His lips trail down my neck, sending shivers all over.
"I love looking at you," he breathes, brushing the hair off my shoulders. "Will you let me look at you?"
My heart hammers, a wild thing seeking his. "Yes."
So he does. And I feel it. For a long...
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C A M I L A
In the sea of formal attire, my hoodie and sweats stand out like a sore thumb. It's a rebellion against Prof Faye White's highly encouraged dress code for Applied Microeconomics 452A. Here I am, curled into my seat at the back, nursing my second Kick drink of the day. And I am very, very happy.
I'm fiddling with a little note, just a sticky, the edges worn from being handled too much. By me.
Two days ago now, I found it slipped into my hoodie pocket while walking home from the boys' place with Maddie. The scribbled words are Noah's.
"Miss Delgado, care to tell us the implications of applying game theory to this scenario?"
Shit.
My gaze snaps to the chalk-covered board, deciphering the scrawl. "It may predict behaviours of competing firms in this market structure, considering each firm's strategy to maximize payoff, through collusion or competition, could be either."
Prof. White blinks, then nods with a wry smile. "Get a new wardrobe, Miss Delgado."
The class murmurs at that—at weirdo delinquent me. Prof. White moves on, the lecture resumes its monotonous flow.
Slumping back in my chair, I take another sip of my Kick, letting the caffeine buzz settle in. The note is still in my hand.
Noah's writing is beautiful like him, but it's messy. Guy writing.
Hey Rocky, (I'm no Shel Silverstein, please keep that in mind)
Roses are red, boxing gloves are blue, Rocky called Adrian, and I'm calling you. History's cool, but not like your fingers, Wrapped around my mind, they lingered.
Wanna go out? Eat some...pie? I've got a plan. It's not very sly. Please see below my number, give it a spin, No pressure, though. But we are going on a date. Soon.
For the umpteenth time, a tiny laugh breaks from my chest right in class.
At the bottom of the page are the ten digits. His phone. The one by his bed. In his room.
I'm going to call tonight. I'm not sure I have it in me, but I'm going to anyway. His hands were on me, his lips, his breath at my ear. I got my hands on him. I felt him against me and said Fuck slow like a horny idiot—and he basically said Down, boy, easy, easy.
If those wicked fingers are bored, And you've got time to spare, Dial those digits—if you dare. I'll sit by the phone and stew, Hoping my next history lesson involves you.
