I suck in a breath as he stretches me.
He’s big, thick, and full, leaving room for nothing but the beat of my heart and the way he fucks me. Pure, raw, measured strokes, intimate and soft at the same time.
The soft slap of his thighs against me in a rhythm that causes my orgasm to peak so fast and hard, I hear the pounding of my own heartbeat. I watch the girl look for him one last time before she walks out.
He is fucking me fast. Too fast.
I hold Saint’s name from slipping out of my lips as I come hard.
“Mine,” he growls.
Once he comes and adjusts himself, he sits in the chair beside me as if he has simply arrived to study, pulling it close enough that his knee presses against mine under the table.
I look at my textbook. At the cum dripping between my thighs.
I feel him watching the side of my face.
“She was looking for you,” I say, when I can trust my voice again, like he just didn’t fuck me so good it erased anyone else before him.
“I know,” he says.
“You were here instead.”
“Yes, because it is where I want to be more than anything.”
“We didn’t use protection.”
He lowers his voice above a whisper. “Don’t act like care.”
I look at him.
His expression is unguarded, which I have learned to read as the closest thing to everything he does not say out loud. He pushes the cum dripping between my thighs inside my pussy.
“Put your pants up. Azriel will show up soon.”
I pull them up and turn back to my textbook, letting the shock of what I just allowed him to do settle.
I push the guilt of not resisting him, because how could I? There is beauty in the way he appears when I’m trapped in the darkest recesses of my mind. Like he holds the key to the door of the mental prison my past has locked me in.
I can’t manage to read a single word for the rest of the afternoon.
He stays beside me the entire time like a storm waiting to break, dark, heavy, and loud in all the ways silence can be. His presence hangs over me like promised rain, thick with danger.
The kind I should run from, yet I secretly crave.
Amy
The envelope is in my student mailbox on a Thursday morning.
No stamp. No return address. Just my name on the front in a typeset font, the kind of font that belongs to official correspondence, to documents that have weight, and to things you are supposed to believe.
I stand at the mailboxes on the ground floor of the administrative building, holding it for a long moment before I open it.
My hands are steady.
Inside the envelope is a single sheet of paper. And a photograph.
The paper is a printout of a meeting agenda dated fourteen months ago. The header reads: Order of the Consortium: Scholarship Selection Committee, Autumn Intake. Then a numbered list of twelve names.
