“You’d have to bury your cock in my pussy first,” I challenge.
I see it, that glint of heat and arousal and pleasure at my words. Cock. Pussy. I’ve expanded my vocabulary, the slightest bit, for him. Only him. In these most private moments between us. If his sexual appetite spurs mine to push aside all sound judgment, then my words do the same to him.
Because in the next second, he thrusts into me, and he. does. not. stop.
I hold him, curling both hands into the hair at the nape of his neck, needing something solid and warm and smelling of the woods to root me to earth as he pounds into me. His fingers dig into my thigh on his hip, and soon, so soon, my legs start to give out beneath me. Without needing to tell him—because he knows, by now he knows, how he makes my knees turn to mush—he pauses. Leads me to the steel desk against the wall and pushes me down on it so my bottom’s in the air.
He stands behind me, urging my legs to open wider, and then he’s inside me again, harder this time. I wait and I wait and I wait. Until he smacks the flat of his palm on one cheek. I cry out, from the anticipation and the sting and the sheer thrill of it. I wiggle my ass for more, and Spencer groans.
“Kennedy, fuck, you’re so greedy,” he says, at full volume.
I shush him with a giggle, then gasp when he spanks me again. He says, “Don’t lie. How often do you think about me like this?”
He leans over me as he thrusts and thrusts and thrusts. I love it like this, with him, crowding and pressing and so overwhelmingly large above me. With his front to my back and his hands squeezing both my breasts as he drives his hips, getting as close as he can.
“I’m always fucking thinking about it,” he grunts with a kiss on my shoulder. “How soon I can get inside you again. How your pussy feels on my cock. Fuck, I see you in class, and all I can think about is bending you over your seat and fucking taking you like this.”
“Tell me more,” I whimper. Because I feel it, that tightening in my core. I always get so close when he’s like this. “I think about it, too. All the time. I want you. I want your cock. So badly, Spencer.”
And that sets him off, as I knew it would. His name, on my lips. The reminder that it’s him, on my mind, over my body, inside me. Him and no one else.
He tells me more. Shares every dirty thought of what he wants to do with me. To do to me. Becomes verbose with passion. Dropping fuck every other word. With feeling. So much feeling.
He covers my mouth with both hands as I come. Because I forget to be quiet. Quiet is not a word when I’m with Spencer. Its existence blinks out, leaving room only for vocality. Genuine noise to express the sublime sensitivity he’s roused in me.
After the clamor, is a moment of clarity, of a muted static in my ears that fixates solely on his vocality. His noise. The cumulation of those cuss words and all that feeling that I’ve provoked in him.
And when we’re both done, there’s silence. Silence but for our heavy breathing and Spencer embracing me in his firm arms and me brushing my lips softly along his knuckles.
“I have to go,” his deep voice rumbles against my shoulder. I nod, knowing if I don’t leave soon, Rylie will wonder where I am.
But we’re slow to move. I tell myself it’s because our bodies are exhausted after such physical feats. Certainly not because I wish we were home, in my bed, with no roommates and hours to waste, so he could properly hold me.
We clean up. Straighten our clothes. Spencer eyes me buttoning my shirt, and him watching me perform so innocent and intimate an act, makes my face more red than any of what we’d just done.
As I pull on my coat and grab my bag and the box of scones from Summer, Spencer checks the hallway. Confirming no one’s there, he swings the door wide open, and draws me in for one last kiss. And while I’m distracted, his hand slips into the catering box. With a smug grin, he bites into a scone—strawberry, one I can’t eat, because of my allergy—and leaves.
I watch him walk down the hall, eating my treat, and already, I feel the ache in my chest. The one that, peculiarly, wants him to turn around and come right back.
18
Spencer
The campus rec center closes early the Friday before spring break, but I have a key to the front door—perks of being on the football team—which means I’m there an hour after the last person leaves. After I finish my last rep, shower, and lock up, the sky outside is dark.
Pulling a hat over my wet hair, I shove my hands into my jacket pockets and start walking. It’s chilly, but after my workout and the scalding warmth of the shower, I don’t mind the breeze as I head in the direction of the bar strip off-campus. My phone chimes with text after text from my friends, asking where I am and why I haven’t kicked off the start of break yet. I type up a message that I’ll be there soon, but before I hit send, my thumb hovers over the last text I’d sent Kennedy. Demanding she meet me at Main Desire last night while everyone else was out, but she’d responded she needed to study for an exam.
Is she at the bar right now? Celebrating the end of midterms and the start of a week off—a
