Then he tore it from the door and read it again. “What the fuck?” Swearing, he spun away and shoved a hand through his hair, wet from the rain he’d sprinted through. He’d come over here to talk to her. He’d left her that morning—he had a class, not that there had been much point in going, because he hadn’t heard any of the lecture. He’d heard Tessa—replayed each moan, each sigh, each ragged whisper of his name. He hadn’t seen the notes he’d written by rote. He’d seen her face, the flutter of her lashes, the flush on her cheeks and the dazed pleasure in her eyes. He’d seen the shocked pain as it gave way to startled pleasure. He’d felt the silken glide of her skin as he drove into her and he’d felt her climax, over and over. And he’d heard the words he hadn’t said. So he’d come straight here because he was tired of these games he was playing, tired of the things he hadn’t said. But she wasn’t here. Headed to the mountains a few days early. I need to think, Caleb.
