57. Megan
Chapter 57
Megan
On the last day of spring term, I fix my make-up in the staff toilets at school before I driving home. To my house. The place where I’m not currently living, but have been invited to spend the night with my hot roommate who I can’t stop thinking about kissing.
Everything about this situation is like something we’d read for book club, including the belly full of butterflies and the hot tips of my ears, which have been turning red all day.
If I die, I hope Kara and Hattie remember our pact to delete each other’s search histories because my browsing has been unbelievably pathetic this week.
‘What does it mean when a man asks you for a sleepover’
‘Gen Z underwear sexy’
‘Age gap rule calculation’
‘How to give a blow job’
That last one that had me throwing my phone across the bed and hiding under the sheets when I realised how ridiculous I'm being.
I may not have been intimate with a man for some time now, but I’m no virgin. I know my way around a penis. At least I think I do, but what if there’s some newfangled technique all the young folks are into these days and I don’t know about it? It’s not like I can ask anyone.
The age gap rule apparently says you shouldn’t date anyone half your age plus seven, which puts Ollie just on the right side of inappropriate. Hattie wouldn’t bat an eyelid, but I’ve never been involved with a younger man before and it’s got my head in a spin.
Why am I even obsessing over it in the first place? This isn’t dating. This is me coming over for a hook-up. We both know that’s all it is, but by the time I’m approaching my front door with my overnight bag, I’m fully panicking.
Should I knock? Should I let myself in? My body acts of its own accord, and before I can take control of my senses, I’ve knocked twice.
“Just a second,” I hear Ollie call out, then hurried footsteps along the hallway. It’s just long enough that I could run, and part of me wants to, but my feet refuse to shift.
“Oh, hi,” he says, his brow furrowing and softening as he takes me in, eyes sweeping down to my feet and up again. “I thought you were dinner. Did you forget your keys?”
I give them a little jingle in my hand. “No. I just wasn’t sure if I should let myself in since technically you invited me over.”
Something is different, and I can’t put my finger on it.
“You’re too fucking cute. Come here.”
And then I’m in his arms, my head against his chest, breathing in the fresh scent of his shower gel and every worry disappears. My fingertips tuck themselves into the placket of his shirt and it’s then I notice. He’s dressed up. For me.
Ollie usually wears sweatpants or jeans, a rotation of battered band t-shirts, and faded hoodies. It’s his thing, and he always looks great if a little rough around the edges, but tonight he’s in a crisp white shirt and smart black trousers, and I need a better look.
Our arms stay tight locked but we both pull our faces back at the same time, and tipping my lips up to kiss him feels unbelievably familiar. It’s too brief though, and he pulls away, tugging me over the threshold to close the door behind me.
“Come on in.” He takes my bag in one hand, and my hand in the other. “Come and see your room.”
He gives me a quick update on the freshly plastered ceiling. He's made great progress, but it’s impossible to pay much attention when my entire focus is honed in on his thumb rubbing back and forth against mine. On the way to the living room, he drops my bag just inside his bedroom door and that one casual gesture has me throbbing in anticipation.
“Where did you tell your parents you’re staying?” he asks, pulling me down to sit next to him on the sofa.
“Hattie’s.”
“That is very naughty,” he says, his sunny smile shifting to a wicked one. “Lying to your parents like that. Tut-tut. And here I thought you were a good girl.”
Rationally, a man who is almost a decade my junior calling me a good girl shouldn’t do it for me, but I’d be lying if I said those two words didn’t make me flush all over. Sneaking out to see a boy already has me feeling giddy, and if he’s going to tease me, then I’m going to tease him back.
“Fine, I’ll go home then,” I say, pressing my hand against his thigh as I push up off the sofa.
“Absolutely not.”
His arm whips out to haul me back. I land in his lap this time, a happy accident, and I can’t get over how natural it feels to act this way around each other. He presses a little kiss to my jaw and I soften further into his arms.
“You are home,” he whispers. I can’t tell if he’s talking about the flat or me on top of him, but either way, I’m thrilled. “How was your day?”
At this precise moment, I can't remember a single thing about it, and him hooking my hair behind my ears while his other hand rests on my thigh isn’t helping with my recall.
“I don’t want to talk about work,” I groan, and it’s all the invitation he needs to lean in and capture my mouth with his.
The anticipation has been building all week, thoughts of soft, slow kisses with roaming hands and deep moans. Ollie bypasses all of it, falling backwards on the sofa cushions and pulling me on top of him with a sense of urgency that has me shifting to straddle him. My long, floaty skirt gets caught between us, and I scramble to free myself so he can drag me closer.
When one of his hands cups my head, the other works fast, tugging my top out of the waistband of my skirt and up over my head. His shirt goes next, and I help with the buttons because apparently neither of us can tear our mouths away, and my god do I want his hands on more of me. More of him everywhere, really.
With deft fingers, he unhooks my bra and drags that off, too. He groans into our kiss when his thumb trails a circle over my nipple, then it’s my turn to moan when he pinches it between his thumb and forefinger.
“Missed you,” he huffs out, his hand lightly pulling my hair, lips sucking at the column of my throat.
I shift back, mourning the loss of the heat from where our bodies have been setting each other ablaze, but I need space to get my hands on him. It’s impossible though, for every move I make, his next one sends waves of pleasure through me that throw me off course. All my teasing about him acting like a teenager, and I’m the one who can’t figure out his belt buckle while I’m distracted by the warmth of his breath against my ear.
Sitting up, I try to look at what I’m working with, but do a double-take when I catch the way he’s watching me. His face is the picture of anticipation, his bottom lip trapped behind his teeth, eyes fixed on the straining bulge behind his zipper.
Finally, I manage to tug his trousers down over his hips, and when I reach inside his boxer briefs and cup the length of him, he throws his head back against the sofa cushions, hands buried in his hair.
“Fuck, that feels good.”
He’s solid in my hand, and I’m about to peel his underwear down too when the buzzer rings out down the hallway, the most unsexy sound I’ve ever heard.
“Oh shit,” he grinds out, sitting to pull his clothes back up. “ That will be dinner.”
I scoot to the other end of the sofa and let him up. He drops a quick kiss to the top of my breast.
“I’ll be right back. Don’t get dressed.”
He adjusts himself as he goes, and I can't believe I get to see him like this. The broad expanse of his bare back, the indent of his spine, his tattoo. All for my eyes only.
Despite everything that’s happened between us, all the stolen glances and hurried kisses, I still haven’t seen him fully naked. Part of me wonders if I should have been googling ‘how to give a blow job when it’s absolutely enormous’ instead.
He’s only seen me with my clothes haphazardly shoved in all directions, so I’m hardly confident to lounge around the living room topless. The second he’s gone, I grab his shirt and slip it on, quickly doing up a couple of buttons.
With my mouth still tingling from his kiss, I get up to set the table, but he’s already cleared my stuff away and taken care of everything. Plates and cutlery, wine glasses and a bottle of red already open and breathing. He’s even lit candles.
“Was I not clear about the no shirt thing?” he says when he returns. I cross my arms over my chest, not bold enough to lean into the vibes he’s laying down.
“Eating dinner naked doesn’t seem very safe.”
“Good point. Don’t want you doing anything that’s not safe, Miss Porter,” he teases.
Setting the bag of food down on the table, he drags me back into his arms and time slips into some other state while he toys with the buttons right between my breasts. The backs of his fingers graze my nipple and I have to grip his elbows to stay upright.
“So I know it’s Friday, and I’d normally cook, but I ended up helping the plasterer so I could get him out of here before you arrived, and I didn’t want to spend time in the kitchen when I could spend it with you. I figured Angelo’s never misses, but if you’re not in the mood for carbonara or the stuffed cannelloni, there’s a double portion of tiramisu in there with your name on it.”
He’s actually perfect.
A dream.
Too good to be true.
I want all of that, but I want him more.
“That sounds perfect, but I’m not sure I can concentrate on eating while your shirt is off.” I trace a fingertip down the curve of his bicep and hope he catches my meaning. “Can you wait a little longer?”
His lips press together, hands drifting past my lower back to pull my hips against him. That hard length is still there and his smile breaks free when I writhe against it.
“For dinner, yes. For you, I’m done waiting.”