Misadventures of a College Girl (Misadventures #9)(31)

Approximately four minutes later…

Tyler’s fingers rake urgently across my scalp. “Oh, fuck yeah,” he grits out. “Now suck just a little bit harder, baby. Oh, yeah. Just like that. That’s perfect. Keep doing that. Don’t stop.” His cock twitches sharply in my mouth. His fingers are gripping the top of my bobbing head. “Now touch yourself with your free hand.”

I slide my free hand between my legs while continuing to grope him with the other.

“You’ve got the hang of it now, baby,” Tyler whispers. “Oh, fuck. This is getting good.” He groans loudly and shoves himself farther into my mouth.

I look up at his face. He looks like he’s on the cusp of complete ecstasy. And, all of a sudden, I feel empowered. I might be the one on my knees here, but I’m suddenly realizing I’m in charge. I’ve got this boy’s manhood between my teeth, after all. Not to mention his balls in the palm of my hand. He’s at my mercy, quite literally. And I love it.

Excitement floods me. I increase the intensity of my assault, adding a little extra flair to the movement of my tongue. My hand moves from Tyler’s balls to his hard ass and into his crack. I slip a fingertip inside him, exactly the way Tyler suggested I do if I was feeling it, and Tyler goes freaking crazy on me.

“I’m gonna come,” he blurts.

I slip my finger farther inside him, making sure he knows who’s running the show here.

“Oh, fuck, I’m gonna come so fucking hard,” he grits out. “Into your mouth.”

I nod enthusiastically while continuing to work myself with my free hand.

Tyler yanks sharply on my hair. Pushes himself into my mouth. “Swallow me down, Zooey.”

“Mmm hmm.”

He makes a sound that makes my skin prick and my toes curl. And then it happens. Nirvana. Warm, salty liquid gushes into my mouth as waves of pleasure begin seizing my clit and everything connected to it. I swallow Tyler down and yank my mouth off his hard-on, consumed by the pleasure of my own climax.

Finally, after my body stops clenching, I look up at Tyler, licking my lips. “I came,” I say simply. I smile proudly.

Tyler strokes my hair. “Well, I’ll be damned. Who would have guessed my eager little beaver would turn out to be fucking Van Gogh.”





Chapter Eighteen





It’s Wednesday night. Well, actually, the wee hours of Thursday morning. And for the third night in a row, Tyler’s dropping me off in front of my dorm after yet another amazing night together. Tonight’s activities? Well, sex, of course. In a variety of positions and locations in his bedroom. On his desk. On his bed. On the floor. We also watched a little porn. That was kind of odd. And in between all that, we also worked on our Shakespeare project. Fleshed out our Social Psych experiments. Oh, and then I sat on Tyler’s face.

And now, here we are, once again. He’s straddling his motorcycle with the engine off, wearing a T-shirt that reads Maintain Swagger at All Times. I’m wrapped in Tyler’s soft sweatshirt, kissing him goodbye and feeling like I’m floating on a cloud.

Tyler pulls out of our kiss and lets out a long, mournful sigh.

“What?” I ask.

Tyler slides his palm on my cheek and rests his forehead against mine. “What am I gonna do with you?”

“Anything you want. Literally. Please. As soon as possible.”

He laughs. “You’re enjoying your miseducation, are you, eager beaver?”

I want to tell him the word “enjoyment” doesn’t come close to encapsulating what I’m feeling right now. That I feel addicted to having sex with him. To just being with him. To simply gazing at him. I want to tell him he makes me laugh—that I’m not normally this giggly, I swear. I want to tell him he makes me swoon. And flutter. And feel like I can do anything I set my mind to. But I don’t dare say any of it. The last thing I want to do is make Tyler think I’ve morphed into a Stage Five Clinger, especially this fast. “Yes, I’m enjoying my miseducation a lot, professor,” I reply.

Tyler sighs again. “It’s not that I don’t want to see you again before Monday. It’s that I can’t figure out how to make it happen.”

Well, that came out of left field. He said that like we were in the middle of a conversation about seeing each other before Monday—like I’d asked to see him again before then. But, um, unless I’m having a psychotic breakdown, I’m pretty sure I didn’t say a word about that. “You told me right from the start we’d be seeing each other on Monday through Wednesday,” I say. “I have zero expectation of seeing you otherwise.”

“If we were playing a home game this week, I could maybe squeeze in some time to see you on Friday. But this week’s game is in Texas, and we’re traveling on Friday. And Sundays are my only day to rest up, catch up on my reading. My roommates and I go out to breakfast together on Sundays and then hang out and watch football. It’s our thing. Relaxing on Sundays is sacred to me.”

I’m flabbergasted. What on earth have I said or done to make him think he needs to explain all this to me? “Tyler, I’m super busy, too,” I say. “Freshman theater majors are basically slave labor for the mainstage production. I’ve got to build and paint sets and sew costumes for, like, fifteen hours a week. I’ve got a research paper due for History of Theater. A bunch of reading for Anthropology. Plus, I’m going to a couple parties this weekend and—”