Page 48 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

I watch in horror as he starts climbing the aisle, moving with a confidence that makes it hard to look away, each step purposeful as he approaches my desk. The room seems to fade around us, the chatter of students and the shuffle of papers becoming a distant hum.

He slides into the other empty seat beside me, his presence overwhelming as he settles in, scooting his chair closer to mine, so much that our knees are touching. He casually drapes an arm over the back of my chair and glances at me, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Right on time,” he murmurs, his voice low, meant for only me to hear.

Professor Jennings walks in, a clipboard in hand, straight to the podium. His gaze sweeping over the entire class.

I swallow, trying to regain my composure, but my voice quivers as I ask, “What are you doing here?”

Thatcher tilts his head slightly, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Just keeping you company,” he says smoothly, his tone laced with an unmistakable smugness. His fingers drum lightly on the back of my chair, sending a ripple of awareness down my spine.

I’m acutely aware of Cassidy watching us with wide eyes, a mix of surprise and intrigue etched on her face. I can feel the weight of everyone else in the room, the whispers and curious glances starting to build around us.

Professor Jennings starts addressing the class, but I can barely focus. I shift in my seat, painfully aware of Thatcher’s knee pressed against mine and the lazy confidence radiating from him, as if he has every right to be here—right next to me.

“Company?” I manage, barely above a whisper. “Pretty sure I didn’t ask for it.”

Thatcher leans in, his breath warm against my ear. “You don’t need to ask for it.”

I feel my face heat up, torn between the impulse to scoot away and the undeniable pull to stay exactly where I am. “You can’t just—”

“Shh,” he cuts me off, a finger to his lips, nodding toward the front of the room where Professor Jennings has started discussing today’s lecture topic––social cognition. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk later.”

The promise in his words sends my heart racing, and despite myself, I find it hard to imagine focusing on anything else.

Damn him.

Chapter 10

Dove’s class is dismissed, and the students are finally filing out of the room. When she attempts to stand, I grab her knee and force her back in her seat.

She smiles up at her friend. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

Her friend glances at me with flirty eyes. “Okay,” she says, grabbing her things and leaving with the rest of them.

I lean back in my seat and stay quite, letting the silence stretch.

“Rhea,” the professor calls out. “Need help with anything?”

She shakes her head.

The professor looks at me and says, “I will be leaving this room. I have another class down the hall.”

Perfect.I grin.

Finally, she turns her attention to me and lets out a small sigh, her fingers tightening around her pen.

“This worked out, I guess,” she pauses to clear her throat and sit up straighter. “Because I wanted to talk to you.”

I watch those pretty fucking lips as they move. “I’m here.”

Rhea bites her lip, and for a moment, I think she might reconsider saying anything at all. But then she takes a deep breath, straightens her back, and meets my gaze with a question, “This…thing between us.”

“Thing?” I raise an eyebrow, leaning forward with interest. “You call it a ‘thing’? It sounds like you’re downplaying it a bit, dove.”

She opens her mouth to respond then closes it again, clearly struggling to find the right words. Her fingers fidget with the pen, tracing invisible patterns as she stares down at the table. Finally, she looks up, her gaze steady but vulnerable.

“Then what do you want me to call it? I doubt there are any words I can use to describe it.”

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