Page 47 of Damaged Professor

More than that, I want her to know.

She understands it already, I think. Abby’s intuitive. She realizes that the way I handle her, the way I speak to her, it’s more than anything we could have had if this really was just us having a fling. But there’s a difference between thinking something—between physically showing someone something—and then audibly saying something.

But when it comes to something as important as this situation, it needs to be done in all the ways.

So with one hand tangled with hers, I turn. Our bare knees press against each other, the mattress dipping beneath our combined weight. The dampness of our skin has been absorbed by the sheets, outlining our figures.

With my free hand, I reach out and brush my fingers over the curve of her cheeks. They gather up some of the droplets that have slid there from her hair.

“Dylan?” She asks, evidently unnerved by the way that I’ve fallen silent. I don’t mean to worry her. I’m just so captivated by the moment.

People always think about grand things happening when love is confessed. They picture romantic dinners out, or ice skating, or some kind of public display. But I know better. You can have all the money in the world, and it won’t make people love you. Grand gestures are not enough to build up a true relationship.

If they were—well, my ex wouldn’t have left me. But then, I never would have gotten this chance to meet and fall in love with Abby. So while some people might hold out for the chance to make a grand gesture before they confess, I decide that this is the perfect moment for it.

Why wait?

There’s no way of telling what’s going to happen in the future. There’s no way of knowing what to expect, even tomorrow.

So I decide to say it today. “I just realized that I needed to tell you… That I love you,”

The silence that settles is the kind that can only be described as awed. Abby’s eyes go wide and her lips part, just a little bit, a shocked look settling there. Then her lips pull back into a brilliant kind of smile, the sort that’s coming straight from the heart.

She throws her arms around my shoulders, all but launching herself there, and I’m quick to catch her, pulling her up against me and letting us both drop backwards onto the bed. Her lips press against mine, one arm settling on the bed, beside me. It’s a kiss of pure passion and love, her tongue in my mouth, our lips sliding wetly together.

When we part, it’s only by an inch or two. Our breaths pass over each other’s faces, warm and wet, our bodies so close together in this one moment, it’s nearly impossible for us to do anything else.

Abby pulls back a little further. She asks me, “Do you mean it?” Her legs shift, one settling between my own thighs. The pose is more intimate than sexual. My hands on her sides, smoothing over her skin, are exactly the same; intimate. “Do you really mean it?” she asks again.

“I do,” I tell her, an earnestness in my voice that’s impossible to fake. “God, Abby. Looking at you, I can’t picture anything else but having this together with you. I want you to know that. I love you, so much.”

Abby’s smile is like the sun but more searing; burned into the back of my mind, an image that will happily haunt me for the rest of my life. “I love you too.”

The words settle against me, nestling there, comfortable and warm. “So you agree with me, then.”

“About what?” Abby asks.

I say, “About making sure that this works, no matter what anyone else says or does.”

“I do,” Abby tells me. “But… there’s something you need to see first.”

Chapter twenty-seven

Abby

IhavetoshowDylan the email I received, the pictures. We end up getting dressed first, because we know that if we don’t, we'll start getting cold in the nude. I don’t want to put on the same clothes that I passed out drunk in, so I end up rooting through Dylan’s drawers until I find a tee shirt of his to wear. Clearly he’s got broader shoulders and is taller than I am, so it hangs a little awkwardly on me. But I can’t help but think that it’s cute.

There’s something about wearing your boyfriend’s shirts that’s just a vibe, right? And there’s something giddy, too, about being able to refer to him, even just mentally, as my boyfriend. It’s the fact that he said it first. That’s what made the difference.

With everything that's going on with Sara, there’s no way that I could have tried to pull what he just did. But I'm so happy he said it, I'm on cloud nine. I can’t stop thinking about it, the whole time that I’m searching through the pockets of my dirty jeans for a hair tie to pull my still mostly damp locks up.

He loves me.

He LOVES me!

He looked at me—with everything on the line, knowing how badly this could go—and he said that he loves me. And it was impossible not to admit that I love him too.

Oh, there’s guilt for that. I realize it when I step out into the living room, where he’s pulled on a pair of black and gray plaid lounge pants and set up the coffee table with a bottle of champagne and two tall glass flutes to drink from.

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