Still, she’s not saying anything. She’s acting like three days ago, when she cried in my arms, didn’t happen, and I refuse to pretend along with her.
“Do you know why I left English early today?”
She shakes her head, and I lean in, letting my breath fan low against her throat.
“I left,” I say, “because every time I look at you, I remember the taste of your lips and the feel of you pressed up against me.” Her pulse flutters wildly.
“Do you want me to tell you where I went?” I continue, catching a glance of her white knuckling the desk. Her eyes are glossed over as she nods.
I lean in farther so that my lips brush against the line of her jaw. “I went to the restroom, across from the one I found you in. Do you want to know what I did in there? I have to warn you though. It’s very naughty.”
She moans, and my dick is like an iron pipe in my pants as her eyes close and she nods.
“I fucked my hand in that bathroom, Harlow. And the entire time, I imagined it was your perfect mouth around my cock.”
God, I’m so hard it hurts. I want to bend her over this desk and pound into her.
She bites her bottom lip and blushes, turning as red as a cherry tomato aka what girls at this school call dinner. She swallows, but a tiny moan escapes her lips before she manages to silence it. She trembles, and although she can pretend all she wants, I don’t have to touch her to know she’s wet for me.
“Well, that sounds unfortunate for you,” she says eventually. “Having a sexual experience with a wad of toilet paper.”
I smirk. Ah, there’s that smart-ass mouth I love.
I lean forward, which forces her to lean back until she sits on the desk.
“Are you volunteering to expand my horizons?” I ask. "Enlighten me?"
Her eyes flit to the door like she’s hoping someone will come inside and save her. No such luck, sweetness.
Emotions scroll over her face like quickly skimming the pages of a book. Except I don’t skim. I read every last one. Confusion. Regret. Desire. I latch onto the last one.
I run my thumb over her bottom lip as I bring a hand to her waist, just above her hip bone. I massage her there, my touch gentle but firm.
Her breath hitches as I continue my massage. Her eyes roll back in her head as she arches beneath my touch.
“This isn’t a bad thing, Stormy,” I breathe, letting the words heat her lips. “We could make each other happy. We could make each other feel very good.”
“I…I…” she begins. I lower my hand slowly between her legs, pressing her skirt against her flesh as I cup her.
“You what?” I say, lazily making circles over her tights and around her clit.
“I…” Her eyes pop open, and I press harder. She moans and they close again.
“You what?” I say, dipping the thumb of my free hand into her mouth. She laves her tongue over it before clenching it between her teeth, and it is so fucking hot. My dick is rock hard.
“I…” she mewls.
I withdraw my hand, and this time, her eyes pop open and stay open. Her gaze is wide-eyed, confused, but it quickly narrows to murderous.
“I wouldn’t want you to share a sexual experience with that desk,” I say. “That doesn’t sound much better than a wad of toilet paper.”
“You are such a dick,” she spits, hellfire and brimstone igniting her gaze.
“I do have one of those,” I muse, leveling my gaze at her because as fun as this has been, my zipper is trying to tattoo itself on my dick.
I lean in and brush a kiss across her beautiful forehead. “I want to bury myself inside you until I find the meaning of life.”
Her breath hitches at my words, but I don’t kiss her on the lips. Because if I taste her, then our first time will be in this classroom, and that’s unacceptable. I want her in my dorm room so I can memorize of every inch of her skin, so she can ingrain her scent on all of my things, so I know what she looks like sprawled naked across every piece of furniture, every countertop, every inch of my floor.
I shove away from her and head for the door. When I leave the classroom, I walk straight into the bathroom.
20
Harlow
I stand on the tips of my toes, stretching for a book just out of my reach. Raven recommended it for Adaptive English, but it’s on back-order online and borrowing hers is not an option as she decimated it with highlights and her own version of shorthand.
I have avoided Ian since the classroom, um, incident four days ago, but I can’t hide in my dorm all weekend, despite my self-preservation instinct telling me I probably should.
My self-preservation instinct also tells me I probably shouldn’t be thinking about the beautiful incubus or how my self-control doesn’t just fly out the window when he’s near. It flies out the window, catches a ride to the nearest airport, and then gets a one-way ticket to the City of Good Luck, Bitch! Welcome to Good Luck, Bitch! where loss of dignity is a house special.
Not that I am good at listening to my self-preservation instinct anyway because…I need this book, damn it. Ian’s notes may be good—with some prodding, I might even admit they are very good—but I could use all the help I can get.
Elements and equations, I understand. I can free-hand the periodic table in under two minutes flat. But Adaptive English is
