My Professor's Secret

18|

eighteen

A sigh of relief escapes me as I scrub the last bit of grime off the final table while we close the restaurant for the night. Naturally, Kevin thought it best for Trevor and me to close again—going on about how he never has to worry about the place not being up to par in the morning when we're on shift.

Whatever his reasoning was for keeping the two of us on closing didn't matter much after he mentioned the two-dollar raise for my "stellar performance," which, in part, had everything to do with the constant affirmations Trevor had been feeding me.

I wrap my hand around the bucket of once crystal-clear water and head to the supply closet to dump it. On my way, I catch a glimpse of Trevor lingering in the lounge, struggling to untie the knot he'd made to keep his apron secured around his waist.

The bucket steals my focus for a moment, the water sloshing slightly as I empty it, leaving behind nothing but soap residue and the faint scent of lemon hanging in the air. By the time I make it back to the lounge, he's still working at the knot.

"Here," I say, quieter than necessary even though we're the only ones left in the building. "Let me help."

He doesn't argue. He just gives a small nod and turns his back toward me.

It only takes a second.

The knot loosens easily under my fingers, the tension in the fabric giving way without much resistance. When I finish, he turns back toward me, a faint flush rising to his cheeks as he mutters a quick thank you.

We separate just as quickly.

I move toward my bin to gather my things, and he does the same. The sound of his keys clinking together fills the space between us, the only thing breaking the quiet.

Then it stops.

I don't look up right away, but I feel it—the shift. The way his presence closes the distance between us again is subtle but noticeable.

The warmth of him settles along my side before I even turn.

Swallowing suddenly feels harder than it should.

When I finally look up, my gaze catches his for a second before dropping—lower than it should, landing on his lips.

He notices.

Of course he does.

His tongue drags slowly across his bottom lip, like he's aware of exactly where my attention went, before he takes the last step toward me.

"I don't know how much longer I can pretend being alone with you doesn't drive me insane," he growls in a whisper, his lips grazing the point of my ear in a swift breath that sends electricity coursing through every nerve in me. The weight of my body nearly gives at the thought of his hands against my skin, my thoughts lagging somewhere behind the moment like I'm already too far inside it to pull myself back. I surprise myself with my next response, the word leaving my mouth before I can decide if I mean it.

"So don't."

The words settle between us for half a second, and instead of pulling back from them, I feel myself lean into what they invite.

His hands find me almost immediately, like they were already on their way there, settling at the small of my back before pulling me into him with a firmness I meet without hesitation, my body closing the space between us just as quickly as he does. Our gazes meet for a fraction of a second, and something about the dusty shade of ash in his eyes strips away whatever hesitation I might've had left before our lips meet. There's nothing careful about it, nothing measured or restrained the way he usually is. It's fast, consuming, like we've skipped past something important without either of us noticing.