Her fingers touch my face, dragging through the sticky, sweet cum on my lips and around my mouth, and then she brings her fingers to her own mouth, slipping them inside and tasting herself.
Motherfucker.
“On your knees,” I choke out and then climb off the bed, removing my clothes in a breath because I fucking need to be inside of her. Now.
She smirks up at me before flipping onto her stomach, then lifting onto her hands, giving me the perfect view of her ass.
I swear to God, she’s the standard behind heart-shaped.
I smooth my palms along her hips and outer thighs, trailing my fingers up to sweep along her spine.
Her pussy is a deeper shade of pink now from my facial hair scraping against it, her thighs burned from it too.
It’s fucking sexy, and possessiveness erupts like a volcano inside me at seeing it, at the fact that I marked her.
Like she’s mine to mark, even if she isn’t.
“Tell me about another tab, baby,” I murmur as I lean over her and press my lips to the base of her spine. “Something you saved for later.”
“Well, there’s this one where he chokes her…”
And I’m a fucking goner.
Done for.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN
MAISIE
The last coupleof weeks have flown by in a total blur of studying, homework, and planning for the next upcoming event with the team.
And then more studying.
Ironically, I’ve seenlessof Wilder in the last couple of weeks than I have since he arrived at OU, and I think I’m starting to have withdrawals.
From orgasms, obviously.
I’m still riding on the high of him eating me out while making me read to him because honestly, what was that?
So hot and completely unexpected, and I’mdyingfor more.
Luckily for him, I have a ridiculous number of books with plenty of tabs to work our way through.
We’ve texted a few times, but the team had an away series in Tennessee, and when they got back, I was up to my eyeballs preparing for a huge test in English lit, so I barely saw the outside of the library’s study room for the entire week.
But it’s… Wilder.
He’s arguably the world’s worst texter, and I feel like I’m talking to my eighty-year-old grandmother when we talk. One-word responses that sometimes don’t come until a day later.
Which is exactly why I’m walking through the hallway of the athletic building toward his office in between classes.
I want to see him.
I… maybe missed him.
Not that I would be admitting that out loud to anyone,especiallynot him, but I have.
