by A. J. Pine
He shrugs. “You want to put some kind of mud mask on me or something? Unclog my pores? Have at it.” His grin spells mischief, and I want to kiss it right off his face.
“As tempting as that sounds, it is far too time consuming and would make it much harder to kiss you. Maybe tomorrow,” I say.
He pulls me down to him for one more kiss.
“See you back here in five minutes,” I add, finally getting off the bed. “Don’t be late.”
I pull my toiletries from my travel bag and grab yoga pants and a tank from my closet, my unofficial pajamas.
When I return, his toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste are laid out on a small towel on my desk. Noah sits on the bed, still fully clothed. He examines me, his eyes traveling down the length of my body.
“What?” I ask.
He stands, bending to kiss my shoulder, and heat coupled with chills course through me. “You’re beautiful. God, for three months I’ve wanted to say that, but it was never for me to do. I’m sure he—Griffin—said it all the time.”
This is the first he’s mentioned Griffin. Noah knows Griffin and I ended things after Duncan’s birthday. He doesn’t know about his text, ending with Griffin spending the night before I left for London. Just a body in a bed with arms to keep each other warm, a friend to cozy up to before what I expected to be my single-girl holiday extravaganza. It shouldn’t matter. It was nothing more than a final good-bye. But Noah’s jaw tightens when he says Griffin’s name. I already know all I want to know about Hailey. Noah doesn’t need to know about what happened before us. For the first time I adopt the mantra: all that matters is now.
I clear my throat, hoping my voice won’t betray the effect his words have on me.
“No,” I admit. “At least, he never said it like that. No one ever has, really. Cute, adorable, I get those a lot.” I laugh nervously. “I appreciate the sentiment, but come on, Noah. I’m wearing nine hours of travel and no makeup. All I need to top this look off is a retainer, which, by the way, I do have but will so not be wearing tonight.”
His eyes narrow, his face thoughtful, and he brings his right palm to my heart.
“You’re beautiful, Brooks. End of story.”
Do women still swoon, like Lucy Honeychurch does when she witnesses the violence in the piazza and George Emerson has to carry her to safety? If I did, would Noah catch me or tease me for my insanity? I steady myself by leaning one hand on the desk. The other grasps his palm that still rests on my chest. I pull it in front of my face so I can see it, and there it is, the small scar toward the bottom.
Lightly, I set my lips upon the damaged skin. He gasps, low but audible.
“I did this,” I say, looking up at him. “I hurt you.”
“Yes. You did.” His voice taunts, but his mouth quirks into a grin.
“I’m sorry.” I kiss his hand again, remembering that day, that night, and the distance that grew like a valley between us after.
“You’re forgiven.” He kisses the top of my head. “As long as you don’t do it again.”
He frees his hand, running his fingers through my hair.
“I’m sorry.” His palm rests on the back of my neck. “I hurt you, too.”
He pulls me to him, his lips now on mine, and I smile against him.
“Feel free to apologize to me any time if it means I get to keep tasting your lips.”
He laughs and nips at my bottom lip with his teeth.
“Hey,” I say, when we decide to break for air. “Why are you still dressed? Am I the only one going slumber-party chic tonight?” I grab the seams of my yoga pants and perform an exaggerated curtsey.
“Yeah, about that.” He backs away, just one step, but it’s enough to send my mind to places it shouldn’t go.
Is he having second thoughts about staying? About us? Stay calm, Jordan. You’ll see him tomorrow. Don’t pressure him. “I understand if you need to go.”
He laughs and sits down on the bed. “That’s not it.” He shakes his head, more so at himself than me. “Shit,” he continues. “This is going to sound bad, but I swear I am not that guy.” He looks up at me through dark lashes, and I swear his cheeks begin to redden.
“What guy? Noah Keating, are you blushing?”
He collapses onto his back and throws my pillow over his face. “The guy who says he doesn’t have clothes to sleep in so he can sleep in his boxers with his girlfriend.” He groans.
I’m sure he said something about his boxers, but only one word registers.
“Did you say girlfriend?”
He doesn’t answer, the pillow still covering his face. I sit down on the edge of the bed and pry it from his hands, afraid of his reaction to his own words. But what I find is a smile. A big, beautiful, all-the-way-to-his-eyes smile sits on Noah Keating’s face, and that smile is for me.
“Did you hear the part about me sleeping in my boxers? I really don’t have these sleep clothes you speak of.” He covers his face again. “Forget it.” He sighs into the pillow. “I’m keeping the jeans on.”
I climb behind him on a bed barely wide enough for one, wedging myself between the windowed wall and him.
“Wear whatever the hell you want. Just say it one more time.”
He turns to face me.
“What? Boxers?”
He leans in to kiss me, but I turn my head away. He puts his hand on my cheek, turning me back so we are eye to eye. That involuntary bodily function of mine called breathing ceases.
“Can I please kiss my girlfriend good night?” he asks, his eyes intent with conviction.
I press my forehead to his. “Yes, Noah Keating. You may.”
His kiss is long and slow, each touch of his lips on mine waking me up to what I’ve been missing. It took us so long to get here, a place I know now I always wanted to be. His lips trace the line of my jaw until he’s tugging at my ear with his teeth.
“Girlfriend,” he whispers, and I giggle as he peppers my forehead with tiny, sweet kisses. Then my nose, my top lip, my bottom, my chin, until his lips find the spot where my neck meets my shoulder, and I gasp.
Noah chuckles against my skin. “So that one word works?” His low, muffled voice teases me between kisses across my chest to other side of my neck.
“Mmm-hmmm,” I manage. When we vowed not to go beyond kissing, I didn’t imagine it would be quite like this. As he hovers over me, I grab the hem of his T-shirt and start to tug. When I see the flesh of his stomach, I forget about the shirt and press both my palms against his skin. This time the gasp doesn’t come from me.
My hands slide up his torso, his shirt going along for the ride until I reach his neck. Noah rises to his knees.
“Are you sure?” he asks. “I can keep it on.”
But he kneels above me poised to tug the shirt the rest of the way, and good God he better do it now so I can stare unabashedly at this beautiful guy who is mine.
“Lose the shirt, Keating. Just kissing can include more than what’s above the neck.”
The shirt is gone before I finish my sentence. When he lowers himself toward me, I roll him onto his back.
“My turn,” I say, and his eyes close as he smiles. I kiss and nip and taste every inch of his delicious skin from his forehead to his stomach, careful not to tease too much. He hums a soft moan, and the sound of it drives me crazy. I take his wrist in my hand, the one that rests on my hip, and drag it gently over my stomach. His eyes open wide, and when they meet mine, I nod my assent. He cups my breast, squeezing with a gentle urgency, and his lips find mine again, as hungry for me as I am for him. Without a thought, my leg snakes over his, and his hand leaves my chest to grab my thigh, pulling me tighter to him. A small cry of pleasure escapes my lips as I feel him against me. I kiss him harder, deeper, showing him how much I want him, yet knowing if I go any further I won’t be able to stop. Because I do want to wait. Though I know this is right, that we’re right, there is also a right time. And we’re close, so close.
I let
my hand tangle once more in his hair before trailing it down his back, his skin reacting with goose bumps to my touch. His finger traces the line of my thigh, up my mid-section to the skin between my breasts where he draws lazy circles, both of us regaining our composure yet not letting our physical connection end.
“See,” I whisper as our kisses slow, my body nestling against the shape of his. “Falling doesn’t have to be so messy. We just had to learn how to do it.”
“Brooks,” he says with a soft smile, but his eyes are closed, and his breathing begins to slow. I watch him drift off, not quite ready for this night to end.
Sam was right. There’s no way I could have been in love with Logan. There’s no way I could have been in love at all because nothing has ever felt like this. I understand now what it means to give your heart to someone. From that day on the train in September, to the tour, the scar on his hand, last night, and now this—every time we took a step closer, even if we took three steps back, a part of me went with him. Whether he knows it or not, he has it now, my heart. And when he leaves in May, he’ll take it with him.
Chapter Seventeen
The quiet sound of a harp rouses me from magnificent sleep. It’s the alarm clock on my phone, which rests on the window sill. One of the courses I signed up for is full. I kept putting off changing my schedule because I was on holiday, but with classes starting tomorrow, I have no choice but to get it done. Reaching up for the phone, I try not to disturb Noah’s arm draped over my midsection. I don’t think I’ve ever smiled so soon after waking up in the morning, but then again, I’ve never woken up with Noah.
Ever the gentlemen, he did sleep with his jeans on, but the arm wrapped around me now is still bare. Brushing my fingers along the definition of his bicep, tiny shocks of pleasure travel from my hand down to the tips of my toes. His warm skin penetrates the thin layer of cotton that separates me from him. The thought of leaving the space where I fit against the curve of his body is almost enough to convince me not to go.
His eyes stay closed when he speaks, his drowsy words threatening to lure me back to bed. “Where are you going?”
“Shhh, go back to sleep. I have to sneak over to the union to use a computer. I can’t find my charger, and my laptop is dead. I need to make a registration change. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
I kiss him lightly on the mouth, and the taste of him is intoxicating. Ninety-nine percent still asleep, he musters energy enough to pull me back down on top of him.
“Noah.” I whine because I don’t want to be late, but I sure as hell don’t want to leave.
“Brooks,” he whispers into my mouth, and I’m a goner. I don’t care if the only class left is advanced calculus. It’ll be worth it.
My lips fall onto his, and I can’t get enough. It’s like I haven’t eaten for days and finally have my first taste of food. I’m ravenous, and all the restraint of last night disintegrates the second his mouth meets mine.
He opens his eyes, a sleepy grin tugging at his mouth, and my lips find him again, this time in the crook of his neck, his chest, abdomen, the place where his skin meets the top of his jeans.
He groans my name, and I look up.
“Don’t worry,” I say, teeth grazing my bottom lip. “I’m not going to break the rules.”
“Mmm-hmm,” he replies in mock reproach, and he lets me push the boundaries.
My lips trace the line of his jeans from one hip to the other, and he tilts against me.
“Brooks,” he says again, and I can’t imagine anything else I could be doing but this, anyone else I could be kissing but him.
I follow his skin back up to his neck, burying myself in the warm scent of spring.
Noah’s hand skims the side of my body until it finds my chin, tilting my face toward his.
I let out a shaky breath. “I can be ridiculous and insane, too, you know.”
He nods, a beautiful grin spreading across his face.
“And you,” he says, pausing for one more kiss, so slow, deep, and hungry that I ache when he pulls away, “are altogether lovely. But if you don’t leave now, we’re not going to be able to stop.”
“Whose stupid rule was it to wait?” I ask, sitting up slowly. My heart hammers against my ribs. There’s nothing I want more than to be close to him, as close as we can get. All I can hear is the clock ticking away in my head, the time we have together growing shorter, and I don’t want to waste a second of it.
“Ours,” he says. “And it’s a good one, as hard as it is to admit.” I start to protest, but I know he’s right. “It’s my fault,” he continues. “I seem to lack control when your lips are involved.” He raises a brow, trying to get me to smile, but I fight the urge. “Come on, Brooks. We have the whole day. Go do what you need to do. I’m not going anywhere.” He grabs my hand and squeezes. I squeeze back.
“It’s just, five months is so short.”
“I know,” he says. “I think about it, too.”
We don’t say anything more about the time. The early morning hour is nothing compared to May being only five months away. I lean over him and kiss his forehead. His eyes close, and I run my fingers through his hair and along his jaw.
My chest swells, threatening to burst, and it’s almost too much. All the longing, the ache, and wonder of what might have been, comes to the surface. Four months of what-ifs have culminated in this, this guy in my bed, who fits so well in all the empty spaces I never knew needed filling.
For several minutes we continue like this, my hand trailing the contours of his face, his eyes remaining closed, until he rolls to the wall and his breathing is heavy again with sleep.
I give myself a few more minutes to admire his beauty as he sleeps, especially when there is no garment to cover his upper body. When I saw him in London, pulling his shirt over his head, I didn’t know it was him, that the taut muscular torso belonged to the person I’d longed so much for. Now he’s here, in my bed, his beautiful skin moments ago wrapped up in mine. Then it hits me. A tattoo parlor.
He knows what I was doing there, but I have no idea about him. My eyes dart to his back, which now faces me. Aside from the little flippy thing my stomach does at having an uninterrupted minute to admire the coiled muscles under his smooth skin, I have to suppress a laugh when I see the image above his left shoulder blade. It is a small, black-inked replica of the bat signal. As in Batman. Oh my God, Noah has a Batman tattoo. My boyfriend is a superhero geek. And I love it.
I trace the design with my finger and note the unblemished surface of his skin. This is not a new tattoo. Then why did he have his shirt off in a tattoo parlor two days ago? He lies on his right side, obstructing my view. My fingers walk gently down the plane of his shoulders until they reach the skin I cannot see. Here I feel the roughness of skin that is scabbing and healing. I push lightly, and in his sleep, Noah’s body obeys. He’s on his stomach now, his face toward the wall. My breath hitches when I see the four small words scrawled on his skin.
The poets are right.
I know that phrase. Not only that phrase but what comes before and after it. It’s Forster, A Room with a View. The book Noah wanted to argue that day in class, the day I gave him the scar on his hand, and the day he told me he had to honor his commitment to Hailey.
Mr. Emerson tries to explain to Lucy that if she flees to Greece, she can’t escape her love for his son, George:
It is not possible to love and to part. You will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you. I know by experience that the poets are right: love is eternal.
I scribble down the entire passage in my journal as I recall it. I don’t understand. The phrase can’t be meant for me. He had that done before anything happened between us. The only other explanation is Hailey, and the thought makes me nauseous. I remind myself of the last two nights, of the things he said. I have to ask him. I’ll go fix my registration, and then come back, and when he wakes up I’ll expose my insecu
rity and ask him. End of story.
Noah rolls over in bed so he faces me. I throw the journal on the desk as he picks his phone up off the floor. It takes him a few seconds for his eyes to focus on mine.
“Hurry back,” he moans in a whispered morning voice.
I smile at him and tiptoe out the door.
There’s a line for the computers at the union, and I fidget as I wait, my hands tugging at the bottom of my shirt. The class I was supposed to take, for which I registered way back last spring from Illinois, was a course on Victorian-era female writers spanning from Austen, to Shelley, to the Brontë sisters. When I received notice that the class was full and I didn’t make the cut, I briefly lost the ability for rational thought. I told Elaina I was going to say “Fuck it” and go home. I don’t toss around f-bombs lightly, so she knew I was a little distraught—crazy, but distraught. I was notified by letter in early December, and as I half feigned packing up my room immediately upon reading the missive, Elaina sat me down and handed me my phone.
“Open that app,” she said, “the one that lets you read the books.”
I shrugged. “Which one? I have three.”
“Exactly!” She triumphed. “Do you have the Austen books and the Brontë books on the apps?”
“Yes.” I have hard copies of the books at home as well, but I don’t tell her this.
“Can you read these books if you do not take the class and do not write the papers?”
“Yes.”
“Then put your shit away and stop all the crazy.”
And that’s exactly what I did. But now, after calming down enough to put off the schedule fix until now, I’m nervous where I’ll be spending three hours a week for the next five months.
I follow the log-in information from the letter and find three courses listed that still have openings. The first is The British Novel in Film. Doubt I’d get credit for taking it again, though I loved it. The second is a Shakespearean Tragedy Class. I do enjoy the bard’s tragedies. Clicking on the link I am surprised to see that along with the class description, the database lists how many spots are left in the class and the current roster. I guess it’s not a total invasion of privacy as registrants are only listed by first name and last initial, but still. Before I add my name to the list, I let curiosity get the best of me and check the roster for the Shakespearean Comedy class. Both classes are rather intimate, topping out at fifteen, so it’s easy to glean the entire roster in seconds. Midway down the list, there it is. Noah K. In our short time together, we have not discussed whether or not we share any of the same classes this semester. Now, at least, we’ll share one.