Page 14 of Best Man on Campus

“If you’re so goddamn interested in my tits, why don’t you see if they’ll make you come? I bet you can do it.”

“You and your crazy-ass bets,” he says, but he moves as he speaks, flipping us so he’s on top, his body looming over me as he pushes up with his bulging arms. I’m almost distracted with the rippling muscles of his arms and chest as he kneels between my legs. Then panic rises until he slides up my body, lodging his stiff cock between my breasts.

Keeping my cool because it was my bright idea, I struggle to squelch my discomfort, concentrating on his face, his eyes. The glassy intensity of his stare makes unashamed desire and more, pour out at me, assaulting me. He caresses my face with the back of one hand and I blink, literally and figuratively. He has me so trapped in his halo that I can’t resist putting my hands on my breasts and squeezing them around his cock. The massive groan he lets out as he closes his eyes gives me a thrill, the power of my effect getting me hot as I urge him to slide up and down the tight channel I’ve created, pressing and releasing, arching up to meet him as he moves, catching the rhythm like it’s a fever.

“You’re so wild and unruly and sexy as fuck. So beautiful and strong…” The words stream from his mouth in an unbroken litany, his voice becoming more and more raspy with each syllable, with each forward thrust of his hips. “So goddamn fucking irresistible—”

“And you’re so full of shit.” I can’t resist interrupting, but my words come out breathy and I’m excited by my own excitement, even more thrilled as his control slips and his breathing gets ragged, his words stopping and his pumping back and forth frantic. I squeeze him tight then, gripping his tip as I do, and he cries out, an agonizing groan of release as his cock jerks, spurting his cum. He pulls back, but I hang onto him, relishing the sticky evidence of his abandon, of the control I have as it hits my chin and my chest before he collapses on top of me and I lose my hold.

“Fuck, Jazzy. You’re so fucking erotic, walking, talking sex on a stick—”

“Shut the fuck up.” His face is a breath from mine and his breathing is calming, but his eyes are still on fire and I’m afraid he’s going to carry me away with his fucking flaming passion. He smiles, putting me in my place, and touches his mouth to mine, barely a kiss. Then he licks my chin and everywhere else he spilled his juice all over me and I can’t help the laugh that escapes as if I’m a silly girl, the kind with no cares, the kind that gets to enjoy lighthearted moments of frivolity.

Someone not like me at all. I grab his hair and yank as he licks my breasts. He laughs, not stopping, not even slowing down.

“What the hell is with you?” I say, suppressing my laugh but not my smile. “I feel like a Creamsicle.”

“You taste better.” He moves his mouth back up to mine, touching my lips again with his in that tantalizing barely-there kiss. It’s a tease and a promise and its very mildness makes me hot, makes me wrap my legs around him.

He draws a finger over my skin, lifting goose bumps all over, down my arm, over my hip bone and to my belly, all the while telling me how beautiful I am, how my voice strikes him to the soul, how sweet he knows I could be with all my passion.

I push his hand away when he reaches my pussy again. To placate him, I say, “I want you to jack yourself off for me while I watch.”

He laughs. “You’re trying to kill me, right?”

I give him an evil smile, well aware he’s draining himself, that he can’t have much left. But he has something and I want it all. “I promise it’ll get me hot. Then you can touch me.”

“Then I can lick you. Every bit of you and you’ll let me,” he says. His kind brown eyes look more wolf-like than puppy-like and disconcert the fuck out of me because I’m panting for both sides of him. The one who wants to please me and the one tough as nails who wants to tame me. What do I do with that?

I nod.

“This might take a minute.” His sexy grin tells me he’s not apologetic in the least. He kneels back on his heels and takes his manly proportioned cock into his hand, the tip still glistening with cum, and strokes it from top to bottom in a long gut wrenching motion, making me salivate.

It takes him slow titillating minutes to stroke himself to ramrod stiffness again while I watch and he watches me back. His face, his expression, his eyes seeing too much, deepening into dark intense pools, excite me more than what he’s doing with his cock. Though I do pay attention to his moves, what he does and how he likes it, the rhythm changes, the whole motherfucking show making me juicier than I ever remember being.

When I move close to him, drawn in by everything about him—the sexy man, the strong character, the confidence, the compassion—I lean in and take his face into my hands. His breathing heavy, his voice strained, he says, “I’m coming.” And I kiss him, taking his mouth with mine, swallowing his groan of pleasure as he comes all over my belly, letting go of himself and wrapping me up in his arms like I belong there.

He brings us down onto the mattress, cradling me in a cocoon, and the sensation makes me dizzy with its distant familiarity warring with the strangeness. Panic rises up because I don’t belong to him and never will. I don’t want to in spite of whatever other good-meaning people think, in spite of whatever intentions I have in cooler distant moments of analysis.

I only need myself. I only need justice for Killian. Revenge for my angry soul. I don’t need this man—or any man. Or anyone when it comes down to it. I push him away and slide out of bed.

“You want a drink?” I pretend at normalcy. Whatever that is. But I’ve seen it in movies, haven’t I?

“Water.” He takes a long ragged breath. “You being nice or just trying to get away from me?”

He’s a fucking know-it-all. I give him my middle finger in case he thinks I’ve gone soft, to keep things between us clear. I bring back two glasses of water and put them on the small table. He doesn’t let me stand near the bed, pulling me down on top of him while the springs protest.

“Shit. I have to take it easy with this bed before it collapses.”

“Don’t worry. It’s been battle tested,” I say though it’s not true. I don’t take men to bed. This night is a one-off experiment and it’s getting dicey, too close to the edge of my tolerance. I need to regain control.

He drains his water and I watch him, notice the dark shadow of stubble on his perfect man’s jaw where there was none earlier in the night, watch the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he drinks, the muscles of his neck solid and ropey. Why does everything about this guy turn me on? Make me want to hold on and let him have more than he deserves? He’s more than I deserve. He’s not mine any more than I’m his. The reminder angers me. That unfocused, deep-seated anger at the world and fate rises up, making me want to lash out.

Why not? Why don’t I deserve him?

He puts his glass down on the side table and I say, “What the fuck are you waiting for?”

His eyes instantly turn to me and bore inside my soul, sizzling and threatening and something else I can’t identify while my heart palpitates like I’ve poked a sleeping giant or some such fucking nonsense.