Dearest Clementine (11 page)

She looks up at me and laughs. “What?”

“Jangly. Penises are jangly,” I say as though this should be obvious. “They jingle and jangle. I mean, unless they’re erect. Ew. There’s a lovely word for you. Erect.”

“Hey, don’t knock it,” Jenna says. “Speaking of jingle and jangle, at Christmas I should sell mistletoe for the peen. Bet I’d make a killing.”

“You have a serious problem. I think you’re obsessed with your man’s junk.”

Jenna laughs before turning a serious shade of red. “Not as obsessed as he is with my girl parts. That boy is great at oral.”

Harper and I groan. I’m too embarrassed to say I’ve neither given nor received in the oral department. I am admittedly out of my league here.

“Maybe he could give Jonathan a few lessons,” Harper says under her breath.

At least I’m not the only one with issues tonight.

* * *

After the climbing wall on Friday—where I don’t tumble to my death, offering some hope that perhaps I’ve broken my streak of bad luck—Gavin and I grab some Thai and head back to his dorm room to work. We’re having a conversation about his journalism class, but all I can think about is how his t-shirt kept riding up while he was climbing, showing off that sexy-as-hell six-pack. And that little treasure trail leading south…

“You listening?” he asks as we reach his room.

“Oh, sorry, I was thinking about this horrible grade I got.” Lie. Lie. Lie. But I
have
been obsessing about that stupid assignment for the last twenty-four hours, so that might absolve me from being a total lunatic.

When we reach his room, I lament about my professor’s comments.

“Can I read it?” he asks, holding the door open for me. Shit. I never let anyone read my drafts except under extreme duress, like threats from professors or overly nosey roommates. He lifts his chin. “C’mon. I’m a writer. Maybe I can help.”

“I don’t know.” I raise an eyebrow. “You’re not in my circle of trust yet.”

He pretends to be in pain as he clutches his chest. “Ouch. And after we’ve slept together? Clementine, you’re hurting my feelings.”

“Shut up.” I smack him in the shoulder.

He tilts his head down, staring at me through those dark lashes, and makes sad puppy-dog eyes. Oh, hell. Who can say no to that face? I stick my finger in his chin dimple and sigh.

“Fine. Here.” I reach into my bag toss it to him before I can reconsider. “But I’m warning you. You can’t laugh at me. I’ve already told you I don’t write about this stuff.”

I grab some paper plates and serve our dinner as he sits at his desk and reads. I hand him his food and sit on the bed across from him.

During his silence, the axis of the planet shifts and then realigns as I watch him go through my draft. I don’t know why letting people read my writing makes me so anxious. And a little nauseous. Okay, a whole lot nauseous.

“This isn’t bad,” he says finally, “but can I make a suggestion?”

“I’m thinking about dropping the class, so go for it.”

“Okay, if this is a relationship between an RA and a girl on his floor, this makeout scene would never happen in the common room because it’s too out in the open. You need to make it happen somewhere more secluded.”

My eyebrows lift. “Make out with girls on your floor much?”

He laughs. “No, none, but you lived in Warren. Kids run in and out of the common room twenty-four seven. No RA who wants to keep his job is going to make out with anyone there.”

“I only lived in Warren for a semester. I don’t remember hanging out that much in the common room. It’s just where I got the idea to turn some dumb diary entries into a book. I wanted to get something constructive out of the hell I went through.”

He runs his tongue over his bottom lip. “So your stuff is autobiographical?”

Shrugging, I nod. “Loosely. I change the characters’ names and the settings and twist around a few details, but I get inspired by what I go through.”

He cocks his head and breaks out into one of those brilliant smiles.

“You, uh, you ever gonna let me read this mysterious novel?” He bats those eyelashes again, but even his nuclear level of sexiness can’t combat the nausea I get from the idea of Gavin reading my book.
Gavin reading about how Daren cheated on me? With my best friend?
My stomach flips.

“I’m thinking no.” I try not to look affected by his overt attempts to charm me.

His eyes narrow briefly before he whispers, “We’ll see about that.”

He grins, and I sense the wheels turning in his head.
He likes the challenge.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I try to keep a straight face. We watch each other in a standoff, but then that devilish grin is back.

“Let’s go find somewhere more intimate for your scene.”

He grabs a basket of folded towels and reaches for my hand, pulling me out into the hall. I laugh as I get dragged because he’s acting like a crazy person.
We zip down two flights of stairs and down another hall.

The laundry room is dark when we walk in, so he flips on the lights. A row of washers and dryers line both sides of the small room. He opens up a washer and dumps in his basket of clothes.

“Gavin, why are you washing clean laundry?” I can’t help the laugh that escapes.

He drops in a few quarters and starts the machine before he turns to me, grinning.

“I’m helping you get
in the zone
. Come here.” He wraps his hands around my waist, and I let out a surprised squeak when he lifts me up onto a washer.
I can’t believe he just picked me up.
Okay, that’s a stupid thought. He did carry me home two weeks ago.

His grip is firm on either side of me as he ducks down to look into my eyes. Even though I lean back, I can feel his minty breath on my face.

“Clementine, I want to warn you.” His voice is husky and deep. “I’m going to kiss you, and you’re going to like it. A lot. But I want to be clear that I’m not going to sleep with you, because I want you to respect me in the morning.” His mouth lifts up in a wry smile. “This is simply one
friend
helping out another. Okay?”

Wait. Is he serious?

He must sense my apprehension because he rubs his thumb softly across my cheek. “It’s just an exercise, to get you into your story. I promise.”

I laugh, embarrassed, intrigued, and a whole lot turned on by the idea. He smiles again, but this time it’s different. His eyes darken as his hands glide over my hips. My breath catches in my chest.

“Gavin, I don’t think—”

He rests a finger over my lips.

“I’m doing this in the name of academics. You need inspiration? You’re looking at it. Now shut up and let me kiss you.”

Holy. Shit.

Pressing his hand on the small of my back, he pulls me to the edge of the washer and stands between my legs, my thighs now on either side of his hips. He runs his other hand behind the nape of my neck, and I think I’m having an out-of-body experience as his touch leaves a trail of flames in its wake. My mouth is dry, and all I hear is the sound of my heart hammering in my chest. But before I can overanalyze it, he’s so close I can barely breathe.

“By the way,” he whispers when we’re nose to nose, “you should remember that I’m already
dating someone
, so don’t get too attached.”

And with the reminder that he has a fake girlfriend, he puts his lips on mine before I can tell him he’s insane.

Gavin’s lips are soft, but firm, and my body reacts, my arms lifting automatically to wrap around his neck. My hands are instantly in his hair, and my mouth opens, gasping from having him up close and oh so personal. He uses the brief opening to swipe my lips softly with his tongue. As he presses in closer, I tighten my thighs on his hips.

Gripping my hair with his hand, he tugs my head back and delves deeper, stroking my tongue with his. And dear sweet Jesus, Gavin can kiss. I’m all kinds of turned on, my body a pulse, a beacon of exploding light. We make out a few minutes, kissing, alternating between these sweet, heartbreakingly slow kisses and hard ones that make me feel like I can’t get close enough to him.

I use this opportunity to run my hand along his chest, descending down his hard pecs and ridged abdomen. I knew he was built—I mean, I’ve seen plenty of his defined body when we work out—but touching him like this has me lightheaded.

And this is not me, losing myself in the moment, but I can’t seem to stop myself. Hell, I don’t want to stop myself.

The wash cycle stops, the machine stilling beneath me, and he pulls away, leaving me out of breath.

Gavin looks into my eyes, and I try not to shy away, but when he kisses my forehead gently, I melt all over again.

He clears his throat.

“So now, because RAs don’t like to get caught making out with girls on their floor, I’m going back up to my room. You should come up when the laundry is done so it doesn’t look suspicious, and let’s see if you can’t get a little more done on your assignment.”

With that, he steps back, and I’m under his microscope, his eyes passing over me again. He chuckles and leans into me and whispers, “By the way, you’re one hell of a kisser, Clementine.” Then he winks and walks out.

Oh. My. God.

* * *

After throwing the towels in the dryer, I can’t bring myself to go back upstairs. What the hell do I say to Gavin? Do I even return?
Hell, yes!
my little inner voice cheers. But I’ve never kissed
a friend
like that before. I don’t think I even kissed Daren like that. And although Daren and I dated most of our senior year of high school, he never had me throbbing so hard it almost hurt.

Despite the increasing desire to hurl, after I fold the towels I head to Gavin’s room. When I get there, he’s engrossed in his article.

“Towels are dried and folded.” I put the basket back in his closet and walk over to the bed, reaching for my bag. “I’m gonna get going.”

He turns to me, his mouth tight. “Why? I thought you were going to write.” He gets up, comes over and grabs my shoulders. His head tilts down. “Did I offend you? I—”

“No, you didn’t.” Beyond that, I can’t speak. My mouth is open, but words don’t come out. I never understood the concept of someone kissing you senseless. Until now.

He laughs softly. “Clementine?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I didn’t mean to render you speechless. Here, sit down, darlin’. Eat something. I just realized I made you do laundry, and you hadn’t eaten yet.” He maneuvers me down onto the bed. I sit, obedient, because it’s possible I’ve had a stroke.

He hands me a plate of food and smiles, returning to work on his assignment as though his tongue wasn’t doing a tango in my mouth an hour ago.

After taking a few, slow bites, I begin to relax and reach for my laptop. Although I’m still trying to process tonight and the surprising desire I have to grope Gavin, the words are starting to flow, so I type a few ideas.

Rereading my draft, I can’t believe I turned in this turd. I kick off my shoes and open a new doc, working furiously for an hour before I close the laptop and lie back on the bed with my journal.

“How’s it going?” Gavin comes over and sits next to me, so I scootch over, turning to face him.

“Better, I guess. I won’t know until tomorrow when I read what I did tonight. You were right about the common room, though. How’s your article?”

His smile falters. “It’s fine. I just want to think about something other than a missing co-ed for a few minutes.”

“Are the cops any closer to figuring out what happened to Olivia?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Not as far as I can tell. It’s becoming old news, which sounds terrible, but that’s how the media works. So I keep trying to find new angles to keep her story in the headlines.” He scrubs his face with his hands and sighs. “You want to take a break? Maybe watch a movie?”

“Sure.”

“Here,” he says, passing me his laptop. “Pick something.”

I sit up and scroll through title after title on Netflix. “This is too much pressure. Help me.”

He reaches into his closet, pulling out a few pillows, and props them up behind us before he settles down next to me, so we’re leg to leg, shoulder to shoulder.

“Do you like horror?” He clicks through a list of scary films.

I shake my head. “I run a lot at night, and that might freak me out. Plus, although I have three roommates, I’m actually at home by myself a lot, so no scary movies.”

“Chicken. How about a John Hughes film?”

I’m not in the mood for a girly romance. I used to love those, but not anymore. “I’m not a big fan of romantic comedies.”

“Says the girl taking a romance-writing class.” He looks at me like I’m a foreign species. “I thought all girls liked chick flicks.”

When I shake my head, he scrolls through a few more titles. We finally agree on
The
Breakfast Club
, which isn’t too lovey-dovey. Fifteen minutes in, I need to editorialize.