That she had time to call out twice, tells me I didn’t react fast enough. Another delay like that, and she might call it quits; a move that would leave me devastated. She’s burrowed deep into my psyche already, occupying more and more of my thoughts.
With girls in my past—excluding those horrified by my predilections—I’ve soon grown tired of their company, but it’s not like that with Avon. Rather than sating my hunger, each interaction between us leaves me wanting more.
Yesterday was a warning. She’s probably still suffering aftershocks from our initial encounter. Even if I forget day to day, she won’t have that same luxury.
But the minute I join her at her locker, she tugs me into a nearby classroom, checking no one’s visible through the slit window before she turns an impish smile on me, full-bore.
“Do you want to know a secret?” she asks, bouncing onto her toes and clutching my shirt front for balance.
I clasp her hips to steady her and there’s a new twinkle in her eye.
“A bit lower,” she instructs, and I happily slide my hands down to cup her arse. “Maybe a few inches towards the middle.”
Instead, I press one hand on her lower back, the other sliding up her kilt and into her underwear, finding a hard object inserted between her plump cheeks.
My cock twitches at visions of her placing it this morning. The imagined sight is utterly electrifying. A shockwave of arousal courses through my body.
I laugh at how wrong I was. How easily she surprises me. Proof again she’s perfect. “And here I thought I found a hard limit.”
Her right hand cups me. “Well, something’s hard, all right.”
I might be surprised but I lose no time to questioning. My fingers play around the edge, tapping on the end and enjoying her responding shiver. “Guess what I’ll be thinking of all day in class.”
“Not all day,” she corrects me with a small snort. “You’ll be lucky if I make it to morning break. I tried sitting on a chair and can’t say it’s a position I recommend.”
“Better make the most of it while it lasts, then.” And my hand slides forward from its position, middle finger parting her, so wet I barely exert any pressure to gain entry, the reception turning me on until it feels like I’ve got a metal rod pulsing against her hip.
My finger slides into her core and I capture her moan with my mouth, the echo vibrating into my cheekbones, making my lips throb with need.
Then the doorhandle twists and we spring apart, Avon tugging her kilt into position, me trying my best to drape myshirt over the evidence of my arousal, wet finger tucked into my pocket, a hysterical laugh trapped behind my sternum.
“But the physics exam is that week,” Avon mutters, eyes widening in a plea for help as Mr McMaster frowns to see us in his classroom.
“Neither one of you has homeroom with me,” he chides in a weary voice. “Don’t you have a clubhouse to use if you’re sick of the common room?”
He quickly ushers us into the corridor, and I take Avon’s hand, feeling a shot of joy as she returns the pressure of my fingers. “We do have a clubhouse,” I remind her, having skipped the promised introduction yesterday. “And I have time to show you.”
“Oh, yeah?” Her arched eyebrow is full of promise, and I lead the way so quickly, she practically runs to keep pace.
But as we reach the staircase, Wilder thumps down, Clare on the steps above him, expression pinched tight.
I gasp as I get a good look at his face, lumpen and disfigured. Fresh red bruises crowd each other, darker shadows blooming. One eye is swollen shut, the other has puffed out his dark circles. Blood crusts in a split lip and eyebrow, deep enough to scar.
“What the fuck happened to you?” I ask, concern propelling into aggression.
He tries to bump his way past, but I’ve still got a few inches on him, enough to block his path even if he has been working out lately, bulking at least one shirt size bigger. Maybe two or three.
Avon gapes at him, then her gaze moves upstairs to where her friend stands, looking absolutely shattered. She pushes past, rushing up to meet her.
“We’re done,” Wilder snaps, jerking his head at Clare before jutting out his chin in a challenge. “That okay by you?”
“I don’t give a shit,” I tell him, placing a palm in the centre of his chest. “But she didn’t do this to your face.”
It looks more like someone whacked him with a two-by-four, but as I move past the initial shock, I recognise the pattern where knuckles have left their mark on the edge of his jaw and beside his eye.
I’ve beaten people and been beaten in return. No one did this with a weapon beyond their bare fists.
“Holy shit, you’re bleeding.” I reach out to touch where a trickle of crimson spills from his ear, mind slow-moving, numb. “We need to get you to a doctor.”
