22. “Lose Control” - Teddy Swims
“Lose Control” - Teddy Swims
Walker
There are several things to note about our current situation.
It bothers me a little that it doesn’t bother me, but going down that hole feels a little Alice in Wonderland-y, so I am choosing to ignore it for the time being.
Surfing with Heath was . . . fun. I’m kicking younger Walker for not doing it when she had the chance. The thrill of riding that board to shore was almost enough to make me forget about the real reason I’m here.
That, and the intoxicating man next to me.
It would be dishonest to deny that Heath makes me feel things I’d rather not feel. Every time he’s around, I get breathless, and my skin starts to feel clammy. That kiss the other night was enough to make my dreams . . . interesting, to say the least.
And yes, I want to lick every inch of those abs when he walks toward me .
We get to the Archives an hour before closing, thanks to our surfing adventures, and I am perfectly fine. Okay, not perfectly fine, because my body is humming with electricity. But nearly fine.
There is no one at the reception desk when we walk in. We glance around, but no one pops out from behind a potted plant. Heath looks at me and shrugs. We head on back.
The library is mostly empty this late in the day.
No one pays us any mind as we slip through the aisles toward the G.R.
Huntington room. I don’t know why I feel like we are doing something wrong, but when Heath bumps into a globe in the center of the aisle because he’s looking back at me, I hush him, then convulse into giggles.
He grins and grabs my arm, tugging me along after him. I force myself to focus on the fact that we only have an hour before we need to leave, and not on the fact that my skin feels seared where his hand is resting on it.
We slip inside the room without running into anyone who works at the Archives. “As rigid as they are about their membership rules, I would think they’d take better care in manning their front desk,” he says.
“Technically you don’t need to stay.” I don’t want to keep him here if he’d rather go.
“I’ll stay,” he says simply, and walks toward the fiction shelf.
I take a deep breath and turn my attention to the book I was perusing the last time we were in here. It feels weird in my hands, like it has an energy of its own.
I carry it to the table and pull my study supplies from my bag. Heath turns when I unzip my pencil pouch.
“She’s getting serious.” He walks over to the table. “Who needs eight thousand highlighters?”
“I do.” I uncap a pink one and highlight the sentence I’ve just written in my notebook .
He sets his novel aside and leans across the table, resting on his hands. “I think you take this whole thing too seriously.”
My gaze flies up to his face. A smile is hiding in the creases of his mouth.
“I’m not sure it’s possible for a future professor to take studying too seriously.”
“I beg to differ,” he says.
“Then we’ll have to agree to disagree.” I return to the book in front of me, but the words are blurring together on the page.
He shifts so he’s sitting on the edge of the table. He picks up my pencil pouch and starts rifling through it. “Tell me why you want to be a professor again?”
I pause. “Because I can’t imagine anything better than being surrounded by books all day.”
“Why not a librarian?” He uncaps and recaps the highlighters in the bag.
I flick the pen back and forth while I consider my answer. “It’s not just the books. It’s the research.”
“Like this?” He raises his brows as he looks around.
“Like this.” I look back down before he pulls me in with those eyes.
“Seems a little . . . stodgy.” A smile lurks in his voice. He’s trying to distract me, and it’s working.
“Give me that.” I pull the pouch from his hand and look inside. He’s switched all of the caps. “You’re a child.”
A quiet chuckle floats my way as he hops off the table and walks to the armchair. I’ve read the same sentence twelve times. At this rate, I’ll be lucky to finish a page before it’s time to leave.
He sinks into the chair, and I’m mesmerized by the way his body folds itself to accommodate the small space. He’s all lean limbs and toned muscles. There’s no bulk to him, just height and length and breadth .
What was it like to be able to run my hands over that body, to taste it, to inhale it? What did that hair feel like between my fingers, my breasts, my legs?
As if he can sense my gaze, he looks up from his book and meets my eyes. I blink and look back down at the page.
Focus, Walker. God.
Several minutes later, though, my eyes have wandered back to him.
His shirt is hanging open—the bastard undid those buttons I so carefully buttoned—revealing the golden-brown chest that distracted me most of the day.
He’s methodically cracking his knuckles as he reads.
He darts a furtive glance at me, then does a double take when he catches me looking. Again.
This is getting ridiculous.
Heat grows between my thighs the longer we sit here. If I don’t get out soon, there’s no telling what’s going to happen.
Remember what he did. Remember what he did.
I take a quick trip to the restroom. When I get back, he’s still sitting, arms resting on his knees.
“I need to email Dr. Riordan with an update tonight.” It’s a senseless thing to say—why would Heath care?—but it’s meant to shift my brain into let’s-focus-on-what’s-actually-important-here mode. I sit back down and find my spot in the book I was reading.
“Is that a requirement?” he says.
I scrawl a note in the margin of my notebook. “No, but he likes to keep tabs on what I’m up to.”
There’s silence for a few beats. When I glance over, frown lines are furrowing his brow. “Why would a teacher need to know what his students are doing outside of school?” he says.
I recap my pen. “He’s more of a mentor.”
“It’ s still weird.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yeah, it fucking is.”
“What is your problem?” Blood pulses right below the surface of my skin.
“I don’t have a problem. I just think it’s weird that your professor wants to keep tabs on you .”
“I told you, he’s a mentor.”
“I don’t care what he is. It’s weird.”
I stare at him. “Are you—are you jealous?”
He scoffs. “No, I’m not jealous .” He imitates my tone.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
He stands and walks to the table. My heart rate kicks up another notch.
“Why would I be jealous?”
“I don’t know.” I try to swallow the lump in my throat, but my mouth is too dry. “But this is the second time you’ve gotten upset about me giving attention to another guy.”
“I’m looking out for you. As a friend.” He leans down so he’s only inches away from my face. Electricity crackles in the space between us.
“We’re not friends.”
“Damn right we’re not.” His hand is in my hair before I have time to react. He pulls me up at the same time as he moves his mouth over mine.
The taste of him hits me like shock waves. He tastes like popsicles and the ocean and Heath . He tastes like all the best moments of my life rolled into one delectable dessert. He tastes like home.
He parts my lips with his tongue, and I give him access to everything he wants. He groans when I slide my tongue across his. Our teeth clash together as he tries to go deeper.
He walks me backward until the bookcase stops us.
He presses into me, his body firm but soft, a wall of gentle heat.
He slides one hand from my hair to encircle my neck, all while keeping his mouth firmly on mine.
His thumb flicks back and forth across my jugular notch.
I whimper at all of the sensations he is dragging out of me.
I bury my fingers into that glorious hair I’ve been dreaming of and gasp when he moves his mouth to my neck. He nips at my skin and sucks on my earlobe. His other hand travels to my hip, anchoring me against the wall. I cry out when his teeth sink into the space behind my ear.
“Shhh,” he murmurs. “You don’t want anyone to find us.”
Remembering where we are should bring me to my senses. Instead it cranks my libido even higher. “Getting it on in the library has always been a fantasy of mine,” I say breathlessly as his mouth works its way across my collarbone.
This drives him into a frenzy. His hand moves from my hip to the hem of my skirt, skimming it over and over with his thumb until I’m ready to beg him for more. Finally he slips it beneath the fabric. I moan as he reaches my lace undies.
The heat of his hand flows through me as he cups me, using the base of his palm to create friction right where I need it most. I keep my hands in his hair as he works me over, tilting my head back and scooting books on the shelf behind me.
“Walker, god,” he says, as breathless as I am. His fingers fly over the buttons on my shirt, stopping halfway down to tug my breast out of both bra and shirt. He settles his mouth over it while he continues his ministrations between my thighs.
I buck against him, and he chuckles. The sound is muffled by my breast filling his mouth. He has both hands beneath my skirt now, tracing light circles through my tights and panties.
“This skirt was extremely misleading,” he says.
“How so?” I pant. I’m thanking my lucky stars I wore a skirt and not trousers today .
“I thought I only had underwear to get through. I hope you’re not particularly fond of these tights.” He punctuates this sentence by digging his fingers into the fabric and pulling, tearing them both along the seam.
I gasp out a laugh, which dissolves into a moan the second his fingers reach me.
He rubs his thumb back and forth over my folds, tantalizing me to the brink of madness. Slowly, he slides it further in. He kisses me again, then pulls back. “God, are you this wet for me?”
I let out a breathy chuckle. “Who else would it be for?”
“I don’t know. That old guy over in the poetry section?”
I bite his lip, hard. He responds by thrusting his fingers deep inside me. I cry out from the intense pressure. He curls them and strokes me until I’m near combustion.
“Walker, baby,” he pants in my ear. “I need to be inside you, like right now.”
I don’t know if he’s simply stating a fact or asking for permission, but I do not have the brain power to focus on conversation. “Please,” I whimper.
I’ve become my mother, and I don’t even care.
His fingers slide out from inside me, slick and dripping. He pulls a foil from his wallet, unzips his shorts, and unrolls the condom within seconds.
Then he’s back, pushing those fingers back inside until I don’t think I can take it anymore. “Heath, please,” I whine. “I need more.”
He hitches my leg around his waist. Then he presses the back of my other thigh with his fingers. “Now jump,” he says.
I do, wrapping both legs around him. He takes another step toward the bookcase, so I’m firmly ensconced between two walls. He pauses at my entrance. Every muscle in my body tenses, waiting for the moment he claims me .
When he thrusts his entire length into me, I throw my head back and cry out his name. He shifts me down onto him so that he’s seated inside as far as he can go. Then he holds me in place while pulling out a few inches and slamming it home again.
I’m already coiled so tightly, it only takes a few more thrusts before I break. I cling to his shoulders as the climax rips through me, sending me into a shower of sparks. With a groan and one final thrust, he falls apart.