It’s been two weeks. Three, if you count spring break. The longest I’ve gone without having sex in… a really fucking long time. And there’s still three weeks left. Three weeks until I have Kennedy under me again.
I’m not losing this bet.
But it doesn’t mean I’m going to let her get away with this until then. Oh, fuck no. If she thinks she can sit there and torture me, then she doesn’t realize the lengths I would go to make her regret that for three more weeks, she can’t have me.
Sitting down, I read over the texts I’d sent, the ones bringing that blush to her face.
Paddle: to punish as if by beating.
Haul: to cause to move by pulling or drawing.
Imprint: to mark by pressure.
As in, for every time you wiggle that ass, I’m going to haul you over my knees and paddle it until the imprint of my hand is as red as your blush.
Turns out, when your nights aren’t filled with partying, you gain a shit ton of free time. It’s pretty fucking boring. Enough to make you download a dictionary app to your phone and figure out the perfect way to turn on a redheaded journalism major until her body can’t help but twitch from restrained arousal.
The following collection of texts reads:
Revel: take delight in.
Rosy: having a pinkish complexion.
Earnest: a serious and intent mental state.
And when I’m done paddling, I’m going to revel watching that rosy behind bounce over my cock until you earnestly beg for my cum.
Rylie says Kennedy’s name, at the same time I slide my foot along the carpet, colliding with her leg. Kennedy jumps, and I scroll through my phone, forcing my face into my scowl to keep from reacting. She pushes my foot away, and asks Stone, “What’s up?”
“Here’s that guy I was telling you about—Andrew from my Design and Composition class,” Stone hands over her phone so Kennedy can look at the profile of some douche in a sweater vest. “Isn’t he cute?”
Hart clears his throat and gestures to his face. Stone pats his chest. “Cute for Kennedy. You know I’m blind to any other man.” When she turns back to Kennedy, she cups a hand to block Hart from seeing her mouth Super hot, right?
Kennedy frowns at the guy’s photo. “I don’t know. He looks kind of…”
“What?” Rylie asks.
“Douche-y.”
The room quiets.
“Douche-y,” Natalie’s the first to speak. “Not a pompous imbecile? Or a showy bonehead?”
“A flashy numskull?” Rylie follows.
Hart taps the arm of his chair. “Hold on, I’ve got this.”
Rowe says, “An egotistical simpleton?”
“Or a conceited dullard?” Natalie, again.
“How are you guys coming up with these so quickly?”
I snort at the wrinkled confusion on Hart’s face as his brain struggles. And I add with a smug grin, “An ostentatious meatball.”
Kennedy gives me a withering glare, but it’s ruined by the heightened red of her cheeks. I settle back in the couch cushions and return to my phone.
“Sorry, Rylie,” Kennedy hands Stone back her cell. “I’m really not in the mood for another blind date. Besides, my schedule’s pretty full.”
Full of me, I want to puff with pride. I hit ‘send’ on my next text.
Drench: to wet thoroughly.
How drenched did your panties get when I said ‘ostentatious’?
Kennedy flips her phone over on the coffee table.
Unfortunately, Natalie notices. “You’re not checking on Ashton are you?”
My good humor drops at the mention of Kennedy’s ex. I pretend to be absorbed in my phone, but all my attention is tuned to Kennedy’s response. Even if I know she’s been tied to her texts because of me—
“No,” Kennedy rolls her eyes.
I smile down at the initials on my screen before pocketing my phone and focusing on conversation with my friends. We spend the rest of the night watching the game, complaining about classes, eating sugary junk, and giving each other shit. At some point, Hart perks up and excitedly cheers, “An inflated dolt!”
We all throw bits of cookie at him, and Rylie, caught in the cross-fire on Hart’s lap, shrieks with laughter.
When the commotion dies down, I’m still chuckling. Until Natalie looks over at me, confused, and asks, “Wait, it’s Thursday night, Spencer. What are you doing home?”
25
Kennedy
Mellifluous: sweet or musical; pleasant to hear.
As in, I can’t wait to hear that mellifluous sigh you make when I ease into your pussy.
I have my own word: underestimate.
As in, I have significantly underestimated the lengths to which Spencer Armstrong strives to discipline me for instituting a moratorium on sex for over a month. Despite the fact he willingly entered into this bet.
When he said he fights dirty… I’d had no idea what he meant.
Or how much I would absolutely love every naughty bit of it.
Every time my phone goes off now, my pulse rushes. Shivers tease down my spine, awakening every inch of my body in anticipation of whatever word he sends me next. The definitions. Subsequent sentences that make my face flush and my skin tingle with ever-increasing urges. Even though we stick to kissing only, Spencer knows exactly the right way to torment me.
And he always knows when to do it exactly at the most inopportune time, I think with an impatient glance around the crowded coffee shop.
Vexatious man, I frown with annoyance. He knows when I’m working.
He also knows when I’m in class. Or enjoying girls night. When I’m trying to interview someone for a newspaper article. Point is, Spencer has my schedule. Knows the best times to send me these dirty messages… and purposefully chooses the worst times to do it. He revels in dispensing them at the most unexpected moments, like right in the middle of a bustling Busy Beans shift.
I pocket my phone to ring up a customer, then fix her order before pulling it out again and rereading his latest message. And the one from last night. Every day before
