“I miss you too, in case you were wondering,” I tell her. “And I could practically feel your guilt knocking against my screen from that one message. You been up in your head the whole time you’ve been with your family?”
She drops her forehead to her knee, then peeks up at me. “How am I that transparent after one message?”
“It’s not just what you say, Clover. It’s what you don’t say and your actions that give you away.”
“Like opening the gift early,” she supplies.
“It was sort of a tip-off that maybe you were thinking about me the way I’ve been thinking about you. I know you asked for time to think, but, uh, it’s making me pretty crazy over here, not knowing whether I’m coming or going.” I swallow my nerves, nab a piece of paper from my nightstand, and start folding it.
“I’m sorry for that. I wish this were . . . less complicated.”
I want to say it’s only complicated because we’re making it that way, but that would be untrue. “You on the fence about New Year’s, then?”
She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, releasing it slowly. “I should be.”
I tuck an arm behind my head. “Does that mean you’re leaning in my favor?”
She lifts the charm and runs it over her lips. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”
It’s not a direct answer, but it’s not a no. “Does that mean you’ve beentryingto stop thinking about me?”
“I’ve been watching hockey with my dad.”
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’re not answering my questions.”
“I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s as if when the semester ended, the imaginary wall I tried to create to keep us from doing something we shouldn’t suddenly didn’t have a foundation anymore. And now that it’s gone, I have permission to want things. To want you,” she says softly. “And I do. A lot.”
“Can I be honest with you?” I ask.
“Of course.” Her expression reflects nervousness.
“I haven’t tried not to think about you.In fact, I’ve been thinking about you a lot, Clover. Do you want to know what kind of thoughts I’ve been having?”
“I’m pretty sure I can guess.” I love the way her cheeks flush and she bites back a smile.
“You want me to tell you anyway?”
She nods once.
“I doubt it’s much of a surprise that I’ve been thinking a lot about what you’re like in bed.”
She grins and turns her head, eyeing me from the side. “And what am I like in bed?”
“Sweet, just like your last name implies. And sassy, and so fucking sexy. And the way you taste.” I make a low, appreciative sound. “So fucking good.” I ease a hand down my stomach and grip my erection through my jogging pants. “And then I start thinking about what it’s like to be inside you, the way you sound, how fucking phenomenal you feel, and I don’t want to stop.”
She uncrosses her legs, folds the right one over the left, and runs her palm down her shin. “I think about all the same things.”
“But you try not to?” I ask.
“I should. I used to, but I can’t anymore.” She tilts her head to the side. “What are you doing over there?”
“Missing your hands and your mouth and your sweet, sweet . . .” I grin. “Disposition.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “I mean, what are you doing with your hands? And don’t answer my question with a question.”
My smile widens. “Would you believe me if I said I was making cranes?”
“No.”