CHAPTER forty-nine
She's been camped out in the library all week—typical exam-week Sam. When it comes to studying, she goes full machine mode. She's actually worse than me.
I've barely seen her in days, and we literally share a room.
She doesn't nap. She doesn't blink. She just studies, like she's in an academic war she refuses to lose.
Still, seeing her now, completely knocked out the moment her head hit the pillow, something in my chest softens. She looks so small, so tired. I tug the blanket up over her shoulders, brushing a stray strand of hair off her cheek and sighing softly.
"Good night, Sam," I whisper.
She doesn't move, just breathes evenly, lost to the kind of sleep she's probably been avoiding all week.
The following night, it's already past nine when I finally drag myself out of the elevator, muscles aching from hours of twirling, leaping, and getting flung through the air like a rag doll.
My bun's half undone, my tote's sliding off my shoulder, and my phone's in hand as I catch up on Zach's texts from an hour ago.
ZACH
Hey babe, text me when you're back at the dorm.
ZACH
I miss you. ***
I smile down at the screen, thumbs ready to type a reply—when a voice startles me.
"Texting another guy? Should I be jealous?"
"Zach!" I practically launch myself into his arms. He laughs, wrapping me up easily, his familiar warmth settling around me like home.
"Hey, baby. Glad you missed me too." He presses a quick kiss to the top of my head.
"I was literally about to reply to your text," I say, pulling back but still smiling like an idiot. It's ridiculous how happy I am to see him, especially when I just had lunch with him hours ago.
I unlock the dorm door and push it open.
Zach follows me inside, glancing around. "Sam's not back yet, huh?"
I shake my head. "You know your sister during exam week. She's probably still at the library."
I barely have time to drop my bag on the rack before a startled gasp escapes me—Zach's already got his hands on my hips, pinning me against the wall, his mouth crashing onto mine.
He starts soft—he always does—but the second I part my lips, giving him that unspoken yes, he deepens the kiss. His tongue slides against mine, slow at first, then hungry, deliberate. The air between us ignites, every inch of me straining closer.
Between kisses, his voice breaks through, low and rough against my mouth. "You have no idea how much I missed you..."
I manage a shaky laugh, words melting into the press of his lips. "You literally saw me at lunch."
He kisses me again, deeper this time, teeth grazing my bottom lip. "Doesn't matter," he breathes. "I've been counting the hours since then like a madman."
That makes me giggle—small and breathless—because it's insane how similar we are. I've been missing him, too. Every text, every look across the cafeteria, never enough.
"God," I whisper against his lips, smiling. "We're ridiculous."
He grins, his forehead resting against mine. "Yeah," he murmurs, brushing his thumb along my jaw before kissing me again, slower, tender this time. "Ridiculous about each other."
His fingers tighten at my waist, possessive, dragging me flush against him until there's not a breath left between us.
I can feel the hard lines of his body, the warmth, the ache, the pure, magnetic pull that makes my knees go weak.
"Zach..." I make a soft, hungry noise into his mouth, and he rewards me with a rough, masculine groan that rumbles in his chest.
His hands tighten, fingers digging into the fabric of my blouse, the pressure at my waist making me feel claimed, anchored—even as the rest of me melts into need.
"God, I can't get enough of you, baby..." he rasps, punctuating the words with hungry kisses along my jaw, down to the pulse in my neck.
He grinds his hips forward, and I feel every contour and ridge of him pressing closer through our layers of clothes. He's solid and unyielding, intent on driving me insane.
I gasp again, this time out of pure want, biting my lower lip. The friction, the delicious heat gathering between my thighs, is almost too much—almost—but I don't want it to stop.
But I know that I have to.
"Zach... we need to... stop," I manage to say, my voice thready and unconvincing, even to me.
"Why?" he murmurs, expertly slotting his thigh between mine.
When he thrusts forward, it presses up against my center—exactly where I need him most.
Fuck.
"Why would you want to stop when I know you're so fucking wet for me?"
Since when did Zach's mouth get this dirty? Not that I'm complaining—pretty sure it's my new favorite thing about him.
He licks a path up my neck, then sucks hard at the spot below my jaw, marking me just like he had last night. I'd counted five hickeys this morning—each one a secret, possessive bruise I hadn't tried too hard to hide.
I smile, despite myself, loving the way he claims me.
He nips the same spot, then soothes it with his tongue before pulling back just enough to meet my eyes. His gaze is molten, pupils blown wide, and I tremble under the weight of it.
He doesn't waste time—both hands move to my front, gliding up the line of my ribs to cup my breasts over my thin blouse. His thumbs find my nipples, already hard and aching, and he pinches them through the fabric, sending a bolt of pleasure straight to my core.
"Oh, fuck..." I hiss, arching against his hands.
"You like that, don't you, baby?" he mutters, eyes flicking between my face and the way my body bows into his touch. There's something almost reverent in the way he touches me, like every sound I make is a prize to be earned.
"I do," I manage, though my voice comes out wrecked.
I try to think—God, I really do—but my brain's just gone.
"But... Sam... could come back any minute... we—" The excuse sounds hollow, especially once he starts grinding his thigh in slow, deliberate circles, setting up a rhythm that makes my toes curl.
He flashes a wicked grin. "Then I guess I have to make you come before she does."
He's already unbuttoning my blouse, fingers deft and impatient.
When he peels it open, he murmurs a low, appreciative curse at the sight of my black lace bra.
It lasts only seconds—he unclasps it one-handed, lets it fall from my shoulders, and wastes no time lowering his mouth to my breasts. He circles my nipple with his tongue, then sucks it between his lips, sharp and greedy, like he's been starving for me all day.
"Zach..." I gasp, nearly sobbing the sound as heat coils inside me, tight and merciless.
I clap a hand over my mouth to muffle the moan, but he only smiles against my skin, intent on dragging every sound out of me.
"You sound so fucking hot when you moan for me," he growls, moving from one breast to the other, lavishing attention on both until my legs can barely hold me up.
He trails wet, hungry kisses up to my throat, then my jaw, then claims my lips again, all while his hand slides lower—skimming over my stomach, down to the waistband of my jeans.
I shudder as his fingers dip inside, knuckles grazing my skin, and then he's cupping me, palm pressing firmly against my heat. He groans, the sound vibrating against my mouth, and I realize just how much he needs this too.
"Zach..." I breathe, hips canting forward as he begins slow, torturous circles over my clit, teasing me through the thin fabric of my panties.
"Yeah, baby? You like my fingers on your greedy little clit?" he taunts, voice dripping sin, and I whimper, helpless under the weight of his words.
Oh God. That filthy mouth. It's a problem. I'm a problem.
Someone seriously needs to put a warning label on him—Caution: may cause spontaneous dehydration and questionable life choices.
Did I mention I love it? I did, right?
But, just in case the universe missed it—I am absolutely, hopelessly obsessed with Zach Westbrook's dirty, beautiful, chaos-inducing mouth.
My brain's gone, my morals are gone, and I'm about three seconds from completely falling apart.
"You love how I make you feel, don't you? How I own you right here?"
All I can do is nod, eyes fluttering closed as he slips his hand beneath the lace, skin to slick, burning skin. He teases at first, dipping just the tip of one finger inside before pulling out and circling my clit again, making me writhe against him.
"Fuck... Zach... stop torturing me..." I beg, my voice high and breathless.
He nips my earlobe, whispering, "But I love torturing you with pleasure. I want you to come for me, Caroline. Right here. I want you to soak my fucking fingers."
I gasp, his filthy words turning my brain to static, and when he slides a finger inside me—slow, knowing exactly how to angle it—I nearly come right then.
He pumps in and out, never losing rhythm on my clit, and when I'm trembling and desperate, he adds a second finger, stretching me, curling them just right.
"Oh God... oh fuck... I'm gonna—" I bite down on my hand to stifle the scream, my body tensing as the orgasm crashes through me, hot and violent and all-consuming.
He works me through it, steady and relentless, until I'm a boneless, shaking mess against the wall. Only then does he finally pull his hand free, glistening with the unmistakable proof of what he's done to me.
I slump back, the world tilting and blurring like I've stepped off a spinning ride. My skin feels too alive, every nerve buzzing, my pulse still sprinting.
I press a trembling hand to my mouth, trying to catch my breath, and a shaky laugh slips out—half dazed, half delirious.
God, I can still feel him everywhere.
My whole body hums, soft and heavy and sated. My legs feel like Jell-O, and for a second, I'm sure I'll just slide down the wall.
"God, that was good..." I whisper, grinning into my hand, drunk on the afterglow.
Zach's grin turns downright sinful. "I know."
The confidence in his voice hits low in my stomach—he sounds like a man who knows exactly what he just did to me, and he's damn proud of it.