The vulnerability in his question catches me off guard. This is Troy Hawkins—campus king, never uncertain about anything. Yet here he is, looking up at me with those blue eyes, waiting for permission.
“Yes,” I whisper.
His smile is wicked as he hooks my legs over his shoulders. “Your body is fucking magnificent. I want to worship your pretty pussy.”
“Then stop talking and worship it!”
He chuckles but obliges, his mouth hot on me in an instant. The first swipe of his tongue has me clutching the sheets, my head thrown back against his pillow. Troy hums against me, the vibration sending sparks up my spine. His hands grip my thighs, holding me open for him as he works me with his mouth.
“Troy,” I gasp, the word barely recognizable.
He looks up at me, lips glistening, eyes dark with want. “Say it again.”
“Troy,” I repeat, louder this time.
He rewards me by sucking my clit between his lips, and I nearly come undone right there. My hips buck against his face, chasing the pressure, the heat. One of his hands slides up to pin me down, the other working in tandem with his mouth.
I'm climbing higher, faster than I ever have before. There's something about the way he touches me—confident but reverent, like he's memorizing every reaction, every sound I make.
“I'm close,” I warn, fingers tangling in his hair.
He doesn't pull away. Instead, he doubles his efforts, adding a finger, then two, curling them just right as his tongue flicks relentlessly.
The orgasm roils around my body. My thighs tremble, my back arches, and I cry out his name. He works me through it, gentling his touch as I come down, pressing soft kisses to my inner thighs. I collapse back against the pillows, chest rising and falling like I’ve run a marathon.
Troy presses one last kiss to my hip, then crawls up the bed slowly, lazily, like he’s got all the time in the world.
He rests beside me, propped on one elbow, looking way too smug for someone who just ruined my ability to form complete sentences.
“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from my face with the backs of his fingers.
“Define okay,” I manage, my voice hoarse and a little wobbly.
He laughs, quiet and low, and dips to kiss the edge of my jaw.
“Okay like… still breathing, still coherent, not filing a complaint with the student union.”
“You’re not as funny as you think you are,” I mutter.
He stretches out beside me, arm slipping under my shoulders, and I let him pull me in.
“That was…” I start, but the words stall out. Too intimate. Tooreal.
Troy fills in the silence. “Yeah. It was.”
Neither of us speaks. The room’s quiet except for the hum of the breeze through the open window and the rush of my still-too-fast pulse.
Then, in typical Troy fashion, he breaks the silence with, “So, just checking… still think I’m an arrogant asshole?”
I nudge him with my knee, but I’m smiling. “Only on days that end in Y.”
He grins, smug and unbothered. “Charmingandconsistent.”
I nudge him with my knee, but I’m smiling.
“You’re exhausting, Troy.”
“You’reglowing.”
