Page 62 of The Love Interest
“Give me half an hour,” Emmett tells her, looking her directly in the eyes. “That okay?”
“Sure. See you then.” She wets her lips, smiles at him, and then glares at me. That’s been the usual progression of her facial expressions ever since the semester began. In a perfect world, I could send her a glitter bomb package with a note that says,Professor Ford’s mouth has been on my boobs—love, Fiona. P.S. Your pretentious literary fiction sucks and so does your taste in Netflix shows.
But this world is not perfect, which is why we read books and why we write books and why I’m here in Emmett’s class, with a reluctant semi–lady boner.
Emmett walks out. I should just not follow him to his office, see how he likes it. Except I still like watching his butt in those black jeans as he walks ahead of me, so I follow it to the end of the hall. I meanhim. I follow him to the end of the hall.
He has to jiggle his key in the lock because it’s sticking, and it frustrates him, and that makes me happy. That would amount to approximately one millionth of the frustration I endured after he left on Saturday night, although I do realize it was frustrating for him too. But I would have relieved him of his frustration if he’d stayed, so…
He finally opens the door and enters, holding it open for me with his very talented fingers.
I close the door all the way and lean back against it, holding my coat in front of me. “Yes?”
Emmett just stands there, in front of his desk, with his perfect hands on his hips, staring at me.
“Well…I had my meeting with the faculty advisor and the chair. They agreed that I should continue with my novel as my thesis project.”
He blinks and nods once. “Good.”
“Yes… What?”
“Are you going to that guy’s place upstate?”
“Oh. I didn’t realize you were listening.”
“I wasn’t listening. I overheard. Are you?”
“Did you not hear me tell him I’ll be in California until the twenty-eighth?”
“I didn’t hear you tell him you didn’t want to go.” His jaw is so tight, and it would make most people less attractive, but it just makes him more handsome. It’s infuriating.
I cross my arms in front of my chest, letting my coat fall to the floor. “I haven’t heard you tell me you don’t want me to go to other men’s places.”
He shakes his head, drags his fingers through his hair—both hands—messing it up. Now he looks like he just got out of bed, and it’s so unfair because I haven’t been in bed with him. I’ve been on his lap at the end of my bed, but it’s not the same and it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.
“Goddammit, Fiona,” he grumbles. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”
“Then don’t.”
He grunts, takes three long strides toward me, takes my face in his hands, and smashes his lips against mine. Even years from now, I doubt that I’ll be able to string a bunch of words together to describe how good it feels to be kissed by him like this. If a copy ofWuthering Heightskissed me,it would feel like this. If the song “Whole Lotta Love” by Led Zeppelin kissed me, it would feel like this. If the first few seasons ofGame of Throneskissed me, it would feel like this.
Nope. Never mind. Nothing else could ever feel like this.
There is a constant rumbling at the back of his throat. I felt so wanted on Saturday, but this is almost overwhelming. I am really regretting the turtleneck and vest right now.
His hands slide down the sides of me to my hips, and one hand reaches behind me. I hear the click of the door lock and feel something unlocking inside both of us. He lowers his head and rests his forehead against mine, so out of breath already. “This is bad,” he whispers.
I drop my shoulder bag to the floor, kiss his cheek, and lead him to the sofa.
“Shit.” He stops and stares at the slim window in the door.
“Oh. Hang on. I got this.”
I pick up my shoulder bag and riffle around in it. I’ve been carrying a roll of masking tape and a few flyers in this thing ever since the first time I was in this office. For window-in-the-door-covering purposes. I’ve walked by other offices that have that slender window in their door covered up. It’s not illegal to cover up a window. When I have the stupid glass all covered up, the flyers secured, I drop the masking tape to the floor and turn back to face Emmett.
He’s laughing at me. So hard that he’s not even making a sound. I don’t even recognize his face.
My fists go to my hips. I love seeing him like this, but really? We don’t have all day here. I grab his hand to pull him toward the sofa again, but he jerks me back and leads me to his desk.
