Chapter 5 #2
I melted. There was no other word for it. My defenses, my logic, my fear—it all dissolved under the heat of his mouth.
I wound my arms around his neck, burying my fingers in his thick, dark hair, pulling him closer. I opened to him, and his tongue swept in, tasting, claiming. He tasted like coffee and dark chocolate and pure, unadulterated male.
The kiss deepened, becoming wet and messy. He tilted his head, changing the angle, devouring me.
His hands were everywhere. One was tangled in my hair, controlling the angle of my head, while the other swept down my back, gripping my ass and pulling me forward until I was flush against his erection.
He was hard. granite hard. The ridge of him pressed against my center through our layers of clothing, and friction sent a spark of pleasure shooting through me that made me gasp into his mouth.
"Fuck," he cursed, breaking the kiss to trail hot, wet lips down my jawline. "You feel so good. So small."
"You're too big," I panted, my head falling back, exposing my throat.
"I know," he growled, biting lightly at the sensitive cord of my neck. "But you can take it. You're tough, Mouse. Tougher than you look."
He moved his hand—the one on my thigh—and slid it inward.
I froze.
"Relax," he whispered against my skin. "Let me."
His hand moved higher, his thumb brushing against the seam of my jeans, right over my clit. Even through the denim, the pressure was exquisite.
"Oakley, we're in the library," I whispered, panic warring with desire.
"No one is here," he murmured, kissing the spot behind my ear that made my toes curl. "And if they are, let them watch. Let them see that you're mine."
He started to rub. Slow, deliberate circles.
I bit my lip to keep from crying out. The sensation was maddening. It wasn't enough. I wanted friction. I wanted skin.
"Please," I whimpered.
"Please what?" he teased, nipping at my earlobe. "Use your words, Good Girl. Tell me what you need."
Good Girl.
The praise hit me like a drug. My brain short-circuited. Being called a 'Good Girl' by the man who looked like he could destroy me shouldn't have been this hot. But it was. It tapped into some primal part of me that wanted to surrender, to let him take control.
"Touch me," I begged.
"Where?"
"You know where."
He chuckled darkly. "Say it."
"I... I want you to touch me. Under my jeans."
He pulled back, looking into my eyes. His pupils were blown so wide his eyes were almost black. He looked triumphant.
"Good girl," he praised again, his voice thick with satisfaction.
He didn't hesitate. He reached for the button of my jeans. His fingers were surprisingly dexterous for their size. Pop. Then the zipper. The sound was loud in the quiet room.
He slid his hand inside.
His palm was hot against my stomach. He pushed past the elastic of my panties, his rough callouses scraping delightfully against my soft skin. And then he was there.
He cupped me.
I arched my back, a strangled cry escaping my throat. He was so warm. And I was so wet.
"Jesus, Faye," he groaned, feeling the slickness. "You're soaking."
"It's your fault," I accused breathlessly.
"I'll take the credit."
He started to move. His fingers found the bundle of nerves that was screaming for attention and began to work. He wasn't gentle. He was rhythmic, firm, and relentless. He knew exactly where to press, exactly how fast to go.
I clung to his shoulders, my nails digging into the fabric of his shirt. My world narrowed down to the sensation of his hand and the look in his eyes.
He watched me. He watched every twitch of my face, every gasp.
"That's it," he encouraged, his voice low and hypnotic. "Take it. Fall apart for me."
"I can't... I can't here..."
"You can," he commanded. "I've got you. I won't let you fall. Just let go."
He picked up the pace, his thumb rubbing faster.
The pressure built in my belly, a coil winding tighter and tighter. It was too much. It was sensory overload. The smell of him, the heat, the danger of being caught, the praise.
"Oakley," I gasped, my hips bucking involuntarily against his hand.
"I'm here," he said, leaning in to kiss me again, swallowing my cries. "I've got you, Good Girl. Come for me."
That was the tipping point.
I shattered.
The orgasm ripped through me, intense and blinding. My vision spotted. I clamped down on his hand, my body spasming in waves of pure pleasure. I cried out into his mouth, shaking apart in his arms.
He held me through it, his hand not stopping until the last tremor faded. He absorbed my shudders, his own body rigid with tension.
When it was over, I slumped against him, breathless and boneless.
He withdrew his hand slowly, careful to fix my jeans and zip them back up. He rested his forehead against mine, his breathing ragged.
"Wow," he breathed.
"Yeah," I whispered, my voice sounding wrecked. "Wow."
We stayed like that for a long moment, just breathing, the reality of what had just happened settling over us like a heavy blanket.
I had just let the hockey captain finger me in a study room.
I buried my face in his chest. "I can't believe we just did that."
"Believe it," he said, wrapping his arms around me and holding me tight. "Because I have a feeling it's going to happen again."
He pulled back, lifting my chin with his finger. His eyes were still glowing, but the feral edge had softened slightly.
"But next time," he said, "we're not going to be in a library. And I'm not going to be wearing clothes."
My heart skipped a beat.
"Next time?"
He smirked, a wicked, confident thing. "You didn't think this was a one-time thing, did you, Mouse? You opened the door. You let the Wolf in. There's no going back now."
I looked at him. I should be terrified. I should be running for the hills.
But as I looked at his swollen lips and the fierce possessiveness in his eyes, I knew he was right.
I didn't want to go back.
"Okay," I whispered.
"Okay," he echoed.
He lifted me off the table and set me on my feet. My legs were wobbly. He kept a steadying hand on my lower back.
"Pack up," he said. "I'm taking you home. And then I'm going to go take the coldest shower in the history of plumbing."
I laughed, a nervous, giddy sound. I gathered my books, my hands still shaking slightly.
As we walked out of the library, into the cold night air, Oakley took my hand. He didn't ask. He just interlaced his fingers with mine, his large hand swallowing mine whole.
It felt possessive. It felt heavy.
It felt like a promise.
I squeezed his hand back, and for the first time in my life, I didn't care about the rules. I didn't care about being safe.
I was walking with the monster, and I had never felt more alive.