by Sarina Bowen
“Of course,” Pepe says immediately. He takes my hand again and leads me through the gate. Fresh Court is ringed by historic dormitory buildings and old-fashioned gas lighting.
I choose the slate path which stretches toward my building. We don’t speak. I don’t know what will happen now, and I may still goof everything up. But for once in my life I feel brave. Taking a risk hasn’t killed me yet, anyway.
The walk to my building takes just two or three minutes. Pepe’s bear paw is wrapped around my hand, and I don’t want to ever let go.
“Ah, you leef in Parker,” he says as we reach my entryway door. “I stayed here last summer for training camp.”
“The heat doesn’t work all that well, does it?” I babble. “Wait. If it was summer then you didn’t care about the heat…”
Big brown eyes measure me. “You are cold? I know une solution.”
I don’t even see it coming. He leans in to kiss me, and there’s no time to panic. Those full lips brush mine, and they’re even softer than I’d imagined. The woodsy scent of Pepe envelops me, and his scruff tickles the corner of my mouth. My entire body breaks out in goosebumps while Pepe makes a low sound of approval.
Then he slants his broad face, and the next kiss happens in slow motion. First there’s a delicious pressure as our mouths find just the right angle. His kiss is firm and deliberate. The snick of his kiss makes me tingle. Everywhere.
I clamp my hands down on his shoulders because I don’t want him to stop and I’m too stunned to say so.
And he doesn’t. He kisses me again and again, right there on the doorstep. His lips part mine, asking permission. I open on a gasp, and his tongue sweeps inside. He tastes of red wine and tenderness.
Thunk goes my head against the door, and I have to grab his biceps to steady myself.
“Attention,” he chides, cupping the back of my head. “Let’s take you inside.”
Hell yes. Let’s. Except I’m suddenly sober as a judge and starting to panic. I still don’t know my lines. My room key shakes in my hand as I try to think what to say. Do I offer to take his coat? Do I make more conversation? And then how to get more of those kisses?
Pushing through the entryway, I open the second door, and I’ve never been happier that Nadia has a boyfriend. Our room is empty. My hand finds the light switch on the wall and… I don’t flip it.
My fingers hesitate on the switch plate as my eyes find Pepe’s. And he knows. As my hand drops away from that light switch without turning it on, he steps closer. His hips bump against mine, and excitement pings through my insides.
I expect to get another kiss, but first he cups my chin and stares at me in the dim light.
The pause makes me nervous, and I hear myself blurt out a question. “Why do you call me chaton?”
“Aw, chérie,” he says, his smile growing. “Because you are just like a…baby cat.”
“A kitten?”
“Oui. Big eyes and timid.” His hands land on my hips, and then his mouth dips right to my neck. I’m still trying to picture a kitten, but he’s already begun making love to the sensitive skin just over my collarbone.
I shiver. “I’m not timid.”
“Noh?” His tongue dips into the V-neck of my sweater.
“Definitely not,” I babble, as electricity pings throughout my entire body. “Dunno why you’d say that.”
“Good to know,” he mutters, raising his chin, claiming my mouth with his bigger one. The next kiss is bottomless. In that moment I realize that I’d never been with a guy who knew exactly what he was doing. Pepe kisses me with great intention. I relax into the rhythm, overwhelmed by the cascading sensations I’m experiencing. Joy. Nervous anticipation.
Heat. So much heat.
“You have the most beautiful throat,” he rumbles against my lips. His big hand comes up and a thumb traces a line from my chin to my breasts. “When you are telling me about the grammar rules, I just want to taste you right here.”
Yes! Yes! Do it! With shaking hands I push his hockey jacket off his shoulders and it falls to my floor with a jingle. I need him to know that I mean business. So I reach for the buttons of his shirt. I spent the whole evening trying not to undress him with my eyes. He stops to watch me. I make quick work of all the buttons, and reward myself by placing a palm over the center of his fuzzy chest.
“Take it back,” I say, my hand stroking his pecs. My voice sounds a thousand times more courageous than I feel. My naughty hand slides down over his abs, because I can’t help myself.
“Take what back?” Hard muscles undulate beneath my hand, tempting me.
“I’m not timid,” I insist again, probably more for my own benefit than his. I can do this, right? I can get very very naked with him and let it all unfold, like a brave girl who takes what she wants.
In answer, he grasps my wrist so my hand is now under his control. He sweeps my palm over the ridges of his abs, past the waistband of his jeans, until my palm covers his prominent erection. The noise I make is both shock and excitement. My other hand reaches out to grasp the side of his neck. I tip forward and place a kiss there, and then I kiss my way down to the hollow at his throat. And who knew I had a thing for chest hair? But it’s his. It’s an intimate glimpse of him I’ve never had before.
Touching him makes me so hungry.
With gentle hands, Pepe lifts my top over my head. As the cool air hits my skin, he kisses the juncture of my neck and shoulder. And it’s as if all the nerve endings in my body realigned themselves to that spot.
I might become the first girl who’s ever had a shouldergasm. Or maybe that’s a thing?
Then his skillful hand slips down my shivery belly. He unzips my pants to dispatch them on the floor. I kick them off, trying for gracefulness and failing. Pepe steers me over to my bed and pulls me down with him. “Qu'est-ce que tu veux, chaton?” What do you want?
Just you. Like this. I pull him into another perfect kiss, because words have failed me. But I manage to open the button on his jeans, and unzip them. And Pepe makes the sexiest noise I have ever heard in my life. It’s part moan and part curse, with a chaser of gratitude.
I guess talking isn’t the only way to get my point across.
“Chaton,” he groans, swatting his clothing away. “Tu es très belle.”
Wowzers. Compliments sound twice as good in French.
Soon we’re skin on skin, and I’m drunk again—on kisses, not alcohol. My body is crying out for more, but Pepe seems happy to kiss me all night long. I’m not complaining, either.
“Jhosephine,” he whispers against my lips. “I do not have a condom. I was not expecting to love you tonight.”
That’s an interesting way to put it because I think I love him all the time. Nevertheless, this is a problem I can fix. I wiggle away from him for a second, just far enough to reach over and fish the condoms out of my nightstand. Then I hand them to him.
I expect Pepe to be as quick with the condom as he was with all of our clothing. But that’s not what happens. He’s holding the strip of three in his hand, studying them. Then his brown eyes turn to me.
And I see hesitation there.
The strip in his hand is three condoms. Every first year student gets a set during orientation. They say Welcome to Harkness in a continuous stream of text across the strip. And, comically, there’s a phallic print of the Harkness bell tower stretching across the trio. Some designer had a good time with that.
Mine have never been used. And Pepe—since he’s clever about literally everything except for English grammar—has just made a leap of logic about why I still have these, and what it might mean.
“Chaton,” he starts. “Are you sure that—”
I put a hand over his mouth. “Please,” I whisper. And just in case that’s not clear enough, I add, “It’s your turn to be the tutor. That’s all.”
“Okay,” he says. “Bien.”
Everything is bien. I’m nervous but also happy as I lie back on the bed. I watch with wide eyes
as Pepe suits up, his big hand rolling the condom down his…
Whew. It’s hot in here. Maybe the heat works after all.
Pepe lies down, spreading his big body out over mine. “You make me so happy tonight,” he rumbles into my ear. Then he is everywhere at once, with shameless hands and a wicked tongue. Kissing me. Stroking me. I wrap my arms around him and listen for every sweet nothing which falls from his mouth.
“Breathe, chaton,” he says when the big moment arrives. I inhale, and he makes the most delicious noise as he joins us. It’s only awkward for a moment, until he kisses me again. “C’est bon, C’est bon,” he chants as we make love. “Magnifique!”
My thoughts exactly.
Chapter 6
January
Three weeks later I fly back to Harkness for my second semester of college. But I’m not tutoring, and I’m not nearly as buoyant as I was at the start of the next term.
I really don’t want to dwell on why.
With stacks of freshly printed syllabi under both arms, I trot up a set of marble steps of the English department building. The corridors smell of coffee and old books, and the scent is a balm for my soul. If there were more time, I’d stop right in the middle of the staircase and just inhale it, like the nerd that I really am.
When I reach seminar room 207, I open the door with my hip. Professor Sarky beams at me from under her spiky crop of salt and pepper hair. She is seated at the head of a gleaming walnut conference table, where fifteen or so college women have already gathered, each with a notebook open to a fresh sheet of paper. The air is tinged with first-day-of-the semester expectation.
This is just what I need after moping around my parents house for three weeks.
“Everyone—this is Josie Allister, my assistant,” the professor says as I carry the stack of syllabi over to her.
I won’t lie—my heart swells to hear her call me her assistant. This job doesn’t offer me nearly as many hours as my tutoring gig. I’ll miss the extra fifty bucks a week. But there are advantages to being Professor Sarky’s assistant. In the first place, she’s a legend in her field. She’s smart and innovative and I look forward to helping her with whatever she needs, no matter how trivial.
Also? The tutoring office is dead to me now. I can’t afford to come face to face with a certain hockey player again. Too embarrassing. Too heart-rending.
Moving on.
I sit down at the table and uncap my pen. It’s a new semester, with a new slate of classes, and a new boss. Let’s do this.
The professor opens the class with a heartfelt speech. “Thank you for joining me on this literary journey! The official course title for this seminar took me a while to craft. After many hours of contemplation, I settled on, ‘The Romance Novel and its Modern Female Voices.’”
And now I love Professor Sarky even more for admitting that she’s as indecisive as us ordinary mortals.
“I’ve been wanting to develop this seminar for a long time,” the professor tells us. “I’m sure there are a few gentlemen in the English department who are still snickering.” She beams at us to let us know she isn’t bothered by that at all. “But romance is the single highest-selling genre of the literary world. That’s meaningful to me.” As she speaks, Professor Sarky passes my stack of syllabi around the table to her left.
“Since I began teaching here, Harkness has offered a popular course on The Bible as Literature. The catalog advertises it as a course about the world’s most-read book. And that makes sense, right? But this semester we’re going to study the language’s most-read genre.”
A polite chuckle hums throughout the all-female crowd. It’s really no surprise that only women showed up for the course, which is cross-listed with the Women’s Studies department.
“The romance novel has many critics,” the professor points out next. “And—as in any genre—some of the books aren’t as well-written as the classics. But that doesn’t diminish the importance of their place in the bookstore. It is a genre written largely by women, for women. We’re going to explore all the ways that romance novels are subversive. And we’re going to discover what those books have to share about women’s evolving voices over the past several decades.”
I find myself leaning forward in my seat. This is why I came to Harkness—for this class, and this crazy, brave professor. Not to meet ungrateful men, but to study language and literature with lively minds.
And since real-life romance is a disappointment, at least I can read about it in books.
I’m in the midst of these encouraging thoughts as I notice the old brass doorknob turning. There’s an unfortunate squeak, and Professor Sarky breaks off her introductory comments as we all watch to see which apologetic woman will enter and hastily take a seat.
Although. The shadow cast on the antique textured glass window is too vast to be a woman’s. And when the door swings open I’m so startled I drop my pen. The figure who enters is the very man I’m avoiding.
“Excusez-moi,” Pepe says.
My eyes dive for the table as my cheeks begin to flame. The low, guttural sound of his French is like a melody I’d spent the last three weeks trying to forget. I only hope he’ll leave the room before he spots me.
Because there is no earthly way a hockey player has decided to take an English course on romance novels. The locker room teasing alone would be a deterrent, right?
But when I raise my eyes again, he’s still there, and taking a seat, too. In the silence he’s caused by his tardiness, the only sound is the squeak of a chair on the old wooden floors as he seats himself.
“Good morning, sir,” the professor says without letting her smile slip. “You have joined us during the introduction for English 217, The Romance Novel and Modern Womens’ Voices. If this course was not in your travel plans, you may wish to take this opportunity to find the right room.”
“Oui!” he says quickly. And even without looking at him, I can hear the cheery smile in his words. “Sorry for my lateness. This eez my first time at zhe English Department. I do not always find English words with the first try, and now the same eez true of the building.” He beams at the professor, and I feel every girl in the room sigh a little.
Pepe’s charm is infectious, damn him. I’m living proof.
And now my little bubble is burst. Two minutes ago, this room was a place where I hadn’t made any mistakes yet. And now my biggest one is seated four chairs away. Professor Sarky begins to speak again, but my concentration is blown. I stare down at the syllabus with unseeing eyes, trying not to look at him. But his shoulders are so broad that they’re inescapable in my peripheral vision.
I’ve just spent three weeks at home in Iowa trying not to feel bad that Pepe hasn’t spoken to me since our big night together. I’m still trying to make sense of it. To me, that night was everything. To him, it was just a one night stand. A little stress relief after a difficult semester.
While the professor drones on about early twentieth century popular fiction, I sneak a quick glance at him, just in case I’ve overblown the attraction in my mind.
But this backfires, because his big, dark eyes are fixed on the professor with polite attentiveness. His sculpted jaw rests in one big hand, and once again I’m studying the shadow of his whiskers over that perfect face. I’d spent all of last semester wondering what it would feel like to run my hands over it.
Now I know what it feels like, and I’m more of a wreck than ever.
While moping my way through Christmas break, it occurred to me that not every girl would feel the same. Some women who’d enjoyed a perfect night in Pepe’s company might feel unscathed.
My roommate agrees. “You said it was the hottest night of your life,” Nadia reminded me, mid-mope. “Maybe a repeat wouldn’t live up to the first time. Put that night on a mental pedestal and leave it there, untarnished.”
It’s a nice idea, with one big flaw. I like Pepe. All of him. The smiles and the manners and the grammatical challenges. I want to spend
more time with him.
He doesn’t share that feeling, though. After our post-exams sexfest, he left in the middle of the night, explaining that his flight left early the next morning and he hadn’t packed.
I didn’t panic, though. Perfect excuse to mash and dash, right? I fell into a blissful slumber and dreamt of our perfect future together.
The fairy tale ended the next morning at 9:30 when I opened my dorm room door to find my thesaurus on the welcome mat. When I saw it cast aside there, I just knew. I could practically hear his single-guy gears turning. Well, this is gonna be awkward. Better ditch the book now so we don’t have to speak again.
Even then I wasn’t quite ready to believe that Pepe would shut me out. I let a day go by, and then another. He didn’t text me or call. But I’m a modern girl (if still a chicken) so I pulled up my big girl panties and texted him. After about sixteen drafts I went with: Hi Pepe. Hope you’re having a great vacation. Thinking about you! J.
Now I regret it. Because I never got an answer back. Not one word.
Who does that?
“Jo? Josie?”
The professor’s voice brings me suddenly back into the present. “Sorry,” I stammer, horrified to find every set of eyes was on me. Including Pepe’s. His brown eyes regard me so seriously that I have to wonder if he can read minds.
Professor Sarky grins. “You can go ahead and explain the library now.”
“Right,” I say, and it comes out sounding froggy. I clear my throat. “The, uh, cart has fifty romance novels on it. They’re sorted according to decade. This is just the first shipment. I’m expecting books from a dozen used booksellers, as well as orders from Amazon and Walmart.”
“This will be the first time that Harkness has ordered teaching texts from Walmart!” The professor announces with glee. “I am making history.”
I paste a smile onto my face and finish my speech. “Each week, you should plan to take two or three books home. Prof. Sarky has prepared an online survey form where we’re going to catalog our impressions of the romance genre over time. The survey form will help you record details such as character names and occupations, tropes and archetypes. Details like that. You’ll find the URL on the syllabus.”
