Free Blue Smoke by Nora Roberts Page A

she held her hand out to his. They crossed the lot, stepped through the front door of the building when another car pulled in. And parked.
    â€œPlace is a little messy,” Josh said as they started up the stairs to the second floor.
    â€œAt the moment, ours is about to be condemned by the health department.”
    She waited until he’d unlocked the door, then stepped inside. He was right about the mess—clothes, shoes, an empty pizza box, books, magazines. The sofa looked like it had been salvaged from the dump, then haphazardly covered with a Terps blanket.
    â€œHomey,” she said.
    â€œFairly disgusting, actually. I should’ve told you to give me ten minutes before coming up. I could’ve shoved stuff in closets.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter.” She turned and let herself go into his arms. He smelled like Irish Spring and tasted like cherry Life Savers. His hand skimmed over her hair, down her back.
    â€œYou want some music?”
    She nodded. “Music’s good.”
    He ran his hands down her arms before he stepped back, walked over to a stereo. “I don’t think we have any Mariah Carey.”
    â€œPraise Jesus.” With a laugh, she pressed a hand to her racing heart. “I’m nervous. I’ve never done this before.”
    His mouth opened and closed again as his eyes widened. “Never . . .”
    â€œYou’re my first.”
    â€œGod.” He stared another moment, blue eyes serious. “Now I’m nervous. Are you sure about—?”
    â€œI am. I really am.” She crossed to him, then looked down at the pile of CDs. “How about this?” She picked out Nine Inch Nails.
    â€œSin?” He gave her that sweet smile. “Is this a Catholic girl thing coming out?”
    â€œMaybe a little. Anyway, I like their cover of Queen’s Get Down, Make Love. And, well, it seems appropriate.”
    He put it in the changer, turned back just to look at her. “I’ve been hung up on you since the beginning of the semester.”
    Warmth spread in her belly. “You didn’t ask me out until after spring break.”
    â€œStarted to, dozens of times. I kept choking. And I thought you were with that guy, that psych major.”
    â€œKent?” At the moment, she couldn’t even bring Kent’s face into hermind. “We went out a few times. Mostly we just study together now and then. I was never with him.”
    â€œNow you’re with me.”
    â€œNow I’m with you.”
    â€œIf you change your mind—”
    â€œI won’t. I never do.” She laid her hands on his face, her lips on his lips. “I want this. I want you.”
    He touched her hair, twining his fingers through the mass of it while he kissed her, long, slow. Bodies drew together, magnetized by lust.
    Hers felt electric, and alive.
    â€œWe can go into the bedroom.”
    This is it, she thought. Held her breath; let it go. “Okay.”
    He held her hand. She wanted to remember that, remember every little detail. The way he smelled like Irish Spring and tasted like cherry Life Savers, and how his hair curtained over his temples when he dipped his head.
    The room, his bedroom, with its messy twin bed—blue-striped sheets and a denim-colored spread, a single pillow that looked flat as a pancake. He had a bulky old metal desk, with a muscular computer and a jumble of books and floppies and papers. A corkboard with more notes, photographs, flyers.
    The bottom drawer of his dresser—small enough to make her think it had been his through childhood—was open and crooked. There was a film of dust on it, more books, and a big clear jar half full of change. Mostly pennies.
    He turned the lamp by the bed on low.
    â€œUnless you’d rather have it off,” he said.
    â€œNo.” How could she see if it was dark? “Um. I don’t have protection.”
    â€œI’ve got that covered.