They remained motionless, their faces still a mere few inches apart. He could feel her breath, faster now, against his chin.
“God, Eden, it was... I’m sorry... your face was right there and... I couldn’t...”
What? Bear it any longer? Wait for one more millisecond?
He could see a faint old scar on her chin, probably from a childhood bout of chicken pox or some such. He was instantly ridiculously jealous of anyone who knew how it had gotten there. He wanted to know her life story. He wanted to protect her from future scars and heal all the old ones. It struck him distantly that these were somewhat feverish and irrational thoughts to be having three minutes before the class bell was due to ring, with the blinds slitted a little so that any determined person could peek in if they bent just so. Mrs. Maker couldn’t; sciatica was her besetting plague. Thank goodness for such mercies.
The second hand of the clock ticked forward.
“The stapler’s right there, too,” Eden whispered finally. “Are you going to kiss the stapler?”
She was a devil woman.
“I’ll kiss anything you want me to.” He made it sound like a blood vow.
Her pupils flared like black fireworks.
Above them, the skinny hand swept past another second.
She gasped when he slid his hand up through her hair and held her fast. This time he went in for a take-no-prisoners kiss, designed to melt bones, stop time, erase the memories of all kisses that had come before, what-the-fuck-did-they-have-to-lose kind of kiss. Molten, savage, skillful. They were on the clock.
He was a guy who knew how to make a point, and he never half-assed anything. Clearly, neither did she. Silk, heat, tongue, lips—the taste of her roared through his bloodstream, tightened all his muscles, sent red alerts to his groin. He curled one hand into the edge of his desk, a reflex against floating up to the ceiling, because suddenly whatever boundaries he’d once had melted away. And damn, she gave as good as she got. It was a hot, deep, dangerous tangle of tongues, the slide of lips. Nearly as carnal as fucking. Sweet. Jesus.
When she moaned softly, low in the back of her throat, guttural, helpless pleasure, he slipped his hand from her hair and sank backward into his chair.
One second before the bell rang.
Eden staggered back a few feet as if she’d just gone a few rounds on the roundabout out in the playground.
Classroom doors banged open. Rustling, the thunder of feet, shouts and laughter and the metal clang of lockers.
He closed his eyes briefly against the spin of the room.
He opened them again and turned his face up to hers.
If he’d had to assign a word to her expression, it would have beenamazed. A little more nuanced than that, but still.
Her face was pink. Her eyes were hazy and hot.
He thought,I bet that’s what she looks like when she wakes up.
He thought right then he would literally die if he didn’t learn soon how she looked when she woke up.
There was a lot he could say right now: apologies and so forth. All of that would have been superfluous. She got the gist.
His fate was in her hands.
He didn’t regret it.
In fact, he was pretty sure he hadn’t so much taken a risk as issued a dare.
“Well, um, I’ve got to... I’ve got to get... get to...” Eden’s pitch, at least, was cheery. But her voice a husk. “See you tonight at the carnival, I suppose.”
She waved her arm vaguely at the hall outside his office.
“Of course.” His own voice had taken on a phone-sex timbre. He cleared his throat. It wouldn’t do for Mrs. Maker to think he was trying to seduce her when she delivered his lunch.
He would have stood up, like a gentleman, but he wasn’t eager to show off his erection to anyone else who might happen to walk in. “You know where to find me if you want me.”