Dr. Rossum tapped the portfolio against his hand. “Do you know why I am hard on students, Ms. Sullivan?”
I shook my head. Because you’re an asshole? I thought, hoping my thoughts weren’t blazing across my face like a neon sign.
“Because,” Dr. Rossum instructed, “if you plan to be an artist you need to learn how to take criticism and stand up for your work. If you don’t love it, no one will.”
There were better ways of teaching, in my opinion, but I wasn’t going to voice those to Dr. Rossum, I said nothing.
“Nothing to say for yourself?” he finally asked.
“No, sir. I plan to let my art do my talking,” I replied, allowing a little snarkiness to leak through.
“You have a lot to learn, Ms. Sullivan.”
“I hope that the art program will teach it all to me,” I said. This time I couldn’t prevent a smile because we both knew I had won.
Dr. Rossum grunted and tossed the portfolio to me. This time all the photos remain safely tucked inside. “Leave your email with Ms. Grant. She will send you the admissions papers, and you can start classes in the spring.”
After I did as Dr. Rossum instructed, I sped down the stairs to Noah.
He saw me running from inside and caught me as I flew out of the doors. “I’m in,” I cried with happiness and showered kisses all over his face.
He threw back his head and shouted “Ooooorah,” which made me laugh like a loon. People stopped and stared at our spectacle, but I didn’t care.
“I knew it,” Noah laughed and carried me down the stairs, setting me down when we had reached the bottom.
“Oh you did, did you?” I teased, slapping him lightly on the arm with my portfolio. He grabbed it and carefully tucked it into his backpack.
“Yup,” he said, cradling me under one of his arms as we started the trek back across campus toward my apartment. “Either you were going to get in, or I was going upstairs to break Dr. Rossum’s legs. It was all good.”
I snorted and said, “Well I’m glad I could save us both with my superior skills, then.”
“How so?” Noah queried, grinning down at me.
“Because otherwise you’d be expelled, and I’d be a humanities major, if not for my photographs.”
“I’ve always known you were superior,” Noah said, all sign of humor vanishing. “You’re too good for me.”
“Bullshit,” I said, in a no-nonsense voice. “We’re just right for one another. Let’s go home and celebrate.”
His eyes lightened. “I know just the thing.”
“Does it involve us being in bed together?” I recognized that look. It’s the one that he gave me before my clothes ended up on the floor. It was one of my favorite Noah expressions.
“Yes. Why do you even ask?” He looked at me like I was just being silly. I was.
“I thought celebration was dinner and drinks?” I teased him.
“No, why waste our time doing that when we both know what we want,” he somberly told me.
“All right, Noah Jackson. Let’s go home and you can show me how to celebrate things the right way.” I was totally in the mood for anything he had in mind.
“You know, you’re very sexy when you tell me what to do,” he grinned, teasing again.
“Really?”
“Yeah.” This one word was growled at me, sending a shiver of excitement down my spine.
By the time we reached the apartment, we could barely keep our hands off each other. Our mouths were fused together as if we could only keep breathing through each other.
He picked me up and carried me to the bedroom, throwing me on the bed. I bounced once and tested out his earlier suggestion.
“Take off your shirt,” I ordered.
He stopped short and grinned at me. “I like this.” He reached behind his back with one arm and pulled the shirt over his head. I admired his bare chest, the rock hard muscles, the golden skin, the thin trail of hair that marked the path from his belly button into his jeans. His erection was clearly defined behind the denim and seemed to grow larger as I stared at it. “What now?” he asked.
I had forgotten what we were doing, as I took in his obvious masculine beauty. “Um, now the jeans.”
He shucked those quickly, too. I pulled off my denim skirt. His hardness was now tenting the thin cotton of his boxer briefs. I motioned for him to come sit on the bed, and I climbed on top of him, rubbing myself against him.
He ran his hands up my sides, eager to touch me. “And now?” he murmured.
“My shirt,” I said breathlessly, “take off my shirt.”
He did so slowly, the calluses of his palm and fingertips lightly abrading my sensitive skin. He rubbed the flat of his palms against my breast, pushing the shirt up and over the lace-covered mounds and then lifting the cotton over my head. I ground down against him, and he groaned audibly.