Page 22 of Your Kiss Is On My List

“I’m glad you were here tonight. Glad you’re here on campus.” He skates his lips across my temple and brushes my lips with his, his breath minty and hot, his soapy scent filling my lungs and the rough bristle of his face scraping against mine, making me tingle.

“Me too,” I say.

“But you need to back off the charade of our practically engaged status.”

His words sting, but I refuse to show him, knew I was going out on a limb, testing the waters and knew the test could come out negative. I lift my chin and nod, smiling.

Then he’s gone and a few minutes later I’m in bed alone in my room. Up until his last words, it was a heady night. Every nuance of Trey’s kiss replays in my mind as I fall asleep and still playing when I open my eyes in the morning.

The way Trey’s mouth possessed mine, the way I felt like I was his, warms me up now and as the sun streams in my window that feeling inside me heats up. I can’t help imaging what would have happened if I had stayed at BMOC House with him, what he might have done to me, how he would have touched me. I’m too hot to resist giving in and I slide my hand down into my panties to feel my own need and hot, wet desire.

This hasn’t happened in a long time. But with Trey front and center on my mind and imagining his kiss as only the start of something so much hotter, I dip my finger deep into the folds and along my sensitive nub. “Trey.” I close my eyes and imagine it’s him touching me, flicking my clit, pinching my nipple with my other hand. God I so wish he was here with me, his tongue inside me. My tension rises and my breathing is hard and quick as I move my fingers fast back and forth, dipping them inside and finding a pool of sexy honey, spreading it over the swollen flesh of my pussy, pressing on the nub, rubbing it hard back and forth until my panting is loud and I bite my lip to prevent crying out.

When my body shakes with my orgasm, I turn into my pillow, clenching my legs and moving my fingers and wishing to god that Trey were here with me because I want him so much. So much more than before.

* * *

A shower washes away the lingering scent of my indulgence, but not the memory. A faint guilty flow accompanies me as I walk to the cluster of buildings on campus that make up the arts and communications sector where I’m meeting Dooley. He’s waiting outside the main door of the television and radio broadcast studio building, WSPU in bold letters above the door and a giant antenna on the roof. I automatically open my arms to greet him with a hug until I remember his hands-off policy and switch mid-motion to a wide wave. His signature Cheshire cat grin never wavers and he winks when I reach him.

“Let’s go see if we can impress the pants off the studio manager,” he says.

“How about if we just impress his socks off?”

He laughs and pats my hand. “No worries, sweetheart. It’s just an expression. Mostly.” I laugh at him because I know he’s mostly right. At NYU the competition was cutthroat enough that some students used all their tricks to influence the studio and professors for parts and airtime.

“Follow me to where all the action happens,” he says as he slides a key card into the slot of a door that lets us into a corridor lined with offices before we reach an expansive studio with several sets and dozens of cameras, lights, and even a small seating area on one side.

“Impressive. Almost as sophisticated as NYU,” I say.

“Don’t lie—it’s just as good, if not better,” Dooley says.

“Okay—you could be right.” I turn in a circle and check it out.

“This way,” he says and leads me to a windowed office on the far side of the open space with the words Studio Manager printed on the door. He knocks and opens the door. A guy who looks like he’s in his mid-twenties sits behind a trio of monitors, tapping on a keyboard. There’s a bank of switches and dials behind him with monitors and a half dozen empty chairs. The whole scene looks like it could be central command at NASA, but I recognize the studio production controls. My pulse quickens at the prospect of working here and I don’t even care if I have to sweep the floors just to be part of the action in any way. I wonder what Summer’s role is and I hope the place is big enough for us to stay out of each other’s way. Because I don’t think she likes me any more than I like her. And I don’t remember ever feeling this antagonistic towards someone.

Dooley says, “Yo, Craig,” before the guy tears his eyes away from his monitors and sees us.

“Dools. What brings you here?” He’s surprised and I know I’m interloping so I need to bring my A game.

“I’m bringing you a gift.” He moves his hands with a flourish to frame me like I’m the prize on The Price Is Right. “Craig Jaworski, meet your next superstar, Danielle Innocent,”

“Wow.” He looks me up and down. “She comes with a stage name.”

“It also happens to be my real name,” I say and put out my hand to shake it. He takes it in two of his.

“Pleasure to meet you. Where did Dooley find you, Ms. Innocent?”

“I’m fresh in from NYU and dying for a chance to work for you—” I’m about to say I’ll do anything but Dooley interrupts.

“She wants on-air in sportscasting. What do you have?”

Jaworski contemplates me, looking me over more thoroughly than before, checking all my angles, and I can see he’s good and seasoned.

“Our schedule is full and I can’t see bumping anyone this semester.”

“How about a stringer?” I ask. As long as Dooley opened the door, I don’t mind pushing. “Someone on the ground or doing interviews or special coverage?”

“As long as Dooley is vouching for you, maybe. We have game-day crews for the hockey season, but I suppose we could use someone to cover practice and do special interest pieces. Hockey is big this year. The student body can’t seem to get enough of it. We’re doing away game coverage too.”