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Caleb steps in behind me. He closes the door, and suddenly the organ music is dimmed, louder coming down the stairs than through the door.
I take a deep breath.
“I’m sorry I was a jerk on Friday night,” I start over, moving closer. “I still think that what I said was valid, but I didn’t have to —"
He steps closer, leans in.
“—I didn’t have to be an asshole about it,” I say into his ear.
“I think I deserved it,” he says. His lips brush my ear, and my eyes flutter closed.
Don’t, I tell myself. Don’t do a single thing that isn’t apologizing for your behavior.
As if I didn’t seek him out. As if I didn’t drag him into this tiny, cramped back staircase.
“No, you were right,” I tell him, automatically reaching out, steadying myself against his shoulder. “I found you at the banquet. I kissed you later. I gave you a bottle of wine.”
“But I’m the one who should know better,” he says, and then his hand is on mine, holding it against his warm chest. My heart beats harder, faster.
“You think I don’t?”
“I shouldn’t be giving you rides and walking you home,” he goes on. “Pretending that those things are perfectly fine and innocent, because they’re not.”
We shift in the tiny space and suddenly our bodies are touching from shoulder to hip, the jolt of his heat like an electric current.
“We shouldn’t be seeing each other at all,” I tell him, even as I close my eyes, press myself into him so softly I can tell myself I’m not doing anything, my lips millimeters from his ear.
“No,” he says. “The more I see you the harder it is to pretend I don’t like you.”
A hand on my hip, his fingers touching bare skin above my too-small shorts.
“And the harder it is to pretend I don’t want you,” he whispers.
My heart’s beating so hard and fast that it feels like my ribcage is rattling in my body. Outside and from above, the organ hums thickly, surrounding us.
“What if it were my fault?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
I know I should walk away. I know that. I know Nathaniel got expelled for sexual misconduct and while I have no intention of making porn, I’m fairly certain that sleeping with my professor also falls into that category.
I know he could get fired and his career could be over.
I know a million things wrong with this scenario, and not one of them stops me.
“I mean,” I say, and plant a kiss on his neck, right below his jaw. His fingers curl into my spine.
“What if —" another kiss, higher up, “— it were my fault?”
The last kiss lands on his jawline, right below his ear, my fingers now woven through his hair, his slight stubble sharp on my lips.
He moves his hand until his palm is flat on my back, in the space between the shorts and my vest, underneath the jacket I’m still wearing. He swallows hard, his breath on my neck.
Then his hand is on my face, his thumb stroking my jaw, and he pulls me back, his green eyes nearly black in the dark, his lips parted, his gaze roaming my face. I don’t breathe. I don’t think my heart beats.
And he kisses me.
He kisses me so softly and gently that, for a moment, I think I’m imagining it. The kiss is over almost as soon as it starts, the lightest touch, but he nuzzles his nose against mine and he’s still holding my face, his thumb on my cheekbone now, and he kisses me again.
Still gentle, but firmer, harder. He pulls away, both hands in my hair, leans his forehead against mine. We’re both breathing like we’ve been underwater for minutes on end, our eyes closed as our mouths find each other again and again.
With each coupling there’s less gentleness, more need. I wind my hands through his hair and pull his face to mine. He pushes me backward, walking with me until I’m up against the bannister that runs the length of this short hallway.
He grabs my hips, running his hand up my waist, under my jacket, until his fingers hit my ribcage, his mouth rough on mine, his erection pressing against my hips, pinning me against the bannister.
This time I don’t panic when I realize what it is. This time a delicate, secret warmth blossoms inside me and I curl my fingers into a fist around his shirt, bite his bottom lip between my teeth.
“Your fault,” he whispers, teasing. “What else are you going to make me do, Thalia?”
“Kiss me again,” I say, the only thing that comes to mind as words.
I want more. I want so much more but the words stick in my brain, refuse to come out in sentences.
“Done,” he says, his mouth already on mine, seeking, plundering.
