Too Late
Page 38
I bite my cheek to hide my smile. He drops his hand and presses it against the small of my back. “We’ll be late if we don’t hurry.”
I laugh a little at the thought of being tardy. What weight does being late for class hold against all the other shit that’s going on in our lives? Very, very little. But he’s right.
I follow him out the door and back down the hallway toward the classroom. Before we walk inside he leans down and whispers, “For what it’s worth, you look really beautiful today. I kind of can’t catch my breath.”
He keeps walking, despite the fact that his words have frozen my feet to the floor.
That’s all those were. Words. A few simple words strung together, but they held just enough power to physically stop me in my tracks.
My hand goes up to my mouth as I quietly inhale. I force away the smile that wants to break out and I somehow force my feet to walk into the classroom. I glance up and see Carter pulling two chairs out on the top row, so I make my way up to him.
My knees feel like they’re about to fail me. This is how it should be. This is how guys should make girls feel.
Why the hell did I ever give Asa the time of day?
When I reach my seat, he’s still standing, waiting for me to sit down first. I give him a quick smile as a thank you and take my seat. I take my books out of my bag and he does the same. The professor walks in just as we’re settled. He turns and begins writing on the board.
Screamed a little too much at the football game last night. Lost my voice. Go through chapters 8-10 and we’ll catch up on lecture next week.
Half of the class laughs at the note. The other half groans. Carter opens his book to the right page. I lean forward and open mine and begin reading. I don’t get far before Carter grabs a pen and begins writing a note. I’m giddy with anticipation, hoping it’s for me and he’s not actually taking notes for class.
I don’t even feel guilty. I should feel guilty about this. Especially since Asa sort of proposed to me this morning, and out of fear for my own life, I was forced to say yes.
This is so fucked up. I’m going to hell.
Actually…I might already be in hell. Most of the time this life feels more like a punishment for something horrible I must have done in a previous life. Until Carter came along, at least. I don’t remember much that has ever made me excited about life before he recently entered it.
Carter slides the note to me. It’s folded in half, so I lift the paper and read what he wrote. I expect something random, like the game we’ve played in class before. Instead, it’s just a simple request.
Put your hand under the table.
I read it twice before looking at my hands. The note is a little random, but not like the game I showed him. It’s only random because I’m confused by it. I slip the note under my book and then lower my hand under the table and wait for him to hand me whatever it is he has.
To my surprise-he doesn’t give me anything. His warm palm slides against mine and he threads our fingers together, resting our hands on my thigh.
And then he returns his focus to his textbook, resuming his reading like he didn’t just attempt to set me on fire.
That’s exactly what it feels like-my hand wrapped in his-him touching my leg. I feel like someone needs to douse me with water. My heart begins to race and I feel like my whole body is tingling.
He’s holding my hand.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I didn’t know holding hands could feel better than a kiss. Better than sex. Sex with Asa, at least.
I close my eyes and focus on the weight of his hand against mine. The width of his fingers between mine. The way his thumb occasionally runs back and forth.
After probably fifteen minutes of pretending to read the textbook in front of me, he pulls his hand from mine. He doesn’t release me, though. He just begins to make circles with his fingertips against my palm. He traces every part of my hand, my palm, my fingers, between my fingers. With every minute that passes, my mind begins to wonder what those fingers would feel like against my leg. My neck. My stomach.
My breathing grows heavier. I begin to take in shorter breaths with each minute closer we get to the end of class.
I don’t want class to end. I never want it to end.
When he’s explored every part of my hand twice-over, his fingers slide to my leg. He begins to stroke my knee, about three inches up the inside of my leg, and back down to my knee. My eyes are closed and I’m gripping the book in my hands. He does this for several more minutes, driving me completely insane, almost to the point that I might have to get up and go to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face.
But I don’t, because somehow the fifty minutes of class are up and everyone is packing up to leave.
I laugh a little at the thought of being tardy. What weight does being late for class hold against all the other shit that’s going on in our lives? Very, very little. But he’s right.
I follow him out the door and back down the hallway toward the classroom. Before we walk inside he leans down and whispers, “For what it’s worth, you look really beautiful today. I kind of can’t catch my breath.”
He keeps walking, despite the fact that his words have frozen my feet to the floor.
That’s all those were. Words. A few simple words strung together, but they held just enough power to physically stop me in my tracks.
My hand goes up to my mouth as I quietly inhale. I force away the smile that wants to break out and I somehow force my feet to walk into the classroom. I glance up and see Carter pulling two chairs out on the top row, so I make my way up to him.
My knees feel like they’re about to fail me. This is how it should be. This is how guys should make girls feel.
Why the hell did I ever give Asa the time of day?
When I reach my seat, he’s still standing, waiting for me to sit down first. I give him a quick smile as a thank you and take my seat. I take my books out of my bag and he does the same. The professor walks in just as we’re settled. He turns and begins writing on the board.
Screamed a little too much at the football game last night. Lost my voice. Go through chapters 8-10 and we’ll catch up on lecture next week.
Half of the class laughs at the note. The other half groans. Carter opens his book to the right page. I lean forward and open mine and begin reading. I don’t get far before Carter grabs a pen and begins writing a note. I’m giddy with anticipation, hoping it’s for me and he’s not actually taking notes for class.
I don’t even feel guilty. I should feel guilty about this. Especially since Asa sort of proposed to me this morning, and out of fear for my own life, I was forced to say yes.
This is so fucked up. I’m going to hell.
Actually…I might already be in hell. Most of the time this life feels more like a punishment for something horrible I must have done in a previous life. Until Carter came along, at least. I don’t remember much that has ever made me excited about life before he recently entered it.
Carter slides the note to me. It’s folded in half, so I lift the paper and read what he wrote. I expect something random, like the game we’ve played in class before. Instead, it’s just a simple request.
Put your hand under the table.
I read it twice before looking at my hands. The note is a little random, but not like the game I showed him. It’s only random because I’m confused by it. I slip the note under my book and then lower my hand under the table and wait for him to hand me whatever it is he has.
To my surprise-he doesn’t give me anything. His warm palm slides against mine and he threads our fingers together, resting our hands on my thigh.
And then he returns his focus to his textbook, resuming his reading like he didn’t just attempt to set me on fire.
That’s exactly what it feels like-my hand wrapped in his-him touching my leg. I feel like someone needs to douse me with water. My heart begins to race and I feel like my whole body is tingling.
He’s holding my hand.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I didn’t know holding hands could feel better than a kiss. Better than sex. Sex with Asa, at least.
I close my eyes and focus on the weight of his hand against mine. The width of his fingers between mine. The way his thumb occasionally runs back and forth.
After probably fifteen minutes of pretending to read the textbook in front of me, he pulls his hand from mine. He doesn’t release me, though. He just begins to make circles with his fingertips against my palm. He traces every part of my hand, my palm, my fingers, between my fingers. With every minute that passes, my mind begins to wonder what those fingers would feel like against my leg. My neck. My stomach.
My breathing grows heavier. I begin to take in shorter breaths with each minute closer we get to the end of class.
I don’t want class to end. I never want it to end.
When he’s explored every part of my hand twice-over, his fingers slide to my leg. He begins to stroke my knee, about three inches up the inside of my leg, and back down to my knee. My eyes are closed and I’m gripping the book in my hands. He does this for several more minutes, driving me completely insane, almost to the point that I might have to get up and go to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face.
But I don’t, because somehow the fifty minutes of class are up and everyone is packing up to leave.
