Chapter 8 ~ Bellamy #2
Minho looks at the book, then shoots his eyes in my direction. “Don’t—” He glances around, as if making sure no one else heard, then leans in closer to me, his voice dropping so low, I might be turned on by it. “Don’t you dare start this shit up again with me.”
“Why not? It could be fun, you and me—” I drop my voice low, hand shooting for his thigh before he can stop me.
I massage the skin, drawing circles around the butterfly tattoos there as my fingers slip under his shorts, and he goes deathly still beneath my touch.
“Maybe a quickie in your favourite class.”
“Bells, I swear to God, if you—” He stops talking the moment I rub my palm over his already half-hard erection. I watch him visibly take a breath as I stroke him slowly, and I can see him trying and failing to regain his composure. “What—what are you even doing in this class?”
“I'd rather tell you about how good it would feel having my mouth on you,” I say, palming him harder, slipping under his boxer briefs to touch him without any barrier between us. God, his skin is so fucking soft. “I’m not one to bottom, but if you ask me nicely—”
“F-fuck you, Bells,” he breathes, dropping his head back. “I fucking hate you.”
“I know.”
“I hate that I hate you,” he confesses, and I swear my heart stops a millisecond. “I want so badly just to move on.”
“Then do it,” I say pleadingly. “I promise, I won’t fuck this up.”
He lets out a little laugh, and it isn’t as dry as the other ones when he looks at me with hooded eyes. “But you will, because you always find a way to fuck my life up, and that is why I will never trust you.”
“Your dick says otherwise,” I taunt as I give his length another stroke, up and down, while making sure no one is watching and something I don’t notice until now hits me. “Wait, are you pierced down there, too?”
That wasn’t noticeable in the picture he sent me, but I can feel the metal balls as I wrap my hand around the size of him—he’s roughly my size, maybe a little thicker, but fuck, I might be in love with his dick.
I swallow hard when our eyes meet, and he leans in until we are practically sharing breath. “I got Rafe to do it right before I left for Briarston.”
My eyes widen. “So he’s–”
“Seen my dick?” he cuts me off. “Yeah.”
My gaze shoots to his cock, then his eyes, before landing on his lips when he full-on grins, and I know I shouldn't stare, but it might be the first time he’s ever truly smiled because of me.
“Does that make you mad?” His eyes search mine as if to find the answer to his question without me answering him.
“No.”
Yes.
“At least you lie sweetly; I’ll give you that, Bells.”
I will not kiss him.
I cannot kiss him.
Even if every molecular cell in my body is telling me to close the gap between us, I cannot be the one to make the first move. Just this—having my hand around Minho’s dick is taking it too far, too fast.
I want him to fall.
Not me.
I’ve already fallen, and he wasn’t there to catch me. I need him to fall so I can do what he couldn’t.
“Why are you here, seriously?” He asks, changing the subject.
I chuckle because damn, he is stubborn. I want him to give in to me, to want this—me.
I want him to want me so bad it hurts, and I hate it; I hate him for making me want all of him.
“Same thing you are, I assume,” I reply before pulling my hand away to get my laptop.
“Learning about history and hoping like hell the period studies we look at aren’t a bore.
” Minho looks utterly wrecked as he glares at me, and all I can do is smirk.
Mean boys don’t get to come, little brother. I want to say that so badly, my whole body is aching to say it, but I won't.
Let him suffer with blue balls for once.
“You don't even like history.”
“I do now.”
His jaw tightens. “Why?”
I turn to face him better, letting my knee brush against his under the desk, and I am surprised when he doesn’t pull away immediately, but when he does, it's like I had burned him, and it cracks something in my chest.
“Maybe I wanted to expand my horizons, or maybe I heard the professor is hot, maybe—” I let the pause of silence between us stretch, watch his eyes and the way they flicker with something he is trying so hard to hide. “Maybe I just wanted to see your face when I walked in.”
“You’ve gone insane.”
“Perhaps.”
I am definitely insane, but what’s new?
Minho looks like he wants to say something, but as soon as he makes up his mind, the professor says, “Alrighty, sorry for the wait, let's pick up from where we left off last week.”
My gaze drifts to said professor, and I am struck with a sense of terrible deja vu as it finally comes to me why I recognise her.
“Shit,” I breathe, slouching in my chair.
Minho glances in my direction and smirks. “What’s the matter, Bell’s?” he asks, not sounding remotely like he cares. “You look pale; have you seen a ghost?”
I give him a mocking smile. “Fuck you.”
I should have looked up who Professor Smith was. And I hate to say it, but I was under the impression the professor was a dude when I first came across the name. But seeing her when I walked in and now remembering who she is—maybe I should have found another way to get Minho’s attention.
“You could, but then I would have to teach that ass of yours, who's actually in charge,” he says, and I am struck silent by my own words being thrown back at me because fuck, why does he sound so hot when he says it?
“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”
He doesn’t look at me, yet I feel like I have his undivided attention when the words that come out of his mouth have me wishing I had his eyes on me, too.
“Not even if I got back with my ex, but I am sure he would love you.”
Ouch.
But fair, I deserve that blow.
“The hot surfer dude?”
He looks at me then, eyebrows rising before he glares at me in a way that says the water bottle on his desk is about to meet my face. “Yeah, but how did you—”
“I follow your Instagram with a spam account.”