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.