Mortification prickles my skin. I’ve embarrassed him with my open buttons and by basically announcing to the entire room that I masturbated to the assigned readings.
I fight the stinging in my eyes and reach for my buttons, trying to tuck them back into place.
“What are you doing?” Olly whispers.
“Stopping before I embarrass myself even more.”
If I go to the administration building today, maybe I can change courses without penalty. The professor will forget about the girl who flashed her bra and talked about self-pleasure in an academic setting.
Olly curls two fingers around my wrist and tugs my hand away. “You’re not stopping.”
I shake my head. “This was a mistake.”
I seduce on paper, not in real life.
“You can do this,” Olly murmurs. “You have no idea how sexy you are.”
The girly side of me wants to believe him, but the realist knows I have no clue what I’m doing, and he’s just saying what any friend would say to make me feel better.
His brows pull together in frustration. “You can have whatever you want. You just have to go for it.”
There’s a bite to his tone, and those words again… What I want…
He drops his palm onto my skirt and, without breaking eye contact, inches his fingers down to the hem, slips beneath, and drags the fabric up my thighs.
My pulse spikes, and I slam my legs together, trapping his hand. “What are you doing?”
I glance around the room, but Olly’s choice to sit in the front row means no one can see what’s happening beneath the desk except Professor Gibson—if he ever looks my way again.
“Being your wingman.” He taps my inner thigh. “Now open.”
What is he planning?
Olly is so comfortable doing everything anywhere; it could be anything. His pinky slowly stretches higher up my thigh. What he is about to do will be even less appropriate than my bigmouthed comments.
But I’m not sure I care.
Each brush of his finger leaves a trail of sparks that sink into my flesh, spread up my thighs, and bloom into a decadent flame beneath my clit.
Slowly, I let my legs fall open.
My shameless tormentor leans closer. His breath paints my neck in silky heat that slips between the open buttons of my shirt and tightens around my nipples until they are solid pebbles. “Ignore me.”
I want to laugh at how impossible that command is.
Olly’s fingers begin a deliciously dirty dance on my skin, tiptoeing up my thigh only to dip back to my knee in an intoxicating swirl.
“When I say your name, call out the number you selected for the first assignment.” Professor Gibson’s voice sounds distant compared to my own shallow breaths thundering in my ears.
Names are called, answers stated, but Olly’s slow, torturous touch doesn’t end.
If I were drafting this scene, the lover’s fingers would slide closer to the protagonist’s underwear, teasing before pushing them to the side and dipping into her wet heat.
Is that what Olly plans to do?
“Olly Peterson.”
“Hmm?” Olly murmurs.
