I didn’t think he was even aware that he was doing it.

“I don’t getfrowny,” I grumbled like a grumpy cat, because Antony was so clearly soothing me, and I was just helpless against this sort of charm. This genuine look in his eye. The way he just took a loose strand of hair in front of my eyes and pushed it behind my ear.

“Sure, you do. You’re doing it right now.”

Deciding to move on from this conversation altogether, I asked on a whim, “What are you doing this afternoon?”

A shrug. “Probably studying. In anot-datewith Oliver.”

“You will do no such thing,” I said with a glare.

Another shrug. “Guess I don’t have better plans.” He turned his face away, failing to contain a smile, eyes searching for Oliver.

My hand took a life of its own and took Antony’s chin, making him look back at me with surprised, amused eyes.

“You have plans now. You’ll have the honor of doing my laundry. Be at my place at six o’clock or you won’t like what happens.”

“Another spanking threat?” Antony smirked wider. “I’ll have to come late just to see if you have the balls to go through with it.”

“Don’t play with fire, Antony, you’re going to get burned.”

“I guess I’ve always had an unhealthy attraction to pyrotechnics.”

Thisguy.

“Don’t say you weren’t warned.”

Our breaths had at some point started coming in shorter. My face was now surprisingly close to his, and I just had the vague recollection that I’d been calling him Antony instead of Andino the way I’d been forcing myself to.

Antony’s eyes weren’t on mine now, but had instead fallen to my lips. His own, so pink and edible, were giving me bad, bad ideas. They made me want to do bad things to him.

Things that were dirty.

Hot.

Sweaty.

Things we definitely should never do.

I pulled away, feeling a phantom heat in my fingers.

You’re flying too close to the sun, Henry.

Too bad I couldn’t stop myself.

“Don’t be late.”

I turned tail and left.

Chapter 11

Henry

Earlier that day, before that whole library confrontation, I’d put my big boy pants on for the first time in my life—at least if you asked my father—and had gone to talk to my advisor.

Who wasn’t really an advisor at all, and instead was the Philosophy professor I’d had last year, Professor Larsson, who was unfortunate enough to be liked by me, which now resulted in him having to make time to listen to my academic problems and woes.

His office was just like him. We were surrounded by dark, warm shades of wood, a wall with floor-to-ceiling shelves full of books that he’d most likely read and re-read, great windows that looked into one of the sunniest college lawns with a small fountain, and a desk so immaculate, it would make Antony pop a hard-on.