“Y’all have fun now, ya hear?” Skye calls from the hallway. We lucked out when Sunny was invited to a sleepover birthday party for one of her class friends, so I didn’t have to even attempt to broach the subject of my staying the night with Dexter. Skye, however, we could never escape.
“You’re worse than my parents on prom night,” I huff, an accusation she feeds into with ease, offering reminders to ‘practice safe sex’, ‘make wise choices’, and ‘have her home by curfew!’ Dexter takes her pestering in stride, offering every assurance that he respects me and will act like a gentleman. Skye’s look of disgust throws him — he doesn’t know Skye well enough to know he willingly walked right into her trap.
“You better not,” she scoffs.
Dexter, brows furrowed, asks, “Better not, what?” I don’t say anything, keeping my face as calm and neutral as possible.
“You better not act like a perfect gentleman or return her home to me before noon tomorrow. I didn’t spend $150 on sexy lingerie for her to wear tonight so you could do the gentlemanly thing and offer to sleep on the couch. I expect debauchery, ripped lace, and my friend to be so thoroughly ravaged the next time I see her that there’s no question of how satisfying her night was. Do not disappoint me, Mountie.”
Skye takes the opportunity to acknowledge her own joke, laughing hysterically as she adds, “Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod. You’re Monty’s Mountie. A fucking stallion. Afuckingstallion. Ican’t. I just can’t.” She’s crying laughing at this point, and I can’t help but snort a laugh or two in response.
“I’m not sure how to respond to any of what you just said, so, we’re going to leave. Have a good evening, Skye.” Dexter opens the door quicker than I had anticipated, pulling me along behind him as Skye continues cackling from her prostrate position on our hallway floor.
“Where, exactly, did you find that one?” Dexter asks, shaking his head while also laughing at the absurdity that is Skye Kennedy.
“At the pound, obviously,” I quip. “She’s a rescue.”
“I’m not at all surprised.”
Dexter
Abigail’s home is sleek and modern, the picture of understated elegance — much like the woman herself. I’ve had the pleasure of attending faculty dinners and holiday parties here previously, but I’ve never once pulled into her driveway with sweaty palms and an elevated heart rate. Why am I so nervous? It’s not Alis. If anything, her presence offers calm reassurance, something I so desperately need right now.
“Are you alright?” Alis asks as I park my Range Rover in the circular drive.
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“For starters, you’re strangling that poor steering wheel and you’ve popped your knuckles at least ten times since we left my apartment. You only do that when you’re stressed about something.” Observant, this one.
I loosen my grip on the steering wheel and take a deep breath. “You’ve never seen me stressed, so I don’t know how or when you would have noticed me popping my knuckles —”
She cuts in, “Thirty minutes before teaching your undergrad comp class you start popping your knuckles in anticipation of thestupid questions they’ll ask about things they should have learned in high school.”
I laugh, she’s not wrong. “Ok,” I concede. “So you’ve seen me stressed. I’m not anxious or dreading tonight, I promise. The anticipation is getting to me. I’ve wanted this for so long, and now it’s finally happening. Well, I think it’s finally happening. Ihopeit happens.”
“Who has you so worked up? Has Dr. Matthews flown in a group of academic celebrities or something?” she asks, equal parts serious and joking, acknowledging the weight of what tonight could mean for my career while also lightening the mood with sarcasm.
Before I can respond Alis’s hand grips the back of my neck and she pulls me in for a scorchingly hot kiss. I start to pull away but she digs her fingers into my loose hair, holding me firmly to her and she massages my tongue with hers. Suddenly I’m lost in her, drowning in her touch, her kiss, her scent. Alis slides her hand down my torso to my groin, palming my erection through my trousers. I groan at the contact, pleasure pulsing throughout my body.
More. I need more. Next thing I know my seatbelt is off and I’m leaning over the console, pushing her back into the cool black leather. I slide my hand up her thigh, fingers brushing the tiny metal clamps affixed to her stockings.Thigh highs? Garters?Is this womantryingto kill me?
“Fuck, Alis,” I groan as I palm her leg, digging my fingertips into her flesh possessively. I’m a second away from moving higher when headlights appear in my periphery — a stark reminder that we are not alone. Hell, we’re the furthest thing from alone right now. We’re in my boss’s driveway, surrounded by faculty members, and I’m two seconds away from coming in my pants.
“We need to stop,” I say, returning to my seat and adjusting myself while Alis opens the visor mirror to check her makeup.
“Thank goodness I hate lipstick,” she says. “Although, I can think of some good uses for it.” She winks at me before opening her door, stepping out onto the driveway while I’m stuck in my seat trying to calm an erection she just brought back to life.
Once again presentable, I exit the vehicle and meet Alis around front, clasping her hand in mine before guiding her up the pathway to Abigail’s front door. The elegance is not lost on Alis — she looks around the foyer in awe, admiring the clean lines and simple design of the space.
“Dexter, Alis, so glad you could make it,” Abigail welcomes us, pressing her cheek to each of us in greeting.
“Thank you for having us,” Alis replies, ever the gracious guest. “Your home is beautiful,” she compliments, once again offering her appreciative gaze to the room.
“Thank you! And I must say, that dress is simply stunning.”
While the women volley compliments at each other, I take the opportunity to survey the crowd, looking for Jonathan Ryan. We lock eyes from across the room and he nods in recognition and acknowledgment, offering his excuses to whoever he is talking to before heading in our direction.
My hand rests on Alis’s hip, and I offer a gentle squeeze, beckoning her attention. “I have someone I’d like you to meet,” I say close to her ear. She turns and smiles up at me —my God, she’s beautiful— and just as she asks, “Oh? Who?” another voice cuts in.
