Page 51 of Boiling Point
“Just a few updates for Monday’s classes. Nothing that’ll take more than an hour. What about you?”
“Finishing a calculus problem set,” she said, grimacing. “And…homework for your class.”
I couldn’t help the smirk. I checked my watch and stood, pausing behind her to brush her hair aside and kiss the delicate spot behind her ear.
“Which isn’t due until Wednesday,” I murmured against her skin.
Her exhale was soft but amused. “Blurring the lines between church and state, Dr. Hawthorne?”
My honorific had never sounded sexy before. I kissed her again, slower this time. “You started it.”
I crossed to the opposite counter and poured our coffee.
“How do you take it?” I asked, already assuming the answer. “Milk and sugar? Cream and three packets of something unholy?”
“Nope,” she said, stretching her arms over her head. “Black.”
I glanced over my shoulder. “You drink tea—correction, potpourri in a cup—with half a sugar bowl. But coffee, you take black?”
I handed her the mug. She took it with both hands, eyes slipping blissfully closed as she inhaled the steam. And then she glanced at me—eyes coy over the rim of the mug, lips just barely curved into a lazy, wicked smile.
“You’re catching on.”
Heat stirred low in my spine again. She hadn’t even touched me, and already I wanted to drag her back to bed.
Chapter 20
Gabrielle
Cal’s shirt smelled like detergent.
Not the cheap kind—warm and crisp, like clean cotton fresh from the dryer. It was soft from years of wear, the kind of shirt that held its shape and still invited touch. I wanted to live in it.
Or maybe I just wanted to live in this.
I was curled into the corner of his sleek black couch, wrapped in a blanket softer than sin, knees tucked under me. The oversized shirt had slipped off one shoulder. I adjusted the collar and, under the pretense, breathed it in—just a second longer than subtle.
“Checking whether I do my own laundry?”
I jolted, heat blooming in my cheeks. Cal stood over me with two mugs in hand and a smirk he wasn’t trying to hide. He was barefoot, wearing flannel pajama pants that clung low on his hips and a heather-gray T-shirt that stretched just right across his chest. Comfortable. Lethal. Like some unfair hybrid of homebody and heartthrob. He handed me my second cup of coffee with a perfectly straight face, but his eyes were dancing.
I narrowed mine, pretending to inspect the shirt more seriously. “Mmm. Scented detergent, very bold. A little floral, a little citrus. I approve.”
“Your standards are terrifyingly high.”
I shook my head, laughing as he set a plate on the coffee table—croissants, fresh berries, and a sliced apple fanned into a perfect little spiral he’d absolutely done on purpose.
He dropped onto the couch beside me, the heat of him bleeding through the few inches of space between us. He didn’t reach for me right away—just let his thigh rest lightly against mine as he nudged the plate closer.
“I can manage a decent cup of coffee, but breakfast is all flaky pastry and dumb luck.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
He draped an arm along the back of the couch, fingers grazing my shoulder. “So, I was thinking…” His tone shifted slightly. “If you’re willing to let me keep you captive this weekend—purely consensual captivity, of course—I should probably run you back to your place. Grab a bag. Study materials.” He sipped his coffee, then looked up over the rim. “And something criminally flattering for a night out in Dallas.”
I raised an eyebrow, croissant halfway to my mouth. “A night out?”
He grinned, slow and sly. “We can’t exactly risk dinner in town. Not that there’s anywhere properly posh anyway. But Dallas is just far enough to be anonymous.”
