Chapter Eight #2
"I know. You can stop saying it now." I sigh quietly.
"I was more upset about the day than about what you said.
My mom and I always spend his birthday at the cemetery.
We take him flowers, and we eat cake, and just sit there and talk to him.
We're just…together, you know? Even after she got remarried, we still kept up the tradition.
It's always been our day to remember and celebrate him. But now…"
"Now, you're here," he finishes softly, wiping my damp cheeks with the pads of his thumbs.
"Yeah. Now, I'm here. It's the first time I haven't been there. I guess it just hit harder than I thought it would."
"Me being an asshole didn't help."
"It wasn't just you. A student flipped a desk today."
"What the fuck?"
"I busted him watched porn in the middle of class. He was mad about getting caught and took it out on me." I huff out a breath. "Like it's my fault he decided he'd rather screw around and be stupid than use his brain."
"Did he hurt you?" Noah growls, his voice dropping an octave.
"No, of course not. He just had a little meltdown. We had to call his parents in for a meeting. They're pissed—at him, not at me. He may be expelled." My shoulders bounce in a shrug. "It was a shitty day."
"How can I make it better?"
"Kiss me."
I don't know why I say it. Honestly, I don't. The words just tumble out without me even thinking them. They're raw and desperate, like I need his lips on mine more than I need air. And maybe that's true. Maybe it is what I need.
I think it's what I've needed since I saw him standing on my porch holding a plate of cookies. But I don't know how to say any of that—just like I don't know how to tell him that he hurt my feelings this morning because I've been falling for him for weeks.
He groans, a broken, desperate sound. I expect him to tell me no or give me a laundry list of reasons why he shouldn't kiss me right now.
I'm sad, not delusional. I know kissing him when I'm emotional and vulnerable has bad idea written all over it.
But, even if I hadn't just cried all over him, I'd still want it.
Apparently, he does too. Or else he just doesn't want to tell me no, because his hand slides to the back of my head, his fingers sinking into my hair.
His sweet breath washes across my face. His lips crash into mine, and I taste the apology in his kiss. He isn't soft or hesitant. His kiss is feral, desperate, like he's been starving for me and finally has permission to devour.
He claims my mouth like it belongs to him, his hands running all over me at the same time—spanning my waist, kneading my hips, sliding up my spine, and fisting in my hair.
My fingers dig into his shirt, twisting the soft cotton tighter with every frantic sweep of his tongue. He smells like aftershave and mint, a combination I'll never get enough of.
The dark, wild hunger in his kiss sends heat spiraling low in my belly, and I can't get close enough. I want to live right here in his kiss, safe from everything except the earthquake he sets off in my chest.
I shift in his lap, trying to get comfortable, and end up straddling him. The move startles me, but the way he growls into my mouth makes me bolder than I've ever been.
He cups the back of my neck and angles my head, deepening the kiss until I'm dizzy. Every time I breathe, I inhale him.
"Jesus, baby," he rasps, breaking away just enough to drag in a breath. His forehead presses to mine, his eyes hooded and dark. "You have no fucking idea what you do to me."
I want to tease him or tell him that he's been doing the same thing to me for the last month, but words have abandoned me. All I can do is kiss him again, harder, until his hands slide down my back and grip my ass. He grinds me down against him, and oh god, I can feel how hard he is.
The friction between us is electric.
His mouth sweeps along my jaw, down to a spot beneath my ear that makes my knees weak. "You want this?" he asks, his lips brushing my skin. "You want me, Elsie?"
"Yes," I breathe, the word barely audible, but he hears it.
He groans in response—this deep, guttural sound that vibrates through my whole body. One hand slips from my ass, his fingers trailing along my waist before splaying wide against my stomach.
"I need you to tell me if you want to stop," he says, his voice thick. "Anytime. I mean it."
The tenderness of his words nearly undoes me. I nod, but it's not enough for him. He leans back, studying my face, and waits until I meet his eyes.
"Tell me to stop, and I will," he says, even softer this time.
"Don't stop," I whisper.
He kisses me again, and this time, his hand slides down to my thigh and then up, pushing my skirt higher.
His palm is warm and steady, his thumb tracing circles that make my pulse race.
He finds the crotch of my pantyhose, and I half-expect him to hesitate, but he just tears a little hole near the seam, slipping his fingers through.
I gasp, shocked and delighted by how easily he just…takes what he wants. I've never been that brave, but I love that he is.
He slides his hand up and presses his fingers against my panties—which are embarrassingly damp.
He groans when he realizes how wet I am. "Fuck, sweetness. I haven't even touched you, and you're this ready?"
He'd probably lose it if he knew how long I've been this ready for him. Or how very little my vibrator actually helps alleviate the ache.
His fingers slide under the edge of my panties, thick and rough and gentle all at once. The first touch is a whisper, a shocking contrast to the wild way he kissed me.
I want to writhe, to buck into his hand, but instead I freeze, unable to believe this is really happening, that he's really touching me like this, that I'm letting him.
But it's so good. God, it feels incredible.
He strokes me with careful, reverent touches, circling my clit with the pad of his thumb until I gasp. His other hand braces my lower back, anchoring me to him. The whole world condenses to that small point of heat, to that impossible, dizzying pleasure.
My whole body is a taut wire, ready to snap.
He leans in, pressing his lips to my ear. "That's it, baby. Let me feel you. Been thinking about this for weeks—how you'd taste, how you'd sound when you come apart for me."
The words go straight to my head. They land between my legs, too, right where the slow swirl of his fingers against my clit has me nearly panting.
I want to tell him that I don't have the faintest idea what I'm doing, but it feels too vulnerable.
So I just hold onto his shoulders and let him take the lead.
He must sense the hesitation in my body, because he softens his touch, slowing to just barely-there strokes. "I'll go as slow as you want," he murmurs. "Just tell me, sweetness. Tell me how it feels. Tell me what you want."
I don't know what I want.
I want more. I want everything. I want him, all of him, but I can't say that out loud. Instead, I nestle my face into the crook of his neck and whimper as he slides a finger inside me.
He groans, the sound deep and rough. "Jesus, Elsie. You're so tight. So fucking wet for me. Is this okay?"
I nod, my lips ghosting across his skin.
He pushes deeper. The stretch is strange but good in a way nothing else has ever been.
He moves in shallow pulses, curling his finger until sparks shoot up my spine. I rock against his hand on instinct, moaning his name.
"That's it," he whispers. "Ride my hand, baby. Just like that."
I do. I can't help it. The motion feels natural, primal, like I have to move or I'll explode. Every time I slide down, he presses against that spot that makes me see stars, and I rock a little faster, a little more frantic.
He adds another finger, slow and careful, and my whole body tenses around the intrusion. The burn fades to a desperate ache. I clamp a hand over my mouth to keep from sobbing his name in response.
He notices, of course. "Let me hear you," he says, gently prying my hand away from my mouth. "I want you to scream for me."
Oh god. He's going to kill me. I'm going to die right here in his lap from sheer embarrassment or sheer ecstasy. I'm not even sure which.
He works me with steady, patient strokes, curling his fingers inside me while his thumb rubs circles on my clit. Every muscle in my body draws tight, tighter, and then the wave breaks.
I lose my mind, my body, my soul. When my orgasm hits, it's a full-body detonation, my cry muffled by his shoulder as I shake apart in his arms.
He holds me through it, still working me slowly, drawing out every last tremor while whispering praise against my ear.
It takes me a while to come back to myself.
When I finally do, my cheeks are burning, and my skirt is bunched around my hips. I can feel his cock pressing up against me through his jeans, hard and huge.
"Hey," he says, his voice soft. "You okay?"
"I think I died for a second there," I say, burying my face in his throat, afraid to face him now. Not sure what to say or how to say it.
"You're beautiful when you come, Elsie."
I whimper softly, my cheeks burning.
He just holds me, like he's perfectly content with me on his lap, my cries of pleasure still hovering in the corners of the room.
I'm not sure when or how I fall asleep, but I do. And unlike most nights, I don't dream about him. I don't think I dream at all.
For once, I just sleep.