Continuation of Chapter 27.
Bone meets wood. Wood meets wall. It's all the result of a human body banging into a desk, slamming against old bricks and screeching along the stone floor.
"We should stop."
"Do you wanna stop?" His voice is raspy, uneven almost and she has to swallow a breath when she glances up and catches his gaze. He smiles, green eyes like a viper flickering from her disheveled hair to her bruised but soft lips. "Because I don't."
April quietly groans, hands finding the collar of his shirt and pulling him closer, making sure her legs are wrapped so tightly around his waist that he can't move, can't leave. "Me neither."
Jackson, she calls him since they're now on a very personal first-name basis, grins, hands sliding up her sides and cupping the sides of her neck, "Do you have any idea how crazy you make me?"
She holds back a giggle, slipping a hand down his chest, well-built for an English professor, she tells herself (that is, until she sees those eyes and forgets he's even academic in the first place, and wonders why he didn't sooner become a model).
Her fingertips naughtily grip the waistband of his pants, pulling the belt towards her own lap and running her hand over the evident swell. "I think I have a pretty good idea."
"Oh, really?" He teases, rougher hands grabbing the backs of her knees and pulling her to stand up. She stumbles against him, steadying herself with a gentle hand to his chest.
She's not the least bit (although, she is) nervous around him anymore. And she's quite glad that she'd had the balls to do what she did in the first place. What if some other girl, looking to score a better grade had gone in there with a bigger personality or a better body? Granted, it wasn't a sure thing the guy would be interested, given how risky this entire situation is.
But what if he was it for her? Him, her incredibly handsome and doable teacher with the writing talents of a poet and the patience of a Saint. And then her, the kind-of quiet sometimes-annoying redhead with a perky personality and a tendency to overreact? What a pair they would make.
Him, her, desk and ruler.
Maybe became reality.
"Turn around."
Her eyes widen, briefly glancing back over to his door. Shut. She thanks her stars for having the reflex of locking it upon arrival. "Yes."
Hands pressing to that old table, no longer littered with books since they'd fallen to the ground, she leans forward when he steps so close to her that she can barely breathe.
She's breathing him in. The smell, the cologne, the wonderful odour of perfect coffee and peppermint gum.
Maybe he should step away, back away and turn around before things get too complicated, too twisted.
They've been at this for weeks though. This, playing around and making time and hiding in offices and libraries.
"What are you-" It's not good for her self-control, for her promise to God when she can feel him so close, when she can sense the way his hands melt into her flesh and his eyes dig into the back of her skull as he presses himself to her, lap to behind and tight pants against loose skirt. It's a dangerous combination.
"We should stop." Her breathing is uneven, fingernails clutching at the old wood, finding her back arching into shape when he slips his arm around her front and lowers a hand, flesh meeting cotton and pulling material to the side. She gasps then, all sharp breaths and swollen lips.
Jackson, though she does still enjoy calling him Mr Avery for the sake of being 'naughty', rests his other palm to her waist, dropping his lips to hers when she curves her neck to kiss him, to meet him, to see him.
"Are you sure about that?" He whispers.
They're ignoring the creaks in the hallway next door and the loud bang of heavy papers meeting the floor. They're ignoring all rationality, all logic. They're ignoring the University's strict policies, ban on certain kinds of relationships.
"No. Keep going, Sir."
They're ignoring all the wrongs. Because something that feels this good can't be bad, right?
