If he thinks he’s making me wait one more damn minute, I’m finding the nearest glass of liquid and pouring it over his head.
I bend my legs, reaching down to slowly pull up the hem of my dress. Spencer follows my hand, watches as I unbuckle each heel strap and kick my shoes off.
“You know,” I lick my lips, grasping more of the chiffon skirt in my hands. “We made that bet on Lakewood time. Campus is three hours ahead. Technically, our bet’s over. You made it.”
“We never set terms about time zones.”
“Fine,” I pout. “Then don’t complain when you have to sit here and stare.”
His brows wrinkle in confusion, and with his guard down, I lift all the chiffon in my hands. Yank the whole dress over my head. Fabric tears. Pins fall out of my hair. The safety pin my mom had used to fix my broken strap comes undone, almost poking my collarbone. But I get the whole thing off, not a care in the world if it’s completely unable to be worn again. It’s not like anyone ever wears bridesmaid dresses twice, anyway.
I toss the dress on the floor. Spencer runs a hand over his mouth. Stares at my strapless bra and matching thong. Red lace. Just for him.
Here’s the part I love about plans. Because with a whole month to arrange the best way to surprise Spencer, all those days and hours and minutes I’d dedicated thoughts to this night, nothing beats this moment. When it all goes right. When it exceeds all my expectations.
The look on Spencer’s face. The absolute need and want and hunger when he sees what I’ve done for him. Moisturizing and waxing and panties that match my lipstick. All my preparation and hard work and planning, all of it is worth that look.
Yet still, he holds himself back. Hands braced on the edge of the desk. Biceps straining from lunging for me the way I know he wants.
“Feel free to watch, Spencer,” I say. His eyes follow my hand, drifting over my stomach. To the inside of my thigh, spreading my legs open. “I might have to start without you. Though I might be too tired by the time you’re ready to join me.”
I call the words in my head before he speaks them aloud. “The fuck you will.”
I lower my hand between my legs. Brush it over me with a soft gasp. “Anything you want to do, Spencer. Whatever comes to mind. You won, after all.”
He growls, and the sound, so familiar and so thrilling after a month, makes me visibly shiver. His hands clench and unclench on the desk, shifting until something crinkles underneath them. With a glance down, we both see he’s bumped the package of permanent markers I’d bought for Brigid’s gift. Picking one up, he smiles, then pushes himself away from the desk. To the bed.
He plants both his knees over mine. I lay back, arms over my head, completely surrendering to him.
“I was talking to your dad—”
I frown, heat diminishing just the tiniest bit. “I don’t really want to discuss my dad right now.”
Spencer laughs, putting the pen in his pocket so he can take off his tux jacket. Then, he unbuttons his shirt. Lazily. Like he has all the time in the world.
“He mentioned freshman year.”
I groan, hiding my blush with my hands. I can only imagine what they spoke about.
Something warm touches my stomach. I open my eyes, though I already know it’s Spencer’s mouth. He leans over me, shirtless, pressing a kiss to my midsection.
He murmurs into my skin, “And I realize, princess, you never got that autograph you wanted.”
Uncapping the pen from his pocket, he draws it over my stomach. Over the spot he kissed. “I’d hate to disappoint my biggest fan.”
A quick scrawl, and when I glance down, I can faintly make it out. The capital S. The bold A. A brand. A mark. Something distinctly Spencer.
“Kissing…” he says in that irresistible, low tone. “That’s in our terms.”
And he kisses me again. On my opposite side. Then follows it with another quick signature. He does that, up and down my whole body. Some signatures, he does with a quick flourish. Most, though, with careful attention to detail. Focusing on whichever part of my body he’s had his lips on. My thighs. Collarbones. The crooks of my elbows. The insides of my knees. Calves and shoulders and even going so far as turning me over on my stomach to do the same to my back. Kissing and signing and never touching me in all the parts I want him to touch most.
I sob, “Spencer, screw the bet. Please.”
And he finally, finally, finally, chucks the marker across the room. Jerks my thong to the side. Lays his mouth on me. My hips buck at the first touch of his tongue to my clit. Spencer’s pleased growl resounds through me. He sucks my clit into his mouth, laps at it with his tongue. When he slips a thumb into my slick heat, his voice rasps with unrestrained passion, “Fuck, I missed tasting this pussy.”
He reaches up, tugs down my bra. He fondles one globe, squeezing the hard tip. I seize his hair in my fingers and rock my pussy into his mouth, panting and moaning without a care for how loudly I beg him to please, please, please make me come.
“Not yet,” he whispers, sitting up. I thump my fists on the mattress, and he laughs. “So fucking greedy, Kennedy. How much have you missed my cock?”
Unfathomably, the word comes to me as he takes off the rest of his clothes and that beautiful, mouthwatering length springs free. Incessantly, I realize as he leans over me to remove my underwear and I
