“Say it again,” he growled.
“Donovan.” I’d said it so many times in the dark, in my head. It felt new to say it out loud in this way but comfortable, like finding a pair of jeans that seemed to have been perfectly tailored.
His lip turned up, the closest thing to a smile that I’d ever seen him give. Damn, his face was really striking. I’d never seen it this close up. Not pretty but captivating. He was only twenty-two and yet he already had lines starting at his eyes. His thick brows and the deep line in his chin gave him a rugged appeal, and the way he studied me while he rubbed and kneaded me below was intense and committed and…god, what he was doing to me…I closed my eyes as the pleasure built toward a climax.
“Did you touch him?” he asked, suddenly withdrawing his hand.
I opened my eyes. “No.”
“Touch me.” It was the same way he’d told me to sit when I’d first arrived. Then it had pissed me off to be ordered around. Now I was so eager, my hands were shaking.
Donovan caressed my face and kissed along my forehead while I worked to get his black trousers open. When I got his pants and boxer briefs worked down to the top of his muscular thighs, his cock fell out, long and thick and hard. His tip was purple and stretched tight, and all of a sudden I knew that this was going to be it. This was going to happen. This was going to be inside me because there was a cyclone of want blustering at the core of me, begging me to have him. But also, it had to happen because I had a very real fear that whatever this strange, complicated thing was that was going on with Donovan might never happen again if it didn’t happen now.
I skimmed my palm across his crown, reverently, then drew my fingers closed around him and pulled down.
He hissed, and my stomach flipped.
Donovan brought his hand to join mine—the one slick with my wetness—and together we stroked up, down. Up. Down.
Up.
He pulled his hand away, but I kept working him, even though I could feel his eyes on me, watching me. Asking me.
I didn’t look up. Because I didn’t want to be asked, and I didn’t want this to stop. And that made me an awful person and an awful woman and probably someone who needed to schedule an appointment with a campus psychiatrist as soon as possible, but so be it. This was my consent. I was touching him.
He seemed to understand because then he was pulling out his wallet, tearing open a condom, pushing my hand away and rolling it over his erection. Or maybe he was never asking my permission, after all.
I shimmied my leggings and panties down to my knees. Donovan lifted me and they fell to my ankles. I widened my knees, giving him room. He lined his head at my entrance and, without any hesitation, drove inside.
It hurt at first. A lot.
I was too tight and too dry, even as wet as I was. Donovan was persistent, though, pushing and nudging until I opened up for him and he could slide all the way in. Tears fell down my cheeks and my nails dug into his back. Fluid trickled past where we were joined and down my leg. I felt tense and wound up and unbridled.
But then there was Donovan’s mouth, kissing me, centering me. He was just as demanding as before. Greedy and impatient like his cock. But as I gave in to his lips, my body relaxed, and soon there was no more pain, just pleasure coiling inside me, tightening and expanding.
He noticed when I gave in. I could feel his attack change. He hitched me up higher so the angle of his pelvis was better against mine and ground into me repeatedly with deep, merciless jabs. I tried to speak, to say his name, but all that came out was grunts and groans and incoherent syllables.
I was lost to him.
The shelf behind me cut into my lower back and my phone buzzed in my coat pocket on the floor by the desk and I had an F on my paper and the door to the office was unlocked and I had a date with Weston, but all I cared about in the world at the moment was the dirty, filthy scenario I was living out. It was everything I’d imagined those nights in my room—a little bit cruel and a little bit hard—plus as erotic as hell. And the man knew how to touch me. Knew how to move inside me.
It was also more. Because I’d never once imagined that, while he did those terrible sexy things, Donovan would look at me the way he looked at me. Studying my face. Watching my eyes. Like he cared about what he’d find there.
I’d never once imagined that I’d want that from him.
I came without warning. I’d always been finicky when it came to orgasms—my high school boyfriend had found it hard to make me come with his tongue and fingers. I’d had better luck on my own, depending on my mindset. Maybe I was a girl who needed penetration. Maybe I was a girl who needed Donovan.
He regarded me even closer as I spiraled. I fought to keep my eyes open so I could watch him watching me. He seemed to find this funny because he chuckled, kissed me again, and then plowed into me with renewed fervor.
He came on a long low grunt, and for just a moment at the end, he closed his eyes, and I’d never seen his face so relaxed. We were still catching our breath, he was still inside me, and I brought my hand up to touch his cheek—how young he looked now. How innocent.
He caught my hand against his jaw. His eyes flew open. “I didn’t want to notice you,” he said so quietly it was almost a whisper. “And now I don’t know how not to.”
Another cryptic Donovan statement, but this one made my chest feel warm and stretched. “Then notice me,” I said.
He considered me a moment longer. Then stepped away, pulling out of me. “I can’t.”
He motioned for me to stay where I was. Then he removed his condom, tied it off, wrapped it in tissue from the desk and pocketed it before fastening his pants. I had to give him credit—it was probably not a good idea to leave a used condom in Mr. Velasquez’s office. Next Donovan brought some tissue and knelt down in front of me so he could clean up the blood and cum that had dripped down my thigh.
Then he left me with my pants still down and went to sit behind his desk.
I dressed myself and watched him, curious as he opened up his laptop and clicked a few keys. “You have an A on that paper now, Sabrina,” he said, his voice not entirely steady. “I believe that should be acceptable to you.” He couldn’t look at me.
Dread started gathering in my stomach. “That’s not. That’s not why I did that.” He didn’t believe that. He couldn’t. He felt bad now—as he should—and was fixing his mistake. Surely that was what this was.
“I’m sure it’s not why you did that.” He was more in control of himself now. He shut the laptop and finally met my eyes. “But now you’ll have a chance with Weston King, won’t you?”
It was a punch to the stomach. The cruelest thing he could have said.