20. Will #2
My eyes fly open. I look down at him. That infuriatingly beautiful face. He’s so fucking bratty. I put one hand on his cheek and brush the tip of my cock across his lips, watching his lids get heavy. A dreamy, faraway look in his eyes. His tongue comes out to graze me when I do it again.
“Enough,” he whispers, batting my hand away and taking me into his mouth. He swallows me down as deep as I’ll go, forcing a strangled sound out of me.
“Fuck.”
I swear he manages to make a smug sound around my dick.
I grip the back of the couch to stop from gripping his head too hard while he gives me a masterclass in blow jobs. Of course he’s fucking amazing at this shit. Priestley Rosenthal doesn’t do anything by halves.
I throw my head back and enjoy it, looking down every now and then to admire the view of Priestley’s shiny black hair, uncharacteristically messy while his head bobs between my legs.
My toes start to tingle and everything in me tenses up, ready for my release. I know he can feel it because he doubles down on his efforts. He’s a competitive fucker. He wants to beat me at blow jobs.
Yeah, well, I’m not gonna let him.
It takes everything in me, but I manage to tell him to stop.
He pulls off in a slow movement, dragging his tongue, making me whine.
“Sure you want me to stop?”
No. I nod.
He takes my appearance in greedily. I must look wrecked. Splayed out on his couch with his spit all over my cock.
“Bed?” I manage. “I wanna fuck you.”
He leads the way.
It would be so easy to forget everything going on out there if we could just stay in here, doing this. Priestley under me, or on top of me, body clamping down in the best way. Watching him let go even for five fucking seconds.
I try to control myself, keep it slow, make it last. But he feels so fucking good, and he’s bossy as hell.
Digging his heels into my glutes and throwing out demands to go faster or harder.
I lift his legs and tilt him, finding an angle where I can get even deeper and he finally shuts up.
The way his breath hitches into panting, telling me he’s getting close.
I watch the peace wash over his face after he comes. All the scowling, stressing and posturing disappears for a second and I see the real Priestley. Just for a moment, he allows himself to be vulnerable. Achingly fucking beautiful.
PRIESTLEY
Do I hate that Will’s taller than me? Yes.
Do I like that he can pick me up without throwing his back out? Also yes.
I allow myself to temporarily let go of any sense of control when we are in the bedroom. The second we step outside, it is business as usual. I find those moments of release offer me a much needed respite. It’s better than any professional massage or meditation session. And much more pleasurable.
Will is still asleep when I wake up. I force myself to get out of bed so I don’t lie there, staring at him like some lovesick … well, I don’t want to be a lovesick anything. I do not love Will O’Reilly. The very prospect is ludicrous.
He wakes up with a caveman groan as I’m putting on my socks.
“Morning, Rosie,” he says. His voice is gravelly in the morning. I hate how sexy it sounds.
“Good morning,” I reply curtly.
“Where are you going? Come back to bed.”
“I thought you had to work this morning.”
“I’ve got time.”
He reaches out for me, but I stand before he can get purchase.
“I have some things to do today, too.”
Will rubs a hand over his face. I find the sandpaper scratch of his morning stubble way more erotic than I should. I have to turn away so I’m not tempted to crawl back under the sheets with him.
I finally manage to leave the apartment without taking my pants off again and congratulate myself on a job well done.
After taking Jamie for lunch and checking in at the frat house, I head over to the library to meet Will.
I don’t realize how excited I am to see him until I’m outside the building, about to go in.
He’s all set up at one of the long tables.
His books laid out in front of him and his laptop open.
He’s wearing a Princeton Hockey hoodie and frowning into the screen—I still think that hockey players are such turncoats.
I clear my throat as I take a seat in front of him, enjoying the smile that ghosts his lips when he looks up and sees me.
“Hey, Rosie.”
“Hey.” I wish I had a nickname for him, but no matter how hard I try to think of one, nothing comes up. That was never my forte in the frat. ‘Boston Boy’ is lame even by my standards.
We study in silence for the next few hours. My concentration is broken occasionally by the sight of Will, typing furiously, chewing the end of his pen or frowning into a book.
I’m focusing on a journal article I’ve been making notes on for the past half hour when something tickles my finger. I glance up to find Will smiling at me, his index finger tracing a line up my pinkie.
My instinct is to pull my hand away, but one quick glance around the library tells me that no one is paying us the slightest bit of attention.
I never realized how touch-starved I was until I started this rivals with benefits thing with Will.
He touches me all the time. First, it was relegated to the bedroom, then it seeped out to the car, now he finds any little excuse to touch me.
The thought that someone might want to touch me in a non-sexual way, something other than a handshake, is baffling. It’s … nice.
He’s looking at me through his eyelashes with an expression I recognize all too well. I usually only see it in the bedroom.
“Come help me find a book,” he whispers.
Before I can ask him why the hell he needs me to help him find a book, he’s up and walking toward the back of the library.
I follow, out of curiosity more than anything. Has he lost his mind? He doesn’t look back as he makes his way past the rows of tables until he reaches the very end of the bookshelves and disappears between them.
I take a tentative step behind the books to ask him what he’s doing, but the second I open my mouth, I’m yanked by my shirt and pressed against the shelves. I let out an embarrassing whelp.
Will’s lips are on me before I can say anything else. The second we make that connection, any desire I had to protest disappears.
His hand grips the back of my head to hold me in place as his tongue traces the seam of my lips, coaxing me to let it inside.
The second I do, Will deepens the kiss, pressing his body against me until I can feel how hard he is beneath his sweatpants.
Why oh why did I ever try to convince him to stop wearing sweatpants to the library?
Will slides us into the very corner of the bookshelves, as far out of sight and earshot of everyone as possible.
I manage to break away enough from the kiss to tell him, “We shouldn’t do this here.”
“Want me to stop?”
I hesitate. “If it’s just a kiss …”
“Just a kiss,” he agrees, diving back in to claim my mouth again.
My whole body overheats as I think about all the things Will can do with his tongue besides kiss like a god. I slide my hands up his shirt and feel the heat radiating from his muscled back, allowing myself to sink into the moment for once.
He grinds against me while he kisses me deeply. Until I’m breathless and panting against his lips.
“Why does this always happen here?”