Right. I suppress a sigh and try to look unfazed. “Because, at its core, it is based on the notion of perfection. That perfection is possible. Which it is not.”
“Hold up,” Baylor cuts in, so fast, I wonder if he wasn’t waiting for an opening that would force me to look at him. “Are you saying we shouldn’t strive toward perfection?” His eyes twinkle, and I know he’s having fun egging me on. “Quite the defeatist attitude, Miss Jones.”
“I’m saying that it isn’t attainable, Mr. Baylor, because perfection is impossible to define.”
“I agree with Baylor,” a guy two rows up says. He’s wearing Baylor’s team jersey so I’m not surprised. Baylor’s defender gives me an accusatory glare. “I mean if Drew didn’t try to achieve perfection, we wouldn’t have won two Championships under his leadership.”
I barely refrain from rolling my eyes.
“This is true,” Baylor puts in helpfully.
Ass.
“There is a difference between trying to obtain a level of personal perfection verses expecting a society to unilaterally live in perfect harmony,” I say. “One relies on a personal expectation. The other is based on the masses following the opinion of one. And who decides? Who dictates this utopia?”
“Plato, obviously.” Baylor grins at me.
I glare back, but it’s hard to stay annoyed at his playful attitude. “Never mind the fact that we have virtually no examples of a utopian society thriving in a real world situation,” I say.
One of the girls who has been mooning over Baylor since the beginning of the semester raises her hand, as if she needs permission to speak. “What about Atlantis?”
Oh, Jesus Christ in a peach tree.
I glance at Baylor, and he’s biting his lip to keep from laughing. It’s all I can do not laugh too. I look away before I lose it. But I feel him beside me, and know that he’s itching to let loose, which only makes it worse. It’s so bad that I barely hear Lambert’s response, which is good because I know it would make me laugh. A repressed snort to my right has me turning. My gaze clashes with Baylor’s and we share a look of glee, but it’s short-lived. Suddenly I remember the last time I stared into his eyes. When he was deep inside me, his cock thick and pulsing with his release, and the strangled sound he made as he let go. Heat swamps me.
It must show. I don’t know how to hide it. His smile slips, as his lips part. On a breath, his gaze goes molten.
Holy hell, I’m in trouble.
Vaguely, I’m aware of people rising up around me. Class is breaking up. I can’t look away from Baylor. Not when he slowly rises. Not when he stops in front of my desk and holds out his hand.
“Come with me.”
I go, because I cannot ignore this need. But I don’t touch him. The moment I do, it will be over. I’ll jump on him right here and disgrace myself in public. Maybe he knows this because he lets his hand fall and clenches it in a fist, as if he too needs to practice restraint.
The corner of his mouth trembles. He’s looking me over. I’m the meal and he’s planning how to go about consuming me. We turn as one and walk out of the classroom with deceptive casualness. But inside? Inside I’m burning hot. Again. How is this happening again? My black sweater smothers me, my tight knit skirt scratching the sensitized skin on my thighs. I want these things off. I want skin to skin. I want him so badly, each step is a struggle. Like I’m walking through warm, soap-slick water.
Though he’s not touching me, Baylor is herding me along, clearly intent on some place to go. We can’t get there soon enough.