My internal narrator has completely abandoned ship. There's no witty commentary. No self-deprecating observations. Just sensation—the friction of fabric between us, the flex of his thighs beneath mine, the desperate grip of his hands on my hips.
"I'm—" I don't even know what I'm trying to say. "West, I think I'm—"
His thumb digs into my hip bone, controlling the rhythm even as his control shatters. "I know, I'm—hell—"
I can feel him beneath me, hard and insistent even through layers of clothing. Feel the way he's straining up to meet every roll of my hips. Feel the exact moment his breathing goes ragged and desperate.
"Jane." My name sounds wrecked. "I'm not—I can't—"
"Don't stop." My fingers dig into his shoulders. "Please don't stop."
His hand fists in my hair, pulling my mouth back to his. The kiss is messy, graceless, more breathing into each other's mouths than actual technique. His other hand slides lower on my hip, pressing me down harder, grinding me against the ridge of his erection, and the sensation hits too fast, too bright.
The coil in my belly winds tighter.
"West—West—"
"That’s it, Jane," his voice is a command and a plea. "I've got you. Just—let go."
Something about the desperation in his voice—the way he sounds as aroused as I feel—sends me over the edge.
Pleasure explodes through me, blinding, all-consuming. I cry out against his mouth, my body arching, shuddering, clenching around nothing. My whole body locks up, then pulses, waves of heat radiating from my core outward until I'm shaking and gasping and making sounds I will absolutely die of embarrassment about later. Distantly, I'maware of grinding down on him without rhythm or grace, just chasing every last spark of sensation.
Through the haze, I feel him go rigid beneath me.
"Jane—" It's barely a word. More like a broken groan.
His hips jerk up hard. Once. Twice. A third time, desperate and uncontrolled.
"Oh—hell—" The curse tears out of him as he comes.
I feel the wet heat of it even through his khakis, feel the way his whole body shudders, feel his fingers digging bruises into my hips as he rides it out.
We stay frozen like that. Both of us trembling. Both breathing like we just sprinted a marathon.
Then my brain comes back online.
Oh.
Oh no.
We just—
He just—
I just made West Prescott come in his pants.
During a lesson.
On a Sunday.
The scent of sex and sea hangs heavy in the air.
“Bathroom,” I mumble, fleeing.
"Jane."
I scramble off his lap so fast I nearly take us both to the floor. Don't look at him. Absolutely do not look at the very obvious wet spot on his khakis. Do not think about the fact that I did that. Do not think about how good it felt to make him lose control.
