His weight presses down on me and I spread my legs. And then I feel him pressing inside me.
The first time we did this—the only other time I’ve done this—he had to push pretty hard to get inside and it stung a little, but I didn’t bleed or anything. This time, there’s no sting. He guides himself in with his hand, then starts to move, pumping against me. His breathing becomes more ragged, little groans escaping on puffs of air. He feels good inside me and I do my best to move with him. After a little while he stops moving and holds his breath.
“You feel so fucking good,” he says when he lets it out. “I don’t want to come yet.” He starts pumping again. “Are you feeling me, baby girl?”
“Yeah,” I say, because I am.
I feel heat from the friction of his skin rubbing against mine, and his hair brushing my cheek. I feel his mouth on mine and when he pulls away to breathe, I feel his hot breath on my lips. I feel full of him and happy he came to me. Happy that he wants me.
And when he thrusts hard into me one last time and groans, “Oh fucking Christ,” I feel powerful. I like that I can make him feel something that intense. I love that I can make him lose control, if only for a second.
He lays on top of me for a few more minutes, catching his breath. “I’ve missed you so fucking much,” he breathes into my hair. “Nobody else feels like you, baby girl.”
It’s okay if it’s a lie. I’m not jealous of the other girls he’s been with. There’s no point to that. “Missed you too, Nate.”
He pulls out of me and lays on his side facing me. “You know how fucked up this is, right? Me wanting my best friend’s baby sister.”
I shrug. “I’m not really a baby anymore.”
“Fuck, no,” he says, brushing his fingers over my nipple through my T-shirt. He kisses the tip of my nose then sits up and peels off his condom. He rakes his boxers off the floor and pulls them up his legs as he staggers toward the door.
I know this is what it is and I’ve always been okay with that. I don’t expect any sort of commitment or anything long term from Nate. But I watch as he vanishes into the hall and can’t help but wonder how long it will be before I hear from him again.
Chapter 2
Caiden
I know my interest in this girl is beyond inappropriate. I work for the university. I’m a few months from finishing my PhD in Comparative Literature. At twenty-five, unless she were a senior, she’s way too young to be on my radar. But there’s something about her I find mesmerizing.
I desperately want to ask her how old she is, but even just the question hints at impropriety. She’s in Dr. Duncan’s upper level poetry class, so she’s probably at least a junior, though he takes an occasional sophomore. So…twenty-ish?
Too young, I remind myself.
When she first came in last week, dressed in a loose sweater and low-slung jeans, it was easy to overlook the fact that she has some very nice curves.
But not today.
Against my will, my eyes track her to a table near the back of the resource center. I try to ignore my body’s reaction as I take in the full measure of toned leg between the heeled boots and her short skirt. I seriously doubt she gained the traditional freshman fifteen. Everything about her looks flat and firm under her snug-fitting sweater.
My body can’t have a reaction to her. Messing with the undergrads in Dr. Duncan’s class would get me booted out of here faster than you could say Don Juan.
She slips into a seat and glances my direction. I duck my head, pretending I wasn’t just totally checking her out. I busy myself behind the counter cataloging new references that Dr. Duncan has added to his reading list this semester. But there’s no way cataloging can hold my attention when she’s only thirty feet away.
I’m forcing my eyes back to my work just as a loud, “Fucking—umph!” comes from the direction of the stairs.
I spin in time to catch Jones, fellow grad school compatriot and my kickboxing partner, demonstrate perfect belly flop technique as he sprawls face down at the top of the stairs. His messenger bag first flips up and clubs him in the head, then flies open and spews its contents across ten feet of floor in a veritable yard sale.
I’m thinking I should go over there and help him when, in my peripheral vision, I see Blaire crossing toward the stairs. I’m out from behind the counter like a shot.
I chose Jones as my kickboxing partner because I needed someone who could push me. He’s six three, two inches taller than me, and outweighs my two ten by a solid twenty pounds. He’s got that rough around the edges thing going that ladies seem to dig on. And, unlike me, he’s an unrestricted free agent. His grandmother is footing his grad school bills, so he hasn’t had to grovel for scholarships, graduate assistantships, and work-study gigs to pay tuition. Meaning, he can date anyone he wants. And he does. He doesn’t have any qualms about dipping into the undergrad dating pool.