Minutes later—not that I’m checking my phone. That often, anyway—Spencer locks the door behind him.
“Would’ve been here sooner—” he says, tugging off his shirt. I run my hands down his chest. “Gray wouldn’t—fuck—shut up about—”
I’ll never know what Gray wouldn’t—fuck--shut up about, because I need Spencer to kiss me. I cradle the back of his neck in both hands and direct his face to mine. He obliges, forgetting anything else but devouring my every breath.
And here is my secret, that bit of information Summer Prescott so desperately wants to know and which I will so fiercely carry to my grave before I tell her:
Three weeks. Three weeks, and Spencer Armstrong and I have not gone a single day without kissing.
Sometimes they’re brief and soft. Tender, stolen caresses in secluded corners of parties or the bar. More often, they’re wild and urgent and tangled. Hands roaming and grasping and tearing at clothes and skin. Like an eternity had passed since the last time we’d touched each other this way, though the stretch of time between encounters might be but an hour.
It takes someone with a keen attention to detail and organization to arrange covert trysts. Thankfully, I possess both. Because after that first time in my bedroom, there had been a close window in which Natalie and Morris walked through Tipsy Turvy’s front door, just fifteen minutes after Spencer had exited it. Arms loaded with pizza boxes after a grueling exam, Natalie had taken one look at the spotless kitchen and accepted my freshly showered appearance as the logical result of cleaning and not a bout of intense sexual gratification. Morris, in a heart-stopping moment, had wondered why the kitchen smelled of raspberry. But he, too, believed my excuse that I’d spilled syrup. Luckily, neither of them checked the washing machine, where I’d stashed Spencer’s coffee-stained shirt (he returned home with the one I’d been wearing, much to my chagrin). And I’d realized, to continue seeing Spencer, drastic measures would need to be taken.
Drastic scheduling measures.
So I’d created a new calendar on my laptop. A secret calendar. Inputted with not only my class, work, and newspaper schedules, but Spencer’s classes and training. Then Natalie’s. Morris’s. Grayson’s. Rylie and Levi are the wild cards. Out of all our friends, they’re the ones most likely to blow off class for romantic recesses of their own.
I really deserve a multitasking medal. A secret multitasking medal.
Because so far, complying with this master schedule, Spencer and I have not been found out. No matter the number of times we’d met up.
Which, as Spencer assured, is frequent. So frequent. Not every day. But pretty close to it. There are days when neither of our schedules line up. Or ones where those of our friends don’t allow more than a quick makeout in the hallway leading to Kellermann’s restrooms.
But the next time, when the stars and schedules and sex gods align, Spencer more than makes up for those lost moments.
It takes several times, he’d said. Until you lose count.
I’ve officially lost count.
“Thirty minutes,” I gasp, pulling away from him, even as every molecule in me screams to never stop kissing him. “I’m meeting Rylie in thirty minutes for lunch.”
“I have class in twenty.”
So we scramble. Spencer undoes my blouse, nearly popping the last button off in his haste. I yank at his belt and jeans. He hikes up my skirt. I shimmy out of my tights, my panties. He pulls a condom out of his back pocket.
He keeps the latex-free brand on him, at all times now. Me, as well. Because nothing had been as frustrating and disappointing as the other week, when, right as we got to the middle of it, we’d found an empty box. Though Spencer had gotten me off with the combined efforts of my vibrator and his tongue, nothing had felt as immensely relieving as when he’d returned the following day, stocked with twice the amount of contraceptives. Which he’d immediately, and earnestly, put to use.
He crushes me against the classroom wall. Grinding into me until my head falls back, and I pant with his hands under my bra. I feel his grin against my neck. “Presumptuous, huh? How presumptuous would it be to say you’ve been waiting for me to fuck you all morning?”
“Exceedingly,” I bite back a moan as he tilts his hips and slides his cock along my slit. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and lift one thigh over his hip. “I never think of you.”
“Fucking liar,” he chuckles, then nudges me again, hitting my clit. I fail at muffling any noise this time, and Spencer shushes me. “Quiet. Unless you want to get caught.”
Ducking my head in his neck, I try to swallow the passion he’s stirred in me. But it’s good, so good.
“Fuck, maybe you want that,” Spencer’s voice is husky in my ear. “You want someone to find you with your skirt around your waist and my cock buried in your pussy?”
No. Yes. Maybe. I’d never thought myself the type to recklessly forget all common sense for the sake of getting some. But Spencer makes all my wits abandon me. Forget where we are. Whether it’s at Tipsy Turvy. Or Main Desire. My car. Parking lots. The gym showers. The newspaper room at the back of the English building. The other day, I’d had to tell Rylie my cheeks were flushed from a brisk walk in the cold and not because Spencer brought me to climax with his hand behind Busy Beans.
Maybe it’s the way he commands my body so expertly with his own. Or that I know now, for an irrefutable fact, that with each and every one of our clandestine meetings, I will never be left pleading for more. I’ve had more orgasms—sweet, sensual, soaring releases—in the past few weeks than I ever had with someone else, or myself.
Spencer is… exceptional.
So skilled, in
