5. GEORGIE #2
Is this what it feels like to have someone actually give a shit? To not carry every burden alone, scraping by on ramen and determination and sheer stubborn refusal to fail?
I could get dangerously used to this.
At twelve fifty-five, I shoulder my bag and head toward the east gate. Campus sprawls green and manicured, students clustered in groups or rushing between buildings. Normal college life I've never quite managed to be part of.
"Georgie! Hey, wait up!"
Craig's voice cuts through the ambient noise, grating and unwelcome. I don't slow down, hoping he'll take the hint.
He doesn't.
"Come on, don't be like that." His hand wraps around my upper arm, pulling me to a stop with more force than necessary.
Everything in me recoils. "Let go."
"Just wanted to invite you to my party tonight." He crowds into my space, too close, invading every boundary. "It'll be fun. You never come to anything."
"Because I don't want to." I try stepping back but he follows, maintaining that uncomfortable proximity. "I'm busy."
"You're always busy." His fingers tighten on my arm. "What, are you playing hard to get? Because I'm getting real tired of this game."
"It's not a game. I'm not interested."
"Everyone's interested eventually." He leans in, breath hot against my face with underlying notes of energy drink and entitlement. "Stop being such a?—"
The world lurches sideways.
One second Craig's in my face, the next he's airborne—literally flying backward before crashing into the brick wall behind us with a sickening thud.
Gavin stands where Craig was, fury carved into every line of his massive frame. Murder lives in those gray eyes, cold and absolute.
"She said no." The words emerge quiet, deadly. "Which part of that confused you?"
Craig struggles to his feet, stupid enough to look angry instead of terrified. "Who the fuck?—"
Gavin moves faster than someone his size should be able to, closing the distance and fisting Craig's collar, slamming him back against the wall hard enough to rattle teeth.
"Stay the fuck away from her." Each word drops like a stone. "Touch her again, breathe near her again, even think about her again, and I'll break every bone in your worthless body before feeding you to the rats. We clear?"
Craig's face cycles through several shades of pale, eyes wide with the sudden understanding that he's staring at something far more dangerous than a jealous boyfriend.
"Y-yes. We're clear. Sorry. I'm sorry."
Gavin holds him there a moment longer before releasing him with enough force that Craig stumbles. "Get out of my sight."
He runs. Actually turns and sprints across campus like hellhounds are snapping at his heels.
The smart response would be fear. Normal people would be frightened witnessing that level of violence, that casual willingness to hurt someone.
But heat pools low in my belly instead, slick and wanting. Watching Gavin defend me, claim me in front of witnesses, bare his teeth for my protection—it does something primal and undeniable.
I feel safe. Protected. Desired enough that he'd commit violence on my behalf without hesitation.
Also extremely turned on.
He turns to me, that murderous fury softening into concern. "Did he hurt you?"
"No. You got here in time."
His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb stroking my cheek with surprising gentleness. "Good. Anyone else I need to know about?"
"Not currently."
"Better stay that way." He drops his hand but threads our fingers together, leading me toward where his car idles at the curb.
We slide into the backseat and he hits a button. Tinted glass rises between us and the driver, creating a private cocoon.
The partition barely finishes sealing before I'm climbing into his lap, straddling those thick thighs and grinding down against the hardness already straining his pants.
"Fuck." His hands grip my hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks. "Needy little thing."
"Your fault." I rock against him, chasing friction. "Getting all violent and protective."
"That turned you on?" Dark amusement colors his voice. "Watching me throw that little shit across campus?"
"Yes." No point lying when the evidence is probably soaking through my underwear.
He groans, low and filthy. "Such a dirty girl. Getting wet from watching Daddy defend you."
The word sends electricity straight to my clit. "Please."
"Please what?" His hands slide under my shirt, rough palms scraping against sensitive skin. "Use your words, baby girl."
"Need you." Desperation edges the plea. "Need you inside me."
"Here?" He glances toward the tinted windows. "Where anyone walking by might see?"
"Yes."
"Greedy little slut." But he's already working his belt open, freeing his cock with practiced efficiency. "Lift up."
I rise enough for him to shove my skirt up and yank my underwear aside. The thick, blunt head of his cock nudges my slick folds, hot and insistent, before he guides himself right where I ache for him.
"Take it." His voice drops into that gravel-rough command that always melts my bones. With one powerful upward snap of his hips, he yanks me down, impaling me in a single devastating stroke.
The sudden, brutal stretch forces a raw gasp from my throat, my walls fluttering around the impossible girth as every thick inch forces tender tissues to yield.
The fullness borders on pain, my pussy still sore and swollen from the way he used me earlier, yet that bright edge of discomfort only sharpens the pleasure.
Being so completely, vulgarly claimed by him feels like coming home. My thighs tremble against the hard muscle of his, the coarse fabric of his pants rasping the sensitive skin behind my knees while the leather seat creaks beneath us.
I brace my palms on his broad shoulders and begin to move, rolling my hips in frantic circles before rising and dropping again, chasing that perfect drag of his cock against every sensitive ridge inside me.
His hands knead my ass, fingers sinking deep into soft flesh as he helps slam me down harder, faster, the wet slap of skin meeting skin filling the sealed backseat.
"That's it. Fuck yourself on Daddy's cock like the needy little thing you are."
Heat floods my cheeks at the filthy praise, yet instead of shame, the words only wind the coil in my belly tighter. Every growled syllable vibrates straight to my clit. My nipples tighten to aching peaks, already leaking tiny beads of milk that dampen the front of my shirt.
"Shirt off." Impatience roughens his tone as he yanks at the hem. "Want to see these pretty tits."
Fabric catches on my elbows; I struggle for half a second before he growls and simply rips the bra apart.
Lace and elastic give way with a sharp tearing sound, leaving angry red welts across the soft curves of my breasts.
Cool air hits me, but his mouth is already there, sealing hot and wet around my left nipple.
The suction is merciless. Let-down hits like a dam breaking, warm milk surging across his tongue in rhythmic pulses.
The dual sensation—his thick cock splitting me open with every bounce, stretching my pussy to its limit while his tongue works my breast in hungry pulls—shatters what little control I have left.
Pleasure builds in heavy, liquid waves that crash higher and higher until I can't breathe, can't think, can only feel the stretch and the wet heat of his mouth devouring me.
"Gavin—Daddy—I'm?—"
"Come." He switches to the neglected breast without warning, blunt teeth grazing the oversensitive peak before he sucks hard enough to draw a desperate cry from me. "Come all over my cock, baby girl. Show me who this pussy belongs to."
The command detonates everything. My walls clamp and ripple around his pistoning length in violent spasms, milking him with greedy, fluttering contractions while my vision fractures into sparks.
Tremors wrack my entire body. I clutch at his hair, hips stuttering as I grind down through the overwhelming release, tears slipping from the corners of my eyes.
He follows with a guttural groan that vibrates against my breast, burying his face deeper as his cock swells and jerks inside me. Thick, scalding ropes of come flood my pussy in heavy spurts, so much that it leaks out around his shaft and slicks my thighs.
The molten heat of it marks me from the inside out, branding me in the most primal way possible while his arms lock around my back, holding me flush against his muscular chest as we both shake apart.
We stay locked together, panting and trembling. His mouth releases my nipple with an obscene pop, lips glistening with milk.
"Fucking perfect." He kisses me, deep and claiming, letting me taste the sweet tang of my own milk on his tongue. "Mine."
"Yours." The admission slips out easily, truth settling into my bones like warm honey.
Something has fundamentally shifted between us. This isn't just attraction or convenience or even the fucked-up situation that threw us together.
I'm tethered to him now. Bound by something deeper than logic or reason—by the simple fact that he takes care of me in ways no one ever has. Sees me, claims me, makes me feel valued beyond my usefulness.
It's dangerous and probably stupid and definitely too fast.
But I can't bring myself to care.
He kisses me again, softer this time, almost reverent, the scratch of his stubble a delicious counterpoint to the gentleness of his mouth. When he pulls back, those storm-gray eyes search my face with an intensity that steals what little breath I have left.
"What do you want for lunch?"