I try to catch my breath as I open my eyes. “Mr. Slate, I—”
He winces, cutting me off. “Elijah.”
“Huh?”
“Kaley, my name is Elijah.”
I quiver at the reveal of his name.
“Elijah Slate,” I whisper, trying it out for the first time.
He rewards me with a gorgeous grin, showing off his perfect teeth, and kisses me again with authority. His hands slide down past my waist, and my blood boils as he slowly caresses my inner thighs. Holy hell. I feel like I could pass out. I press my body against his—I can’t seem to get close enough. His muscular back feels even more amazing than I imagined, and I explore as much of it as I can, running my hands over every curve of muscle. His breaths become uneven as his hand slides up the base of my neck, grasping underneath my ponytail and pulling it slightly, forcing my head to tilt back as he kisses me deeper. I circle my arms around his hips, pulling him closer.
“Please,” I beg in between kisses.
“Please what?” he whispers.
“Please don’t stop.”
His breath catches, and his hands leave my hair and travel down my back, his masculine fingers clutching my hips. He slides his hands farther down, and his thumbs tease my inner thighs, expanding the ache below me. The sound of keys jingling outside the door interrupts the sensation, and he jerks me off the table faster than I can make sense of. He tosses me my books, and it’s all I can do to remain standing as the custodian opens the door.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” says the gray-haired man. “Am I interrupting?”
His question is innocent; still, panic shoots through me.
“No, not at all,” says Mr. Slate, flashing a confident smile. How does he do that? I marvel at how calm he appears after just having his lips on my neck . . . his hands on my thighs. “We just finished a group study session. Perfect timing, actually.”
“Okay, great,” says the custodian, pushing the door against the wall and into the door jamb.
I pass through the doorway in a daze and turn down the hall. I hear footsteps behind me, but don’t look back—I’m too paranoid. When I make it outside, Mr. Slate falls into stride next to me.
“Let me walk you to your car.”
“Are you sure?” My voice is shaky.
“Yes, of course. It’s dark out.”
I walk in stunned silence until I reach my car and lean against it for support.
“I’m really sorry,” I say.
“For what?” He seems to still be catching his breath.
“We almost got caught.”
He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s no reason for you to be sorry.”
I’m not sure what to say or do now. The parking lot is empty, but it feels unsafe. Like we’re being watched.
“I’m sorry I had to pull you up like that. How’s your arm? Did I hurt you?”
“No, I’m fine,” I assure him. I don’t want to tell him that my entire body is on fire, and at the moment, I probably wouldn’t even know if he had ripped my arms completely off.
“Okay, good.” His eyes dart around the parking lot.
“We should probably go, huh?” I say, sensing his apprehension.
“I don’t want us to look suspicious, Kaley, I’m sorry. I don’t want to leave you like this, but I’m not going to get either of us in trouble.”
I nod. “It’s okay, Mr. Sl—Elijah.”
His eyes smolder after I say his name. His gaze rests on my lips, and I’m thankful to have my car to steady me. He shoves his hands in his pockets and clenches his jaw. “I really should go.” His voice is strained.
I nod and open my car door. He puts his hand on top of the door frame as I climb in.
“Drive safely,” he says, peering down at me.
“I will.”
After he’s sure I’m all the way in, he shuts my door. My hands shake from the adrenaline pumping through my veins, and it takes me three times to get my seatbelt secured. He waits until I start the engine, then waves good-bye as he heads to the employee parking lot. The sound of my breathing fills the interior of my car, and I flip on the radio to drown it out. My legs are wobbly when I press on the gas, and my arms feel like rubber as I grip the steering wheel.
I turn onto the street in a stupor. I can still taste the minty flavor of his lips, reminding me that I’m not in a dream—this is real. This really happened. And it was nothing like I imagined it would be . . . nothing compared to the night I used Tommy’s body as a vessel to fantasize about him. That fantasy is a small flame compared to the real thing. It’s like Elijah doused me with gasoline, igniting my sparks into a carnal explosion. My body still burns from his touch, and I’m not sure if the embers will ever cool.
When I reach my driveway, I don’t even know how I got home. I enter the dimly lit foyer and try to sneak past the living room to the stairs.
“Kay?” my dad calls.
Damn.
I edge into the light of the family room, hoping my demeanor doesn’t reveal the fact that I just made out with my math teacher.
“What’s up?” I say in an octave higher than my normal voice.
“Everything okay?”
I clear my throat and try to lower my voice. “Yeah, of course.”
“How’d your study session go?”
Oh, it was pretty much life-changing.
“It was all right,” I say.
“Well, keep at it, honey.”
If only he knew what he was suggesting.
“Sure thing, Dad.” I say, trying to wipe the grin off my face.
I head to the kitchen, not realizing how thirsty I am until now. I fill up a glass of water and gulp down the entire thing in one breath. I repeat this action once more before filling up the glass a third time, taking it with me.
“Where’s Mom?” I ask, stopping at the bottom of the stairs.
“She’s at her book club,” he says, his gaze never leaving the TV.
Sure, keep your book club meetings, but refuse to go to counseling, Mom. Priorities.
I say goodnight and head up the stairs. My legs are a little stronger as I climb, but I still feel a bit like a newborn fawn struggling to walk for the very first time. When I enter my bedroom, I flick on the lamp and toss my stuff onto my desk. I set the glass of water on my nightstand and flop onto my bed. I wish I kept a diary, because boy do I have one for the books. It would put all other diary entries in the free world to shame.
Feeling wired, I bring my pillow to my chest and curl into a ball, wondering what the hell I’m going to do all weekend. It’s not like I can call him up, or we can go on a date tomorrow night. I literally have to wait until Monday morning to see him. And then what? What am I supposed to say to him?
I wish we hadn’t been interrupted. I wish we would’ve laid some ground rules, or maybe planned a secret date. Something! I know nothing, except that I have never felt such intensity inside my body before . . . and I want more. I miss his lips already; I miss his powerful body against mine . . . but I’m trapped here all weekend. Sure, I know where he lives, but he doesn’t know that I know. Not only do I want to avoid looking like a stalker, but I also want to avoid getting us caught.
I touch my fingers to my lips . . . I can still smell him on me. I lay on my bed for a long time, wishing I could call up Emily and gush over every detail, but I can’t. I can’t say or do anything. This is going to be a torturously long weekend.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE WEEKEND GOES BY JUST as painfully slow as I anticipated. I spend all of Saturday writing an English paper, rearranging my closet, and organizing my dresser drawers—anything to keep my mind occupied. My clothes are now color coordinated, and my socks are even alphabetized by hue. On Sunday, I study for math and help my mom clean the house. Like I said—painfully slow.
Tommy calls me Sunday evening, recounting his entire weekend, and sweetly tells me how much he misses me. He keeps me on the phone for two hours, allowing the realization of my indiscretions to finally hit me. The fact that Tommy didn’t even cross my mind until the morning after the study session has me shocked and disappointed in myself. But I can’t do anything about it just yet. I need to talk to Elijah before making any rash decisions.
Almost immediately after hanging up with Tommy, the phone rings again. It’s Emily, asking if I want to drive up to Scottsdale after school on Friday to shop for prom dresses. She’s been searching for the perfect dress for weeks, whereas I haven’t even thought about it. Whether I like it or not, prom is right around the corner, and I can’t procrastinate any longer. Although, in the back of my mind, I’m no longer sure if Tommy and I will still be together by prom—but of course I can’t tell her that. We discuss the details for Friday, but it’s hard to focus on what she’s saying. My thoughts wander to Mr. Slate wrapping his sculpted arms around me, kissing me . . . caressing me.
Emily’s voice interrupts the heated memory. “You sound so giddy. I was starting to worry you were gonna be mopey about prom, too.”
I wish I could tell her the real reason I’m bubbling with euphoria, but I play it off. “Um, yeah. I mean, no! I’m totally excited.” I’m thankful she can’t see my ridiculous grin. I know I should be feeling nothing but remorse, but my yearning for Elijah silences my conscience.