Page 30 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

“I should go,” I say, my eyes dipping to her mouth then back up.

“Stay,” she croaks.

I breathe in, slow and heavy, but before I can convince us both I should go, her fingers work their way between mine. There’s no Dalton around to see this. Our only witness is well into the stages of dreamland, so there’s no way for this to become a story that’s told and retold with the hope that an ex will be jealous. This moment is just for us. No Amy. No Dalton. Us.

“Okay,” I say, sliding down so I’m lying flat in her bed.

She nuzzles up against me and I brush a few wild hairs from her face as she props her chin on my chest to look me in the eyes. I run my thumb over her bottom lip, so plump and soft. There’s hesitation in her eyes, and maybe I’m reading into her measured breathing, but it feels as if she’s holding something in.

“What’s going on in here?” I tap gently at her temple and she leans into my touch, so I cup her face.

She bites at her lip.

“I really didn’t want to tutor you,” she says.

I laugh, but her weight on my chest holds it in.

“I know,” I admit.

The quiet comes back, and I take the opportunity to truly study what makes her face so unique. The dusting of freckles that crest into a celestial map on her tiny nose. The golden touches on her eyelashes. Her sapphire eyes.

“I’m glad I did,” she says, bringing me to her mouth.

I’m locked in now. Unable to move anywhere else until I taste her lips. Maybe it’s the fact she’s being vulnerable. Or perhaps I’m tired and her leg is pressing into my cock. Probably a little of everything. Whatever the cause, I need her mouth.

“Come here,” I say, cradling her head and coaxing her mouth to mine. I take her fat bottom lip into mine and suck lightly, grazing my teeth against her skin then soothing it with a pass of my tongue. Her body shifts, her hands snaking up my chest and shoulders, fingers diving into my hair. She kisses back as her knees draw in, positioning her right above my dick. She rocks against me twice and I let my hands move of their own volition, trailing down her sides and grabbing at her hips, holding her down on me.

She pulls back, her lips redder than before, breath a little ragged as she glances to her right where her roommate is still sawing imaginary logs. Her cheeks flush, and I know she’s both hungry and shy.

“How about we kiss a little while, until I’m ready to kiss you good night,” I say, tucking more of her hair behind her ear.

She leans into my palm, attempting to hide her face, but I don’t let her. What good are all those sit ups if I can’t hold myself up enough to kiss her nerves away? The second our lips meet again, she melts into me, and I step right up to the line for the next thirty minutes, until I kiss her good night.

11/

rachel

What am I doing?

I did not want Logan to leave last night. I also did not want to stop where things were very clearly going. But Claire was there. And while I’m not ready to take on a bestie, I do like her. I might even call her a good friend, though that label still gives me pause. Friends can turn. So can guys.

But Logan is nothing like Dalton. He’s silly and considerate and my God, his hands! I’m not naïve enough to believe I’m the only girl he’s seduced with his good looks and puppy-dog charm, yet when I’m with him, he has this way. Logan Ford is nothing I expected. And he’s making me feel things I didn't know existed. He makes me feel special—singled out in a good way rather than the overwhelmed way attention usually makes me feel.

Is what we’re doing real, though? Making Dalton jealous was his idea. Honestly, that thought never entered my mind, and while I suppose it’s a nice byproduct, I really don’t care how Dalton feels about seeing Logan and me together. What I care about is figuring out why Logan and I are together and if it’s really a thing, or something to pass his time.

It sure feels like more to me.

So much more that I changed six times between my lab and coming to the library. And I still got here an hour early. I’ve second-guessed my final outfit selection the entire time I’ve sat at this table, too. I never wear skirts, but the way Logan reacted to my dress—the way his hands felt under it—I wanted the possibility to exist. Now I’m all too aware of how short this plaid skirt is and how tight the white turtleneck is I chose to pair it with. To top it off, fall is making an ugly appearance in Iowa, and my legs are basically icicles, from the hem of my skirt to the ankles of my ballet flats.

Because fate likes to fuck with science, now I’m forced to have yet one more conversation with the last man I want to see. If I knew Dalton was in the library, I would have texted Logan and changed our meeting place. When we set up our schedule, I purposely planned around the days and times I knew Dalton was usually here. Seems he’s changed his habits, though, because this marks twice that he’s strayed from routine—three times if I count the whole cheating bit.

I brace myself, tucking my hands under my thighs and leaning into the table as Dalton closes in.

“Hi.” His hair does that stupid thing where the longer front flops over and flirts with the rims of his glasses. I used to find that so adorable. Now, I want to cut that hair.

“Hi.” I force a pleasant smile on my face. I have a feeling it looks more like I’m about to be sick.

Dalton grabs the back of the chair across from me and I dig my nails into the back of my legs. Dear lord, please don’t let him pull that seat out and make himself comfortable. My chest releases when he simply fidgets with the wooden finials.

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