Page 80 of Pink Ink

Oh. “That explains why you’re a pompous asshole.”

Maddox bursts out laughing. The sound bubbles out of his chest and rumbles through the car, so jarring that a smile splits across my face—because the only time I’ve ever heard him laugh is with me. He never does more than a practiced smile in all the interviews I’ve seen of him. In class, he only ever cocks an amused brow when someone cracks a joke.

“Miss Sinaga, I suggest you develop a filter.”

“This is me with a filter.”

“In that case, you should lose it. Say whatever crosses your mind.”

“One wrong move and you could give me an F. Hard pass, Mr. Shaw. I’ll keep my more colorful insults to myself for now.”

His lips flatten, and he lowers his voice just enough for me to hear him over the radio and the cacophony of honking and yelling. “I told you that you’re aware of where the door is. I’ll say it once more, then I have nointention of repeating it. I won’t stop you from walking out now. Should you choose to stay, once we cross that line, there is no going back. And don’t for a second think that any of this concerns your grades or your continued attendance in my class.”

My eyes widen. All I can manage is a single nod.

When the cab eventually reaches the university, Maddox is out of the car and opening my door before it can come to a complete stop. This time, when I reach for my satchel, he doesn’t keep it hostage, remaining a safe, healthy distance from me at all times, three steps ahead, and acting like he barely knows who I am.

When you aren’t enough, you’re forgettable, and the distance is making me feel forgettable.

It hurts when I know it shouldn’t. I have no right to feel this way when our entire relationship only exists behind closed doors. The seconds of contact we shared are stolen moments I should have savored because this thing between us was never meant to last.

The harsh late-afternoon light casts the campus in a foreboding glow. Students mill about, some probably going to or from their last class of the day, or starting their travel back home. A few greet Maddox as we pass.

The buildings around us seem grander, the spires of the library behemoths, and us, two little dots on a map. Yet it feels like we’re trapped in glass, and everyone can see us, but we can’t see them. Their eyes seem to know too much, like they suspect exactly what we’ve done, and any minute now someone will chastise us. It feels like I’m sinning even though technically, I’m only going to his office to grab my camera.

Once we’re in the building and on his floor, the air between us turns charged. It’s silent enough that I could hear a pin drop. My breathing grows heavier the closer we get to his office, and the anticipation has my pulse pounding an erratic beat.

I’m getting my bag. Nothing more, I remind myself as he unlocks his room, turns off the alarm, and lets me in first.

I’m not sure why I’m surprised that his studio looks the same as when we left. Somehow, I thought our time together would change everything, and the world as I knew it would morph alongside the rapidly multiplying butterflies in my stomach.

The door snicks shut behind him. The sound sends a bolt of energy down my spine. It vibrates through the room and clings to the fabric of my clothes. I internally wince when the wooden floor creaks under my boots.

Maddox doesn’t move far from the entrance, silently watching me as I grab my camera bag from his desk. The severity of his stare makes me feel like cornered prey, except I have neither the fight nor flight instincts to decide how I want this night to end.

Shouldering my bag, I move back toward the exit, lifting my chin to meet his gaze. He takes his glasses off and sets them on a nearby bench. I’m trapped in his orbit. It’s odd being unsure whether he’s going to say something that pisses me off or turn me on.

“Well.” I clear my throat and pause in front of him. “Thank you for this afternoon.”

He hums, shifting closer, forcing me to shuffle back until I’m against the door and his front is touching mine. His eyes darken, and I’m assaulted with memories of the couch. He looks as tortured as he was the afternoon I came undone because of him.

A pulse starts between my legs. Every inch of me is acutely aware of where he is; the hand on the wall above my head, his fingers dipping beneath my coat to inch up the curve of my body, his excruciatingly slow ascent from the jut of my hip to the curve of my waist.

Heat blossoms through the fabric and across my skin beneath his touch, and the scent of bergamot and paint makes me shiver.

He can’t be touching me, I chant. But the words don’t come out. It feels too good.Right.

“You have no idea how much I needed it.” I keep speaking despite being given no prompt to continue.

Poison-ivy eyes drop to my lips, watching my mouth curve around each word. Still, he says nothing, letting me squirm as his hand descends back down my body and skates over my ass in the gentlest tease.

The motion is so small, but I’m seeing double from it. I have to ball my hands into fists to stop myself from touching him as freely as I’ve been dreaming of.

His head dips down, nose near mine, lips a breath away from sealing this with something deadly.Still not touching.

“I’ve been wanting to see more of the city but haven’t wanted to do it alone. I also didn’t know that place existed, so I’m glad I can cross it off my bucket list anyway. I had a lot of fun,” I quietly ramble, hoping that the torture of his forbidden touch will end. I’m not sure whether I want him to close the distance or back away.

The muscles in his thick thigh are firm between mine, and it would be so easy for me to roll my hips against him to get the friction I so desperately need.