Read My Lips (A College Obsession Romance)

by Daryl Banner

  Twenty minutes later, we sit on barstools in front of his kitchen counter eating frozen waffles he tossed into the toaster that taste like makeup sponges glazed with the gooiest syrup I’ve ever had the displeasure of eating. I’m polite and eat them anyway because, after last night’s ample physical exertions, I discover I’ve worked up quite an appetite and would probably eat the cushion from a couch.

  After my last bite, I glance back at the living room to find Brant crashed on the loveseat clutching an orange-and-blue afghan, his mouth hanging open and the remote barely balanced on the edge of his knee, just a nudge away from falling off.

  “I guess he didn’t make it to his room,” I note, thumbing at Brant.

  Clayton shrugs as he catches where I’m pointing, then he looks at me and says, “I got class in an hour.”

  “Me too,” I say back.

  Then, almost like nothing, he puts a kiss on my cheek and mumbles, “Gotta put something on.”

  To his sexy back and boxer-brief-sporting ass, I murmur, “Pity.”

  There’s a smile as big as the sky on my face when the morning light touches it. The walk from his place to campus is already familiar to me, as if I’d done it a hundred times. We make a merciful detour to my dorm so I can quickly shower and change and look a bit less … wrecked. Clayton waits for me on a courtyard bench, typing on his phone. When I’m decent again, he walks me back, leaving me in front of the theater to go to his psychology class, and we experience a short moment of not knowing whether to kiss or hug or just wave. I see the uncertainty in his eyes and my hands seem to twitch with the same intentions as his. Finally, he opts to squeeze my arm, which was almost a half-hug, before he goes. His face reddens as he whips around the corner, which makes me laugh.

  I push through the glass doors and waltz into the black box for my acting class, zipping right past Ariel, whose blasé stare of condescension at what she likely just witnessed through the window is not missed.

  And really, after how close Clayton and I have grown in just one glorious rollercoaster of a weekend followed by a couple of surprise-filled days, how can I let anything—or anyone—ruin it?

  My good mood is invincible. Nina gives me a harsh yet instructive critique on my performance piece while Ariel watches from the back row, her arms crossed and her eyes narrowed. And how do I come out of that class?

  Smiling like a cat with a bird in my pocket.

  Fuck you, mermaid. You can’t touch me.

  I find Sam in our usual spot in the UC food court, and I insist on buying lunch for her. Something tells me she’s made a habit of coming here at this precise time because she knows I do. Plus, inevitably, I always give her about half or more of whatever I eat.

  “Take off your glasses,” I say over my teriyaki sub.

  Sam lifts her blunt, horrific eyebrows. “Hmm?” she moans through a mouthful of potato wedges.

  “Glasses,” I order with a smirk. “Off.”

  With reluctance, she pulls off her glasses. Well, the bad news is, those thick frames do a good job of concealing how big and bulbous her nose really is. The good news is, beyond those smudgy lenses, she’s been hiding a set of soft hazel eyes I’ve never noticed before. I always mistakenly thought they were brown.

  “Interesting,” I murmur, studying her.

  “I can’t see your face,” she complains.

  “Let’s get away from campus,” I suggest. “We don’t have any classes until tonight. I want to go shopping.”

  She fumbles to get her glasses back on her face. “Shopping? I don’t—”

  “You’ve worn that shirt three times since Friday.”

  She glances down at her shirt, as if doubting it. When she looks back up at me, she surrenders with an unenthusiastic shrug. “I guess I could use a little shopping. I think there’s a thrift shop on Avenue D.”

  A thrift shop is not what I have in mind for her.

  An hour later finds us in a store on the high-dollar side of town, much to Sam’s dismay. I run my hand through the soft, colorful racks, feeling oddly like I’m back home on some errand in town with my sister when she was a little bit less of a nose-upturned diva. Cece would rush up to a pretty dress, gasping as she spun around and showed it to me held up to her neck and draped down her body. I’d pick a matching dress two sizes bigger and we’d try them on together, then burst out of the dressing rooms at the same time and surprise each other, laughing.

  I miss the way she used to be.

  Sam moans from within the changing room, complaining about how she looks. “Shush,” I tell her. “Get your booty out here and let me see you.”

  The door opens. I get a good look.

  “Alright, not your color. Try this.” I toss another one at her. “And please, posture. No one looks good when they’re bent into the shape of a coat hanger. Be the coat, Sam, not the hanger.”

  I guess I’m the new Cece and Sam’s my little sister. When she comes out of the dressing room again, her face looks lighter, and I nod with my approval.

  What I foretold to be an hour-long overdue outing with my roommate turns into three, and I’m taking her down the street with an armful of bags filled with dresses, shirts, new jeans, and some sexy-ass shoes. I even throw in a few for myself.

  “I can’t let you pay for all this,” Sam complains at the counter of the next store.

  “I’m not,” I tell her innocently. “My credit card is.”

  Swipe. Cha-ching.

  Soon, the front glass window of a beauty salon greets our eyes.

  Sam scowls at me. “We’re not gonna have one of those moments where you push me in there and have them give me some swanky makeover and I come out looking like last year’s prom queen.”

  “No,” I assure her. “You’ll come out looking like next year’s prom queen.”

  Since each stylist’s area is hidden by big annoying bamboo walls, I don’t get to see Sam until the sun is setting the horizon on fire behind me and the haircut is completely finished. I literally don’t recognize her.

  “That’s … not the cut we discussed,” I murmur, staring at her wide-eyed.

  “It’s kinda the one I wanted,” she says, then rubs her eyes. “I can’t see how it looks. They made me take my glasses off.”

  Her hair is about eighty percent gone. What’s left in its place is a short spread of talon-shaped spikes that sweep near the front into some sort of jet-colored tidal wave.

  Sam’s breathing quickens. “You’re worrying me.”

  I hand the girl at the front counter my card without even looking at her, my eyes glued to Sam’s hair.

  “It’s horrible,” Sam groans, deadpan. “It’s hideous. I’m gonna scare children. That’s what it is, isn’t it?”

  I get my card back, swipe Sam’s glasses off the counter, and put them on her. The next instant, she slumps over to the nearest mirror, then engages in a strange sort of staring contest with herself, many odd, unreadable emotions cutting through her face.

  I come up behind her. “Pretty damn hot, huh?” I murmur, breaking a smile.

  Sam’s eyebrows, completely reshaped, slowly lift, as if she were seeing daylight for the first time. She doesn’t say anything, staring at herself in a daze.

  Now it’s my turn to wonder if she hates the cut. “You know, hair grows back,” I reason with her, “and if you don’t like it—”

  “I love it,” she says with her brand of deadpan joy. “I love it so much. It’s really the best thing. Wow.”

  Every one of her words, monotonous and flat. She makes “joy” sound miserable. She makes “love” sound like an exhausting climb up a hillside. Yet even with all that indifference that is Samantha Hart, I know better than to rely on the mere sound of her words; she does love her haircut. She loves it so much, she can’t look away from the mirror.

  I smile inside at a job well-done.

  By the time we get back to campus, I realize I’m already five minutes late to my lighting crew shift. The glass door nearly meets m
y nose before it meets my hand, and I stumble going down the short hall to the auditorium.

  Clayton waits for me, his legs dangling over the lip of the stage. He’s since changed and showered, as is evidenced by the new white shirt and jeans. Also, his hair seems to be fixed up a bit, like he threw a splash of water over his head and gave it a few rubs.

  “I’m late,” I mouth soundlessly when I reach him.

  He seems amused, smirking out of the side of his mouth as he gives me a once-over. “Doesn’t look like appropriate attire for crew work.”

  “I picked up this dress today when I went on a shopping spree with my roommate,” I tell Clayton with a coy smile. “I thought that you … might like it.”

  “Like it?” he echoes.

  From the look on his face, I think he more than likes it.

  “By the way,” he goes on, “Dick won’t be by pretty much for the rest of the semester.” I wrinkle my brow questioningly. “It means I’m your boss. It’s my say on how late or inappropriately dressed you are.”

  I cross my arms and squint defiantly at him. “So … am I in trouble?”

  Watching my lips so intently, a dark, roguish glint enters his eyes. He nods slowly, then hops off the edge of the stage and saunters up to me, staring down at me over his big chest and intimidating size.

  “Big trouble,” resonates his deep, silky voice.

  I bite my lip.

  “I was told to send you to rehearsal after we finish everything on this list.” He waves a piece of paper in the air, then slaps it onto the stage. “Just so happens, I finished the list an hour ago.”

  My heart races. “Oh?”

  “But I don’t feel like sending you to rehearsal.”

  “I don’t feel like going.”

  A hand firmly settles on the small of my back. “Let’s double-check some of the items on this list.”

  I stare up into his dark gaze. “Yes, boss.”

  He grins.

  Then, with a superior flick of his chin, he leads me up the steps to the stage. I follow, my heart fluttering excitedly.

  “Lighting rack organized?” he inquires, his eyes finding me.

  “Check,” I say, then press my lips together.

  He rounds about the stage, coming to a bunch of hooks that line the back wall. “All the cords wrapped and sorted?”

  Feeling playful, I pull at one of the hooks, a set of yellow cords dropping to the ground in a pile.

  His eyes zero in on me.

  I shrug innocently. “Oops.”

  The very next instant, he has that cord in his grip. He steps forward, and suddenly I’m against the wall.

  “This needs to be wound back up,” he says quietly, grabbing me and beginning to loop the yellow cord around my wrists.

  “Clayton,” I hiss at him, my eyes darting around.

  “No one’s here,” he assures me with a mischievous tone, wrapping the cord around and around itself, then pulling tight. “No one at all.” He flips it over the hook, then pulls.

  My bound hands fly up with the cable, startling me. Oh my god. My heart hammers like a prisoner in my ribcage. My breath is stolen.

  Hanging onto that cord, having all the power in his mighty grip, he puts a finger of his free hand into his mouth, sucking it long and hard. I watch his lips work, biting my own.

  Then he pulls that finger out of his mouth with a pop and, his evil grin tightening, he thrusts that hand under my dress.

  “Clayton!” I protest again.

  His face intensely boring into mine, his hand negotiates its way under my dress and into my panties with the same slick persuasion as his lips.

  His finger glides inside.

  A surge of insanity courses through me. Fuck! Just one little movement and my body rebels, every muscle in me submitting to the power of Clayton’s finger.

  Vainly, I pull against the cord, only to remind myself how very trapped I am.

  In response, Clayton pulls tighter, stretching me until I’m nearly on my tippy-toes. I’m completely in his control.

  His finger pushes in deeper—or maybe he’s added a second one, I can’t tell.

  “Someone’s going to catch us,” I breathe, fighting my restricted hands—except I don’t really want to be free. Who in their right mind would?

  He leans in, his face inches from mine. “You’re so wet,” he whispers. “You want me.”

  “Yes,” I say, but the word turns into a desperate moan that pushes out of my throat. Oh my god. He’s making me so dizzy with his beautiful torment.

  “Come on my fingers,” he whispers.

  “Clayton …”

  “Come for me.” His fingers twist.

  I squirm against him, pushing my clit up against his palm, rubbing frantically and trying to get more friction. He presses up against my body. I feel his fingers dig deeper, pulsating inside me and working me like a damn puppet.

  What the hell is he doing down there that feels so fucking good?

  And then I feel myself letting go. I can’t stop it. I cry out in his face, my orgasm rocketing through me. Shockwaves of pleasure race up to my fingers, down to my toes, and through my clenching stomach.

  I flick open my eyes.

  His victorious face hovers in front of mine. Then, his fingers slip out of me and, without breaking his fierce gaze for a second, he brings those fingers to his wicked mouth and slips them in, his tongue dancing up and down each digit as he tastes me.

  He lets go of the cord and it slides off the hook, my hands dropping with it. Gently, he unties his thick knot, releasing my wrists and winding the cord back up over his shoulder, like his job’s done.

  He offers me a wink before tossing the wound-up cord back onto the wall. Then, he faces me to say, “Looks like our little list’s complete. You’re free to return to rehearsal, Dessie.”

  Massaging my wrists, I lift my eyes to him, feeling bold, and throw my arms around his neck. I kiss him without warning, tasting myself on his swollen lips. “I think I’d rather work overtime,” I whisper.

  An amused smirk darkens his face.

  I don’t suspect I’m leaving anytime soon.

  We’re only able to get away with our Wednesday Night Lighting Crew Sexcapades for two more weeks before rehearsal would take its due priority, forcing me to attend the earlier and far less desirable Tuesday afternoon lighting crew shift that fits neatly between my movement and voice classes.

  Of course, Clayton makes sure to be there during said shifts. Unfortunately, so are five other guys.

  We meet up for lunch or dinner on the “good end” of fraternity row a few times a week. It almost feels weird to eat alone now. I always seem to learn a handful of new signs each time we get together. I practice each one to him while he patiently corrects me. I know signing in public isn’t something he likes to do, but he’s become way more comfortable with it around me.

  We both pull each other out of our comfy boxes.

  I stay at his place two or three times a week. I’m sure Sam doesn’t mind the random nights she gets to have the dorm room all to herself, composing her music at top volume. I told her to install her software on my laptop so she can use my computer when I’m not there. Turns out, my computer is approximately nine billion times faster than hers.

  She doesn’t know it, but I’m totally letting her keep that laptop; I can afford a new one.

  It’s only a matter of days before Clayton and I become so highly attuned to each other’s schedules that we surprise each other after classes. It becomes a routine on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons for him to hang out in the lobby until I get out of my voice class, and then we grab dinner together before I head back to the theater for rehearsal.

  “Is this how you do it?” I ask him one Thursday evening after I take a bite of cake, signing that my chocolate cake’s tasty. Clayton fights a laugh because apparently I just signed: Church is tasty! When I repeat the sign back to him, annoyed, he laughs harder because my second version comes out as: My compu
ter is a tasty cake! When I put a piece of that cake into his face, he isn’t laughing anymore, and then for a few minutes we become one of “those couples” as I kiss the chocolate off his face. I might say, it’s one of the best desserts I’ve had in a while.

  “So, what are we?”

  He squints, having missed what I said.

  My feet shuffle under the table. Maybe I shouldn’t push the subject. “Never mind.”

  He growls, frustrated. He really hates when I don’t repeat something I’ve said.

  I lick my lips, still tasting chocolate. I poke my chest—I. Then, from the place I just poked, I pull an imaginary pencil out with just my thumb and middle finger—Like. I’m drawing a blank for the remaining signs, so I mouth the words, “Whatever we are.”

  Folding his arms on the table, he leans over and grunts, “Me too.”

  I smile. I just said I wouldn’t push this subject, but I can’t help myself. “So … are we a thing?”

  He seems to read my words perfectly this time, as I see a hint of a smirk teasing onto his lips as he studies me pensively. His hesitation almost worries me until he mumbles, “I sure as fuck hope so.”

  The answer sets a cage of butterflies loose inside me. That sensation never gets old.

  Not around Clayton.

  Unfortunately, that sensation also happens every time I set foot into rehearsal. Moving to the main stage for rehearsals has pressed the sobering reality onto me that opening night will be on me before I know it and the auditorium will be full of people who’ve bought tickets to see me in my wonderfully subpar and highly disappointing rendition of Emily Webb in Our Town. Nina does nothing to bolster my confidence, constantly barking at me and asking weird questions that seem rhetorical, yet she wants a response each time. And annoying Nina clearly doesn’t earn me any love from the rest of the cast.

  After an especially grueling Friday rehearsal where I royally flubbed at least five of my lines in act three, destroying any sense of dramatic tension that existed, I meet Eric by the exit door and sigh, asking, “When exactly am I supposed to stop sucking at rehearsal?”

  To that, he responds, “Yesterday,” with an apologetic wince.

  But there is one perk to rehearsing on the main stage: Clayton is periodically around, focusing lights in the grid, discussing things with Kellen somewhere in the back of the auditorium, or even backstage as he organizes things and helps the set and props crew. Despite our proximity, we keep everything professional during rehearsal.