Shit on a Popsicle stick. Baylor lounges against the door, one long leg crossed over the other, his arms lightly folded over his broad chest. My heart pounds like a frightened rabbit trying to spring from a fox.
He watches me, a small, smug smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Traitor that my body is, my pulse leaps at that smile. My mouth wants to smile back. I bite the inside of my lip. It gets worse as I draw up before him. I know him now. I know the texture of his skin, what his cock feels like deep inside of me, the sounds he makes when he comes.
“Hey,” he says.
My skin prickles. God, his voice. His voice whispering against my wet sex. Stop me. I swallow thickly.
“Hey.”
His smile grows. “I’ve been thinking about you, Jones.”
“Don’t strain yourself.”
“Such animosity.” A warm puff of air touches my cheek as he leans in, bringing that body of his way too close for my sanity. “I thought we were past that stage.”
I’m in my own personal hell because all I want to do is lick the side of his strong neck and dip my hand into his well-worn jeans and grab hold of what’s mine. I wrench my head back and glare, focusing on his chin because I can’t look at him in the eye. Coward. “You’re right. Let’s move on to the ‘never mentioning it or thinking about it again’ stage.”
Baylor frowns. “I don’t like that option.”
“I don’t care.” I give a pointed look at the door then his big, broad chest. “Do you mind moving out of the way? I want to get to class.”
He simply stands there, arms crossed in a way that does interesting things to his biceps and forearms, and scans my face. I still can’t meet his eyes, which annoys me.
“Are you embarrassed?” he asks in a lowered voice.
“No. Hardly.” Yes. Completely.
“You look embarrassed. You’re all flushed here.” He brushes a finger along my cheek.
I bat his hand away. “I get flushed when I’m annoyed.”
His voice rumbles along my skin. “That isn’t the only time you flush.”
And now my knees are weak. I glance at him, see the heat and teasing light in his eyes, so I focus on his earlobe instead. A nice, innocuous earlobe. That I want to bite. “Is this your post hook up protocol? Bug the girl afterward? Do you need feedback or something to stroke your ego? Are you going to ask if the earth moved for me?”
He lifts up his hand and starts counting off points with his fingers. “I don’t need to ask that, Jones. We both know the earth fucking melted. I don’t have a hook up protocol. I’d make a joke about what needs stroking, but that’s too easy. Frankly, I’m disappointed that you left yourself wide open for that one.” He touches the tip of my nose, and that shit-eating Baylor grin grows. “I expected more of a challenge.”
“Gah!” I shove past him.
“‘Gah?’” He laughs, as I wrench open the classroom door. “Is that even English—?”
“Mr. Baylor,” Professor Lambert says in greeting, her pale eyes sharp with reprimand. “Miss Jones. So glad you two could make it. Would you please take your seats?”
I give her a quick nod and head for mine, utterly aware of every eye on Baylor and me as we walk down an aisle. As for Baylor, he is a presence I cannot shake. And my stupid body is humming as if it’s at its own, personal happy hour.
Class ambles along at an excruciating pace. Lambert is discussing Plato’s utopian ideal, and though I try to focus, my body is too attuned to Baylor to be successful.
“What say you, Miss Jones?”
I jump at the sound of Lambert’s voice. Surely I’m staring up at her like a slack-jawed idiot.
“Could you repeat the question?” I force myself to ask. I will not look at Baylor, who is likely smiling with smug satisfaction.
Lambert’s lips twitch. “Do you believe that Plato’s utopia could work in a modern day society?”
“No, ma’am, I do not.” It’s a short answer, but I’m too aggravated by Baylor’s presence to give a better one.
“And why is that, Miss Jones?”