Little Lies(91)

“This is insane,” I mutter.

My face feels like it’s a million degrees right now.

Kodiak slides his hands up the inside of my legs and under my dress. I feel something hard and cold moving along with it, which spikes my anxiety again.

“What is that?” I whisper-hiss.

I get my answer a few seconds later when I hear a faint snip and the tear of fabric as he rips the crotch of my tights open.

I kick him under the desk. What if he’d cut me? And why didn’t he pull them down instead?

“Sorry. Easier this way.” All I can see are his eyes, and they’re far from sorry; they’re full of a million other fleeting emotions, hunger the most prominent. He slides a finger under the crotch of my panties and presses his face against the inside of my thigh to muffle his groan. I grip the edge of the desk, working to control my breathing and the wild panic that makes my heart race.

He slides one finger inside me. It’s callused and rough, but I clench around him, knowing that later tonight he’ll be inside me, filling me, quelling the ache, feeding our new obsession, which happens to be the magical, calming properties of sex and orgasms. He pumps a few times, mumbling about how soft and wet I am.

I shush him, and he bites the inside of my thigh. His finger disappears, and I clench my teeth against the urge to complain. A slurping sound and a low growl follow. And then he pulls me to the edge of the chair, pushes my thighs apart, noses my panties out of the way and rubs his face all over my vagina, sort of the way a cat does to its owner to mark its territory. He laps at me, swirling his tongue around and around, dipping inside and swirling again. I grip the edge of the desk with one hand and drop the other to the top of his head, fisting his hair, guiding him to prevent me from moving my hips.

This particular act—so vulgar, so intimate, such a sensory overload—has to be one of my favorites. I love the feel of his tongue on me, the way he grips my hips, the sounds he makes, like he can’t get enough, like he’s been dying for my taste.

Except we’re in a study booth in a library, so all the little noises he’s making are a problem. “Shut the fuck up, Kodiak,” I whisper.

He turns his head and bites the inside of my thigh so hard this time that I clamp my legs shut on his face. He pries them apart and dives back in, this time using teeth and suction, and I nearly shoot out of the damn chair. As it is, I have to shove my fist in my mouth to keep from making sounds. And all the while my heart is beating frantically, aware that if one of the security guards should pass by and hear us, we will definitely be banned from the library.

Instead of that knowledge making it more difficult for me to come, it seems to push me right toward the edge. I don’t even know how Kodiak can breathe with the way his face is buried between my legs. It’s almost like he’s trying to crawl up in there. There’s a brief moment in which I almost laugh, except a wave of pleasure rolls through me, making it impossible to do anything but sink into the sensation and fight not to moan.

Kodiak’s hand shoots up. He tugs my lip free from my teeth and shoves two fingers into my mouth. I suck automatically, eyes rolling up, aware I’m no longer in control of my body, and this is his way of reminding me to keep quiet. When the orgasm finally ends, I sag against the chair, a limp ragdoll.

We’re both breathing like we’ve run up twenty flights of stairs while being chased by a damn demon. I should really offer to return the favor, but I don’t think I can move, let alone unlock my jaw and blow him—from under a desk no less.

He rolls the chair back a few inches and pulls my skirt down, smoothing it out. My tights are ruined, my panties are soaked, and I’m far from coherent. I’d like to take a nap and then have Kodiak fuck me into oblivion—after his test, obviously.

I can’t even manage words, so I hope I’m communicating that telepathically.

When his head pops out from under the desk, I put a hand on his forehead to prevent him from getting any closer. “Wipe your face.”

He uses the bottom of his gray shirt to clean his chin, which is covered in girl jizz. Like, it’s everywhere. He’s going to need a serious shower. Kodiak is a bit of a germaphobe, so the fact that he willingly bathes his face in my vagina juice is crazy, and a big question mark. I’m the exception to his every psychosis.

“You should go first. I’ll follow behind. Sorry about your tights.” He’s grinning, so he’s obviously not sorry.

I slowly regain the use of my limbs, collect my belongings, and jam my stuff into my backpack. When I stand up, I’m appalled by the puddle on the seat. Oh my God, I mouth to Kodiak. I run my hands down the back of my skirt, and sure enough, it’s wet. I can’t tell if it’s because Kodiak drooled all over me or my damn vagina drooled all over the chair. I’m thinking it’s probably a bit of both, and how embarrassing is that?

Even worse, he looks absolutely gleeful over it.

I yank my coat from the hook and shrug into it jerkily. My legs still feel like Jell-O. I point at him. “Never again.”

He shakes his head and nods once, smiling. “Never.”

He’s going to want to do this every chance he gets.

I sling my backpack over my shoulder, take a deep breath, and open the door enough to slip out, closing it behind me. I keep my head down and find the nearest bathroom. I’m a total wreck.

I do my best to make myself presentable, but I can’t get rid of my red cheeks or the blotchy patches on my neck. Kodiak is waiting for me outside the bathroom, looking ridiculously smug and smelling a lot like eau de vagina. There is no way I’m leaving through the main entrance with me looking the way I do and him wearing that expression. I leave the book I was supposed to check out behind. I’ll have to come back for it when I’m less mortified.