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And again.
And again.
One quick lesson? Hardly. Now that I’ve started this, I may never stop.
“T-teach me,” she gasps between kisses. “Tell me what I’m doing wrong.”
Nothing. Not a single fucking thing. But if I tell her that, our lesson will be over, won’t it?
“Tilt your head up.” My throat has been sandpapered. “Give me better access.”
She does as I say, and immediately I kiss her deeper, tongues sliding together.
“Mmph.”
I hope to hell that was a happy sound. Hope this is a good first kiss for Lane; hope it’s not ruining her life the way it’s ruining mine, because my body is so wired right now that I may never sleep again. If my muscles tense any harder, they could snap bones.
An ankle brushes against my calf as Lane twines around me like ivy climbing a tree trunk. Her breath is hot, and her hands are in my hair, and she’s kissing me back fiercely, scraping those pearly teeth over my lip, and I can’t think, can’t think, can’t think.
But Ineedmy brain. Need to think straight, damn it, because that’s who I am. If I let my body take over, if I’m ruled by my dumbest instincts, then I have no right to be here. No right to teachanyone, let alone Lane Rhodes, and fuck, what am I doing?
Tearing my mouth away, I stagger back. Lane thumps awkwardly against the shelves, and a book slams to the library floor, the sound deafening in the quiet. Someone, somewhere, clears their throat.
Lane stares at me with those silvery eyes, her chest heaving.
“There.” I take a shaky step away down the aisle. “That’s—there. We’re done for tonight. Good, uh. Good work today.”
Good work today?
Screwing my face up and adjusting my glasses, I stride quickly back through the shelves to our things, then pack up my laptop and sling my bag strap over my shoulder.
But there’s no need to act like Lane’s chasing me, no need to run away like a coward, because even when I linger for ten seconds, she doesn’t appear.
She’s horrified, no doubt. Regretting everything.
I knew this was an awful idea.
Five
Lane
Kissing lessons with Ambrose Brent is the best idea I’ve ever had. Oh, heseemsall cool and aloof, like his toned, lean body is nothing but a vehicle for his massive brain, but now I know otherwise. I have firsthand evidence.
Because on Thursday night, my tutor kissed me like my lips held the secrets of the universe. He squeezed the bookshelves on either side of my head so tight that the wood creaked; he plastered his whole body against mine. And Ifeltit: the unsteady, racing thump of his heart. The wild energy thrumming beneath his neat shirt. Everything.
Whew. It’s been three days, and I still haven’t caught my breath. At least four separate people have asked me if I’m feeling alright, and whether my fever-bright eyes mean I’m coming down with a cold. Nope, no sickness here—justneed.
Raging, unsatisfied need for Ambrose Brent and no other man.
Thursday is too far away. I’ll never survive that long, not with this restless tension coiled low in my belly; not with myflushed, over-sensitized skin that goose pimples at the slightest breeze. I’ve taken more cold showers in the last three days than in my entire life before this week, and it’s not enough. It’s barely keeping the tingles at bay.
IneedAmbrose. Not in a few days’ time, and not to teach me about Astrophysics. I need more kissing lessons, and I need them now.
Knuckling my forehead on the walk home from a work shift, I call my tutor and press the phone to my ear.
Ambrose picks up on the second ring. “Lane.” He sounds worried, his low voice rumbling in my ear. “Are you alright?”
Yes. No.
