by Hazel Kelly
But it wasn't Tinder.
It was a text from Carter. Need a study break?
I smiled and wondered which bar he and his bros were keeping in business tonight. Where are you? I asked, embarrassed at how happy I was to hear from him.
Outside.
I stared at the word for a second and was halfway through typing outside where when my body erupted in goose bumps. “Outside,” I whispered to myself, rising from my chair and stepping towards the window.
He was outside, all right, standing in the deep snow, all bundled up with his red beanie on. There was a small cooler at his feet, and while one hand held his phone, the other, which he seemed to lift in a wave, held a bouquet of deep red roses.
A broad smile lifted my cheeks. What the hell was that crazy boy doing here?
He looked back at me through smiling eyes and, without looking down at his phone, pressed a button that made mine buzz in my hand.
You just going to stand there looking hot or are you going to let me in?
I pointed at a couple of guys heading for the stairwell entrance and mouthed “follow them.”
He picked up the cooler and hurried to catch the door before he got locked out.
Shit! I spun around and stared at my desk for a second before closing my crazy search window, downing the spicy dregs of my drink, and shoving the empty glass in my desk drawer. After that, there was just enough time to tidy my bed and draw the curtains before I heard his wet feet squeak up to the door.
“Hi,” I said, cracking it open.
His nose was red from the cold, and the frosty air clinging to him made my nipples harden against the thin fabric of my white tank top.
I knew I forgot something.
If he noticed, he didn't say anything. “These are for you.”
I took the flowers and smelled them as I opened the door to let him in. “What are you doing here?”
He unzipped his down jacket and hung it on the back of the door. “I heard you were strutting around braless over here so I came to investigate.”
I crossed my arms over my chest.
“Don't do that,” he said, pushing them down. “You look beautiful.”
I felt my cheeks burn and buried them in the flowers again, inhaling the sweet scent.
“In fact,” he said, bending down to remove his wet boots. “I think you should bring your own pajamas next time you sleep over at my place.”
“I never wear pajamas at your place anymore.”
“I know,” he said, setting his boots to the side before straightening up. “I'm not suggesting you should start.” He smoothed down the front of his navy sweater and shifted his weight. “I'm just saying they look like they'd be fun to take off.” His eyes crawled up my body like a curious vine.
“Carter.”
He raised an eyebrow as if he was amused to have caught me off-guard.
“What are you really doing here?”
He stepped up to me.
My breath shallowed as the shadows in the dim room stretched across his cheekbones.
“It’s been a week since I heard you say my name.”
“Carter-”
He laid a finger across my lips. “You're welcome for the flowers.”
“You shouldn't have,” I said, my heart skipping as I looked at them again. “They're beautiful, but-”
He pulled his hat off, and the gush between my legs reminded me I didn't have any panties on either.
“Don't overthink it, babe. Just say thank you and enjoy them.”
“Thank you.” I held them up and brushed a fingertip along the edge of a soft petal. “No one’s ever bought me roses before.”
“What?”
“I've gotten flowers,” I said. “But only daisies from gas stations and stuff.”
“In a bunch, though, right? Not, like, picked from the fields around gas stations?”
I shrugged.
“I guess that makes sense,” he said. “You are a ridiculous person to buy roses for, now that I think about it.”
“What?”
“Well, imagine you're a rose, right? Surely your ultimate life's ambition is to be the prettiest thing in the room when you finally get chosen for your fifteen minutes- or fourteen days if you use the little feeder pack properly. That’s what the lady at the store said anyway-”
“Sorry- why am I a ridiculous person to buy roses for?”
“Because look at them,” he said, dropping his chin and gesturing towards them. “This is their big moment, and they're only the second-prettiest thing in the room.”
I bit my cheek to keep from smiling and lifted my eyes to his.
“Honestly,” he said, lowering his voice. “They don't even come close.”
I struggled to hold his gaze as my painted toes curled against the carpet. “Did you just come over to make me blush?”
“No,” he said. “But that would’ve been worth the trip.”
T W E N T Y E I G H T
- Carter -
I was beyond relieved when she appeared at her window.
Not only because I would’ve felt like a fool if I’d braved the cold in vain, but because it meant she wasn’t out doing sappy couple stuff with someone else.
Then again, by the lack of flowers in her room, it was obvious that my competition was a bunch of schmucks. I hoped so anyway.
I hated the idea that there might be other guys on campus who craved the sound of their names in her mouth, the feel of her puckered nipples against their tongues, the way her soft legs felt wrapped around their hips.
But even if there were, one look in her emerald eyes was all it took for me to know I did the right thing by coming. After all, there was nowhere I'd rather be. Okay, maybe that’s not true. Her dorm wasn’t exactly the Costa Del Sol. But there was definitely no one I’d rather be with. Especially today of all days.
“You going to tell me what’s in the cooler?” she asked, her naked lashes blinking at me.
“I could tell you,” I said, glancing at it. “But I'd rather show you.”
“Okay.” She laid her roses on the bed and sank to her knees on the sand-colored carpet.
I sat down across from her and dragged the cooler between us. “Would you mind closing your eyes for a second?”
A skeptical expression twisted her face, but it evaporated quickly. “If you insist.”
I couldn't help but admire her soft features when she closed her eyes. Her bare face was so beautiful, so feminine, and as my gaze fell down her body, I found myself mesmerized by the way her breasts strained against the thin fabric of her tank top with her every soft breath.
“I can feel you staring,” she said.
A lump formed in my throat as I realized I'd never wanted to disappoint anyone less. “Admiring,” I corrected, unlatching the lid on the cooler. Once I’d pulled everything out, I closed it again and laid the large T-shirt I brought over the top, shifting it until I was satisfied with the makeshift tablecloth.
“Can I look yet?” she asked, raising her thin brows.
“Not yet,” I said, lighting a small candle and setting it in the bottom of a sawed-off Solo Cup.
“Something smells good.”
“I hope that means you haven't had dinner yet.”
“Not unless two Bloody Marys count.”
“They only count as food during brunch hours,” I said, peeling the plastic lid off the caprese salad I made and setting it in the middle of the “table.”
“How about now?” she asked, squirming with anticipation.
“Almost ready.” I set a paper plate and a disposable cup in front of each of us and decided the wine bottle looked less silly on the floor.
“Don’t forget to tell me when I can open them,” she said, nearly at the outer limits of her patience.
“Okay. You can look now.”
Her eyes popped open and grew wide with shock. “What is this?”
“A Valentine's Day feast worthy of your attention, I hope.”
/>
“Is that a caprese salad?”
“Don't worry. It's only the first course.”
Her neck craned forward. “What?”
“I've never made one before, but it seemed pretty foolproof,” I said, scooping a few slices of thickly cut tomatoes and mozzarella onto her plate.
“Carter-”
“No cooking necessary,” I said, serving myself. “Just slicing and drizzling and ta-da.” I reached for the wine and unscrewed the top.
“I don't know what to say.”
“Then say I'm a genius,” I said, pouring her glass first.
“I'll do you one better,” she said, raising her glass. “You're an absolute gentleman.”
I set the wine down and tapped my plastic cup against hers. “I'm going to spend the rest of the evening trying to convince you otherwise, but for now, thank you for the compliment.”
“No,” she said. “Thank you. This looks amazing.”
I watched the candlelight flicker against her happy face. “You should probably try it before you make too big a fuss.”
She took a bite of her salad, nodding approvingly as she chewed and swallowed. “This is delicious, Carter. I'm really impressed.”
“Don't be,” I said. “It doesn't take a genius to choose the most expensive mozzarella.”
“Nonsense.” Her eyes flicked up from her plate. “Though I must say, humility looks good on you.”
“Are you saying I'm not a humble guy?”
She cocked her head. “I'm saying that humility isn't your default setting.”
“Haven't you ever heard the saying fake it till you make it?”
“Don't you think you've already made it?”
Not with you, I haven't.
“Well?”
“No,” I said. “I don't.”
She furrowed her brow. “But you have everything.”
I don't have you.
“What more could you possibly want?”
I stared at her until my throat closed up. “Spaghetti.”
“What?”
“The main course,” I said, desperate to change the subject. “It's spaghetti.”
Her hands came together as if she were a seal who'd just been tossed a fish. “Yum!”
I pried the lid off the container and put it where the caprese had been.
“Did you make this, too?”
“Not the sauce,” I said. “Just the meatballs.”
“You made the meatballs?”
“Why are you so surprised?” I asked. “What self-respecting men do you know that can't roll meat into balls and cook them with fire? It's not that big a deal.”
“Stop saying that. It is a big deal.”
I spooned some pasta onto her plate and then carefully topped the pile with two large meatballs.”
She laughed.
“What?”
She waved at the air. “Nothing, I just-”
I raised my brows.
“I just can't believe I'm going to eat your balls for Valentine's Day.”
I smiled, surprised that the thought hadn't crossed my mind earlier. “Laugh all you want,” I said. “But know that I don't let just anyone suck my saucy balls.”
“Oh my god stop,” she said, her face going red. “This is feeling more like Lady and the Tramp every second. No offense.”
“None taken. Tramp's the man.”
She was laughing so hard she had to cover her mouth while she chewed. “I never thought I'd be saying this,” she said, lifting her smiling eyes to mine. “But your balls are delicious.”
My cheeks filled with heat.
“Warm and meaty and sweet,” she teased, spinning her fork in some pasta.
It was so great to see her smile after so many days apart that I didn't even care if my balls were the butt of the joke.
“But I don't get why?”
“Because pasta sauce has a lot of sugar in it.”
“That's not what I meant,” she said. “I know why your balls are sweet.”
I could barely keep a straight face long enough to drink my wine.
“What I meant was, why did you make them for me?”
I blinked at her. Wasn't it obvious? I thought guys were the denser sex, but I was beginning to think I’d have to hire a blimp to write my feelings in the sky.
“You could be doing anything tonight. Or anyone.”
I clenched my jaw.
“So what made you turn up on my doorstep with your steaming balls in your hand?”
“You've got to stop this.”
“I don't know if I can,” she said. “Wouldn't want to drop the ball.”
“Nina.”
“Carter,” she mocked, clearly pleased with herself.
“You really want to know?”
She nodded.
I sighed. “Because you're my Valentine, Nina. Whether you like it or not.
Her smile fell away.
“So bringing you flowers was my duty.”
She swallowed. “And the trouble you went to cooking this meal?”
“That,” I said, eyeing the table between us before looking back at her, “was my pleasure.”
T W E N T Y N I N E
- Nina -
This was crazy. I felt like putty in his hands.
What was happening to me?
I wasn't this weak, this willing, this…womanly. I was fierce and independent.
So why did having Carter's undivided attention make me feel like a coy kitten? Why did every depression of his cheek dimple make me lightheaded with lust?
I had no idea. All I knew was that there were more benefits to being his friend than I'd ever imagined, and I was tumbling down the rabbit hole of his charms so fast I didn’t know which way was up.
“You know,” I said, twirling some spaghetti on my fork. “This is suspiciously similar to a romantic candlelight dinner.”
“So?” he asked, making half a meatball disappear in his mouth.
“So, romantic dinners were expressly against the rules of our arrangement.”
His broad shoulders shrugged. “Some rules were made to be broken.”
“I'm not complaining,” I said quickly, noticing for the first time that the tablecloth over the cooler was one of his T-shirts. “Just making an observation.”
“Good,” he said. “Because whiners don't get dessert.”
“What?”
“At least, that was always the rule at our house.”
“Was that the exact wording of the rule?” I asked. “Whiners don't get dessert.”
He nodded. “Pretty much.”
“I guess I'll bite my tongue then.”
“Not too hard now,” he said, flashing his eyebrows. “You might need it later.”
“Is that so?”
He pretended to think about it. “I suppose my tongue could do all the work.”
I licked my lips and glanced between him and my tiny bed, wondering if he planned to stay and smell up my sheets with the scent of his sex and his aftershave.
He held up a piece of dense yellow cake, snapping me from my reverie.
My tongue soaked itself as I eyed the trail of shiny pink syrup dripping over it. “Is that raspberry cheesecake?”
“I thought about getting you one of those scones you live on, but I figured since it’s sort of a special occasion…”
“You really didn't have to go to all this trouble.”
“Oh, I can’t take the credit for this course,” he said. “I haven't ventured into pastry yet.”
“Still,” I said, picking up my fork and sliding it through the pointed tip of the cake. “Remembering that I like raspberries is some advanced level shit.”
He scoffed. “I'm sure anyone who's known you for five minutes knows you like raspberries.”
“Maybe.” But I knew better. He put time and thought into this menu. More time and thought than I would expect from anyone, much less a professional frat boy. Then again, if he wanted to be nonchalant about it, I
wasn’t about to make him feel self-conscious.
“I figured if it’s half as good as it looks, you won’t be disappointed.”
I lifted the perfect bite to my mouth, and the creamy cake melted on my tongue before the tart sweetness of the berries kicked in. “It's delicious,” I said, noticing he didn't have a slice. “Did you not get a piece for yourself?”
“No.”
I used the side of my fork to free my next bite. “Why not?”
“Because listening to you moan while you eat yours is all the desert I need.”
I swallowed the bite in my mouth and licked my lips. “Carter, I-”
His brows lifted.
“I don't know how to thank you for this lovely surprise.”
“Let me taste your cake,” he said, lifting his chin towards the piece in front of me.
“Sure,” I said, holding my fork out to him.
“I don't want to eat it,” he said. “I want to taste it.”
I stared into his blue eyes for a moment before pushing the cooler to the side so I could crawl over to him.
He leaned back against my bed and stretched his legs out, watching my every movement like a lion watches a gazelle.
My pulse quickened as I stretched a leg across his lap and straddled him, my nipples aching at his proximity. “One taste, coming right up,” I said, eating a bite of cheesecake before swiping some raspberry syrup onto my finger.
He hardened between my legs as I dragged the tart liquid across my lips and pressed them together. “What do you think?” I asked, puckering my berry-flavored pout.
He slid his hands up my thighs and pulled my hips towards him, pressing me against his need. “I think I’m going to suck that sweetness off your lips,” he said, leaning into my breath. “Until they're swollen and tingly and taste like me instead.”
Paralyzed by his promise, I waited for him to taste me, my eyes dropping to his mouth.
He licked my lower lip first, gently and deliberately, as if he were tracing it more than trying to lick the syrup off. Then he teased his tongue across my top lip the same way, and I started to feel it in places I hadn't expected, started to wonder how it might feel to let him paint me with his tongue in other places.
A heavy sigh escaped my parted lips, and I willed him to taste me further, but his movements stayed slow and torturous.