’t seen in her awkward early adolescence with braces and an ugly haircut and next-to-no fashion sense.
He must read my face as easily as I read his. He comes at me with urgency, determination marking his gait. When he grabs me and pulls me into his chest, I tip my head back and let him show me how serious his feelings for me are. Weston ravages my mouth, stealing a kiss that is neither gentle or sweet. This kiss is possessive, a territorial marking with a thrust of tongue and scrape of teeth.
“How can you be so obstinate? Of course, I want you. I have waited an eternity for you.” He kisses me again, and his intensity robs me of my breath. I wonder if there will come a time when his kiss doesn’t taste forbidden, like a valuable jewel scandalously plucked from its rightful place.
“I love you, Crosby,” he says breathlessly. Weston consumes me, his mouth a voracious fire, my lips fueling the burn. “I want to love you all the way. I want us to be each other’s first, only, and last.” The thrill of knowing Weston will be mine, only mine, sends a jolt of excitement through me.
“On my terms,” I say through the kiss. Weston gathers my pants, the clogs, the sweater that are lying on his floor.
“Come. Not in my office.” He helps me dress. Lifts my bag and tosses it over one shoulder. “Follow me. Talk loudly about something you’re working on.”
He looks both ways down the hallway like we’re robbing a bank, then gestures for me to follow. I thought his office was shocking enough, so I can’t imagine where he’s taking me. He makes a right out of his office instead of a left. I don’t know where this passage takes us, hopefully to the parking lot. He looks so resolute that it makes me wet.
Maybe West won’t have sex with me until we’re married. Maybe I’ll have to make do with the repertoire we have now. My heart has joined the race and is competing with my feet. Weston squeezes my hand before he lets it go. Talk. I’m supposed to talk and act like a student.
“So, Marlowe. Do you love him more than Shakespeare?”
“I like them both just fine, but I wrote my thesis on Joyce.”
“When did you finally tell Asa you didn’t want to smash things anymore and were interested in using your brain? When you declared your major?”
“Asa always knew. We never had any secrets. The stuff your brother does for the marines is hardcore, both physically and mentally. Well, we never had any secrets until you.”
12
Crosby
It’s raining outside, not a downpour, but a light drizzle. I follow him across the quad, clutching my backpack to my chest since he passed it to me the minute we walked out the door. I have to jog to keep up with his purposeful steps.
“Marlowe’s musings on death were more potent than his over quoted clichés about love.”
He jogs up the front steps of my favorite building on campus. The library. It’s not the main library I’ve studied in, though; it’s the fine arts library, where the rare books are stored.
Weston scans his ID and ushers me through. He’s so convincing as the stuffy, pretentious professor that I can’t tell if he’s acting or this is all him. Either way, I’m into it. So into it that I feel like the young student drooling over her teacher.