I barely have time to process the unexpected teasing remark before Fitz cups my chin with one big hand. I vaguely register a loud whistle—I think it comes from Hollis. And then it gets drowned out by my pounding heartbeat as Fitz’s lips gently touch mine.
Oh.
Oh wow.
I didn’t expect him to start off so tender. In front of everyone. But he does. His thumb sweeps over my cheek as his mouth moves ever so slowly over mine. He’s got the softest lips I’ve ever felt, and he uses them with confidence. I shiver when he increases the pressure, sealing his lips tight to mine. And then the tip of his tongue slicks over my bottom lip, and I jolt as if I stuck my finger in a live socket.
The moment our tongues touch, I’m gone. A low hum of desire buzzes between my legs, crackling up to my breasts and hardening my nipples. I completely surrender to his kiss. I let his tongue sweep into my mouth. I let his fingers dig possessively into my waist, his warm breath to heat my mouth, his sexy scent to infuse my senses.
I can’t stop myself—I press one hand to his rock-hard chest. The other, I curl around the nape of his neck. The baby-fine hairs there tickle my palm. His left pec quivers beneath my palm, and I can feel his heartbeat. It’s hammering as fast as mine.
When I feel him start to pull away, a frantic, helpless sensation surges through me. I tighten my grip on his neck and kiss him harder. My tongue tangles with his, and I swallow the husky sound he makes. I hope nobody else heard it.
Because that beautiful desperate sound belongs to me. It’s all mine. I want to memorize the seductive resonance and replay it over and over again later, when I’m lying alone in bed, when my hand slides between my legs as I touch myself to the memory of this kiss.
Oh fuck. I’m so turned on. My legs are shaking. My panties are soaked.
I force myself to wrench our mouths apart. What takes even more willpower is not looking at him. I’m terrified of what his expression will show me, so I avoid it by glancing over my shoulder at our audience.
But I feel it. Like a molten-hot brand scorching the center of my spine.
I pray to God that our friends can’t see through the careless mask I quickly arrange on my face. “There,” I chirp, my smile overly bright and my voice way too cheery. “We kissed and made up. Whose turn is it now?”
Here’s the thing about kissing. Some kisses are a prelude to sex. Some happen out of boredom. Some make your body tingle, others might leave you feeling nothing at all. But what all those kisses have in common? They’re just kisses.
They’re not THE KISS.
The one that lingers in your mind for hours, even days, after it’s over. The one that has you randomly touching your lips and breaking out in a warm, fluttery shiver as you remember the feel of his mouth on you.
And it doesn’t have to be some epic production, either. It doesn’t need to take place in front of the Eiffel Tower at sunset with majestic horses in the background and the aurora borealis shimmering up above (making a miraculous appearance in Paris).
The last time I experienced THE KISS, it happened behind a bale of hay at my friend Eliza’s ranch in Kentucky. I was sixteen and in love with her older brother Glenn, but he’d been dating the same girl for ages. That summer, when I tagged along with him and Eliza to visit their grandmother’s ranch, he and his girlfriend finally (finally!) broke up. And Glenn finally (finally!) noticed me.
He kissed me to the sound of horses snorting and the smell of manure. It was clumsy and furtive, and yet it was a kiss I never forgot. We went back to Connecticut and dated for seven months. I lost my virginity to him and thought we’d get married and have babies, but then his ex-girlfriend decided she wanted him back and now they’re married and have babies.
Good for Glenn. I don’t think I would’ve been happy with him in the long run. Me living on a ranch in the middle of nowhere? Hard pass.
I hadn’t experienced another kiss like that since him, though. Until yesterday.
Fitz gave me THE KISS. It lasted less than a minute, occurred in front of a dozen people during a juvenile game of Spin the Bottle, and yet? It has consumed my mind from the second I went to bed last night to the moment I opened my eyes this morning. I undoubtedly dreamed about it, too, though I can’t remember.
I also can’t allow myself to dwell on it anymore. Fitz only played along to placate Katie, and he disappeared right after it was over. For me, it might have been THE KISS, but for him it was just…a kiss.
What an unbelievably depressing thought.
Luckily, I’ve got plenty of distractions today, though they’re not exactly the good kind. First off is another meeting with Mr. Richmond, who’s as curt and condescending as he was the last time we met. Froghole’s lips curl in distaste when I tell him I’ve decided to design a swimwear line for the fashion show.
I guess fake British people don’t like swimming.
Once again when I leave his office, I’m torn between never wanting to see him again and desperately needing to dig into every corner of his life to discover whether the accent is real.
On my way out of the admin building, I text Brenna with my continued suspicions.
ME: Swear to god he’s not British!
* * *
BRENNA: Who?
* * *
ME: Assistant dean aka academic advisor. I told u about him last week
* * *
BRENNA: Right. OK. We MUST investigate.
* * *
ME: ikr?? How do we proceed?
* * *
BRENNA: I was being sarcastic. There needs to be a way to convey that over text. I mean, I thought the capital-letter MUST implied sarcasm, but I guess not??
* * *
ME: I’m being serious, Bee
* * *
BRENNA: That’s the sad thing
* * *
ME: How do I find out where he was born? His LinkedIn profile says he went to Columbia U in NYC. He didn’t even go to school in England!
* * *
BRENNA: 1) Lots of peeps come to USA as international students 2) You’re insane 3) We still on for the game Sat?
* * *
ME: Yeah we are. And thanks for ALL your help
* * *
ME: You got that was sarcasm, right?
* * *
BRENNA: Fuck off.
After a ten-minute walk across campus in the bitter cold, I knock on Erik Laurie’s office door for my second meeting of the day. Despite my winter clothing, I’m colder than an icicle. My teeth are chattering, and I swear I have frostbite on my nose.
“Oh boy. You brought the cold in with you.” Laurie mock-shivers as he lets me into his office. It’s surprisingly spacious, with a brown leather couch against the far wall, a big desk in the center of the room, and a gorgeous view of the snowy courtyard.
“I’m keeping my coat on, if it’s all right with you,” I say wryly. “I’m chilled to the bone.”
“As much as I’d love to see what dazzling and fashionable outfit you’re wearing underneath all those layers, I’ll let it slide.” He winks. “This time.”
A familiar uneasy sensation ripples in my belly. It’s the second week of classes and Laurie has been nothing but friendly to me. But every time I’m around him, my creep-o-meter goes haywire. The winking hasn’t stopped, either. He flashed no less than ten winks to various female students yesterday.
“Sit down.” He gestures to one of the plush visitor’s chairs as he settles in his own chair. “Let’s discuss the midterm first.”
Nodding, I sink into the chair. We’d already emailed back and forth a few times about how he’s going to accommodate my learning issues. There are two major papers required for this course, but I’ll only be turning in one, the midterm. For the final essay, I’ve been given permission to do a seminar in front of the class, where I’ll have to lead a discussion on a topic that Laurie assigns me.
On Monday, he handed out a list of themes for the midterm, and I chose what I believe will be the easiest one to write. Now he just needs to approve it.
“Have you decided on a topic? I want to make sure you’re comfortable with your decision before you start writing.”
His genuine concern thaws some of my wariness toward him. Despite the chronic winking and occasional creepy vibe, he does seem like a good professor. One who cares about his students.
“I’d like to do the one about New York fashion. I think I can find a lot to say about the topic. I’m planning on starting an outline tonight.”
“All right. Perfect. And you have my email address, so you can contact me if you get stuck or if you want me to look over your thesis.”
“Thank you,” I say gratefully. “I might take you up on that.”
Laurie smiles broadly. “Good. Now, moving on, I need to see your proposal for the fashion show.”
“I’ve got it right here.” I reach into my messenger bag and pull out the leather portfolio that holds my sketches, a brief write-up of my swim line, and the comparative photographs he requested. “I included images from some lesser-known swimwear designers who I’ve been inspired by lately.” I slide the portfolio across the desktop.
Laurie’s expression shines with approval as he flips through the photos. “Kari Crane,” he says with a nod. “I was in the front row for her debut in Milan.”
“You were?”
“Of course. I never miss a Fashion Week.”