Chapter 27 #2
His hands roam everywhere now, relearning territory he once knew by heart. One palm goes up inside my sweater and cups my breast, thumb finding my nipple with unerring accuracy even through the fabric. The other slides down to where we're joined, fingers finding my clit.
Meanwhile, my hands can't stop moving—clutching at his shoulders, sliding down to grab his ass, feeling the muscles flex with each drive forward. He's all power and purpose, using every inch of that athletic frame to take me apart.
"Look at me." The command is rough, stripped of his usual jovial tone, reduced to pure need. "I need to see you when you come."
My eyes snap open to meet his, and what I see there—possession, tenderness, desperate hunger—shoves me over the edge. The orgasm hits like a slapshot to the chest. My pussy clenches around him in waves, muscles contracting so hard it borders on pain.
Everything whites out except the feeling of him inside me, the desk creaking beneath us, and his fingers still working my clit as I shatter. I bite down on his shoulder to muffle my scream, tasting cotton and salt and him, and feel his whole body go rigid against me.
"Shit, Morgan, I'm—" His words dissolve into something primal, a guttural groan that vibrates through his chest and into mine.
Then I feel his cock pulsing inside me, that first hot rush of his release flooding me.
His hips jerk erratically, each thrust pushing his cum deeper as he empties himself into me.
The feeling of him coming, of being filled and claimed and thoroughly fucked, sends aftershocks rippling through my system.
His hand finds mine on the desk, fingers interlocking, and that simple gesture threatens my composure more than his cock stretching me open.
I don’t pull away, our fingers interlocking with desperate pressure as we both shake through it, as if holding on to each other is the only thing keeping us from flying apart.
He collapses against me when it's over, his weight pressing me into the desk's edge, both of us breathing like we've just survived overtime.
His face burrows into my neck, we're both sweat-damp and trembling, and he's still inside me, still half-hard, every micro-movement sending sparks through my nerve endings.
For exactly three seconds, everything feels right.
My body is satisfied in a way it hasn't been in three years.
Instead of feeling exposed, I feel free.
Then reality performs its inevitable ambush.
I'm in a library study room with my pants on the floor. James's cum is already starting to leak out of me onto a desk where tomorrow some earnest freshman will highlight their psych notes. The air reeks of sex. My underwear is definitely ruined. My neck probably looks like I've been mauled.
But worse than all these spectacular failures is the look on his face when he pulls back to meet my eyes. He looks destroyed in the best way, satisfied but also cracked open and vulnerable. His mouth opens, and I can see it forming, the question I asked him three years ago now on his lips.
The memory hits like ice water to the face.
The hood of his truck. The most vulnerable I'd ever been, asking what came next, and watching him transform into someone I didn't recognize. The jokes. The deflection. The systematic destruction of everything I'd just given him, delivered with a smile like it was all hilarious.
He'd done it then.
He'll do it again.
Not from cruelty but from cowardice.
When things get real, he makes them funny.
When they matter, he makes them meaningless.
Which makes me the idiot who knew better and let him in anyway.
Panic overrides everything.
I shove against his chest, and he immediately steps back, slipping out of me with a wet sound that makes us both flinch. The emptiness is jarring—not just physical but existential—and I slide off the desk on unsteady legs, avoiding his eyes as I search for my clothes.
"Morgan, wait—"
I shake my head once.
Sharp.
Final.
My hands operate on muscle memory as I pull on my ruined underwear, grimacing at the sensation. My jeans stick to my thighs. I can feel him watching, can sense his confusion morphing into something else, hurt or anger, but I can't care.
Caring—feeling—is what got me here.
I shove my belongings into my bag—laptop, binder, and notes about social stratification that feel like mockery now.
Every second here is another second closer to him finding words, to him either making a joke that will eviscerate me all over again, so retreat is the only way to live to fight another day.
"Your paper will be fine," I blurt out. "You're ready…"
And then I'm gone. Each footstep echoes in the library's cathedral silence as I walk away.
Measured and controlled, the opposite of the chaos in my system.
I don't look back, because looking back would be checking the damage after an explosion, which is pointless when you already know everything's destroyed.
The night air hits like a shock of reality. It's past 2:00 a.m., the campus is deserted, and it takes me twenty minutes to get back to my apartment. By minute ten, I've rebuilt enough walls to function. By fifteen, my hands are steady. By twenty, my breathing is normal.
And I can almost convince myself that I'm back to normal.
Strong.
Calm.
Alone.