Read My Lips(45)

I can’t trust myself in a room alone with her. I would rip off that innocent-looking white top and strip down those hot as fuck jeans.

Fuck … what I’d do to her … I’d own those lips for longer than just one fleeting moment in a cherry-picker, that’s for sure.

So mesmerized by her, I belatedly realize her lips are moving. “What happened?” she’s asking.

I shake my head, then murmur a word to her.

“What?” she says, leaning in closer.

I guess the place is louder than I realized. I tell her, “It’s nothing. I’m fine.” But the words rattle my jaw and I wince against the pain.

Dmitri steps in, puts an apologetic hand on Dessie’s shoulder, then signs: Maybe you two should go back to the apartment and hang out. I’ll stay and support Brant. You’ll have the place to yourself for at least a couple hours, maybe more.

I feel my face flushing. I don’t know if it’s because of the attention Dmitri’s signing is earning us, or if it’s because of the pain, or if it’s because he’s basically giving me permission to take Dessie back to our place and have ample time … alone together.

He seems to be relaying the message to Dessie, as he leans into her and says something. I feel my heart jerk awake, hopping around inside my ribcage as I wonder frustratedly what he’s saying to her.

She gives a shrug in response, then says something back to him. I look at her eyes questioningly. She spreads her hands, then says something to me. I don’t quite understand until Dmitri signs: She said yes. You two can hang at the apartment. It’s too loud here.

Too loud. What a concept.

I lift a brow at her. “You sure?”

Dessie nods, the waves of her long, brown hair dancing when she does, and her cheeks seem to flush the same shade as her beautiful, kissable lips. Fuck.

Behave, Clayton.





Oh my god. We’re going back to his place.

This breaks about ten of the rules I set for myself before agreeing to this whole “innocent hanging out” thing with Clayton Watts.

My hands are sweating.

My mouth has gone so dry, I’m sucking on my tongue.

I can barely put one foot in front of the other without threatening to trip myself on the way down the street to his place, which is apparently a couple blocks over from the Throng.

“So …” I say out of habit as we walk, then shake my head, feeling dumb. It’s not like we can talk on the way. This was such a stupid idea. When I turn to look at him, however, he seems to have noticed my mouth move. “Sorry.” I laugh, feeling dumber. “I, um … So … You fell?”

Clayton nods slowly.

“Dmitri told me,” I explain, speaking slow. I don’t know if he can see my lips in the semidarkness that well. I deliberately time my remarks for when we pass each streetlamp along the road. “And Dmitri said he doesn’t believe you.”

Clayton chuckles dryly, though he doesn’t smile. He looks in pain. My heart crushes in.

Even as we walk, he keeps his eyes on me. I get the feeling he’s trying not to miss a word of what I’m saying. Instead of feeling self-conscious, I feel oddly touched by the gesture.

“I didn’t realize everything was so close,” I tell him. “Bowling alley, just down the street from the Throng, which is just a block or two from your place, which is right across the road from campus …”

He smiles. I’m not sure he got what I said, but I smile back anyway and continue walking alongside him in the quiet. I try to ignore how nervous I am.

We reach his apartment complex. His place on the first floor faces the main road, visible through a tall, wrought iron fence. He pushes a key into the door, then holds it open for me. I walk past him and catch a hint of his cologne. God, he smells like sex.

“Thirsty?”

The sound of that one soft, sexy word tickles me, sending chills up my neck. “I could maybe use a little something,” I admit after turning around to face him with a muted smile. “Yes,” I answer with a nod, just to be more clear. “Whatever you have.”

He walks past me, the door shutting loudly at his back, then pulls open the fridge. He turns, lifting a questioning, expectant eyebrow.

A spike of confidence hits me, inspiring me to straighten my back and take one step toward him. “I’ll help myself. How about you take a seat on the couch?”

His brows pull together. “Huh?”

I grip his arm—oh my god, he’s so fucking meaty—and guide him around the kitchen counter to the living room. He stares at me the whole time with questions in his defiant eyes. “As far as bandaging your own wounds,” I tell him with a smirk, “you suck at it.”