Never Sweeter (Dark Obsession #1)(48)

“I’m not wearing jeans now.”

He fell silent then. Extremely, intensely silent, eyes heavy on her the whole time. Just a hint of mischief in them, and around the corners of his mouth. Like he wanted to smile knowingly, but thought it better to play it cool. Check the ground he stood on first, before things went too far.

“Okay, I feel I have to warn you that despite what I said about fantasy, I would totally eat your * right here and now. Like, that’s not a problem for me at all. So if you keep talking about it, chances are I’m going to think you’re serious and make a total ass of myself.”

“And how exactly would you make an ass out of yourself?”

“I might say something like: slip your panties off and hand them to me.”

It was a smart way to make the suggestion, really. He gave it all the sly charm of the real thing, but without any of the negative consequences. She couldn’t rebuff him. He hadn’t honestly meant it. It was just a suppose so, a what-if—though tantalizing enough that it turned the temperature up another notch. Just hearing him say the words was enough to send a tingling shock through her. And then there was the sound of his voice, all low and slightly hoarse. The way he touched his tongue to his teeth after saying it, as if he was imagining what it would truly be like if she did.

Though he didn’t have to imagine for long.

“Oh my god, you’re actually f*cking doing it. This cannot be real life.”

“You want me to stop? I can stop, if you really want.”

“Fuck no, never stop. Never, ever stop being this awesome.”

“You better be sure, because they’re almost at my ankles.”

“Are you serious right now? Are they—”

He ducked below the table to see, but he didn’t need to.

She had already pushed them into his hand—and the second she did everything changed. The faint wince that was still in the back of his expression disappeared entirely, and was replaced by a steely sort of single-mindedness that she recognized immediately. It was the look he got when he was about to take somebody down. It even had that quick assessment of his wrestling opponent, before he made his move—the one that reminded her of someone rifling through a dead man’s pockets.

And in this case, she was the dead man.

She had around ten seconds in which he stood to check no one was coming. Then he was on her, brisk and all business. “Stand up,” he said, voice so rough it should have scared her. It should have made her think of the bully he had been—only it didn’t.

Probably because his hand was on her breasts as he said it.

More than on them, in truth. He touched them as though he couldn’t get enough. He fondled them, squeezing and exploring so thoroughly it kind of knocked her sideways. It underlined all the things he’d said, about the steps and the pencil and the pool. It made them unavoidably obvious—though even if it hadn’t there were other signs.

Like the way he hurriedly stuffed her panties into his pocket.

To keep, before she could change her mind.

And the hand he slipped under her skirt, the second she stood up.

Gentle, but greedy all at the same time.

And his cock.

Fuck, his cock.

He wasn’t exactly trying to push that stiff shape against the side of her ass. But he wasn’t exactly not, either. Quite clearly, he wanted her to see and feel and know that she had done this to him at some point. She has made him hard—maybe when she handed him those panties. Maybe before, over some look she had no idea she had given him. Everything was possible, now.

Including him bending her over this desk in the library, in the middle of the day. Somewhere in the distance she could hear the squeak of a cart, the whisper of students trying to be quiet, the clatter of a book coming off the shelf. But it made no difference to him. He barely lowered his voice to tell her that she was wet. Words just blurted out of him, rough and ready.

“Fuck, baby, you’re always soooo wet,” he said. Then even sweeter: “Do I make you that way? Do I get you excited?”

As though he was a little unsure, too. He needed her to show him how much she wanted him, and when he touched her like this it wasn’t so hard. He slid two fingers in and the yes came out all on its own, half moaned and half sighed. More than that, in fact: she practically pushed back against him. Her back arched before she could stop it, her whole body flushing as she felt him ease them back and forth.

Slow, at first. Easy enough to take.

Then faster, and firmer, and not quite as straightforward as he had before. In their dorm rooms he had used stiff, straight fingers, but not this time. This time he crossed them, one over the other, until each slow push into her * made her want to cry out.

But then someone called for quiet in the distance, and she remembered.

They were in a library. He was fingering her * in a library.

Being quiet was of the utmost importance, no matter how good he made her feel. No matter how firmly he worked the thick knot of his knuckles right over that aching, tingling place, no matter how many rude things he panted at her as he worked her *, no matter how shocking it was when he finally got down on his knees. She had to keep her mouth closed.

And then she heard and felt him move, and it got just that little bit harder. He was actually doing it. He was lifting her skirt and spreading her legs. How was she supposed to be silent when that was happening? It sent a zing of pleasure through her the size of a lightning bolt. It made her knees crumple and turned her hands to claws—holding it in was impossible.