Page 72

“That’s the idea.” He plants his feet and lifts up into me, and the sound I make is not a whimper this time. It’s a full out moan. “Grind on me, Quinn. I’ve got you.”

I flatten my hands on the blanket beside his head and roll down onto him, whole-body, not just my hips. His chest is solid under my bare skin, the sliver of his abdomen touching mine is pure bliss. His cock drags against mine through my denim and his sweats, and it’s obscene how good it feels. I chase the feeling. Faster. Gasping against his open mouth. He meets me thrust for thrust, hands sliding from my ass to my waist to my back, pulling me down so there’s no air left between us.

“Fuck, you feel—” He cuts himself off with a groan when I hitch my leg slightly higher for a different angle and grind down hard. “Yeah. Fuck. Yeah. Don’t stop.”

I couldn’t if I wanted to. The heat is a line from my throat to my dick. I kiss him sloppily, and he kisses me back. My glasses skew, and he reaches up to take them off. The world has narrowed down to just the smell of him and the wet sound of us kissing and the sound of the fabric brushing against each other.

He breaks the kiss to say my name like it hurts.

I grind down again, longer, and feel him throb against me.

“Oh,” I gasp.

“I’ve got you.” His hands span my back. “Take what you need. Come on, baby. Use me.”

Our rocking together becomes frantic, his sweats are damp where I’m grinding and he’s making all kinds of sexy noises. Something pulls tight at the base of my spine. I try to warn him. I get his name out and then the tight thing snaps like a rubber band.

I come in my jeans with a broken sound against his throat, shaking, pulsing, making a mess I can feel immediately, hot and humiliating and so good I can’t stop rocking my hips through it. My arms try to give out. He holds my ass to him and thrust up twice, three times, swearing, and then he goes rigid under me and groans like he’s been punched.

I feel him pulse against me.

Even through the sweats, I can feel him come. A wet heat spreading against the already-wet front of my jeans, his hips jerking up into me the same way I just did with him.

We stay like that panting, stuck together by denim and cotton.

“Oh,” I say again, because I am pretty sure my brain went offline.

He laughs, a wrecked sort of sound into my hair. “Yeah. Oh.”

I’m lying on him, shirtless, glasses-less, with cum cooling in my boxers, and the only thing I can say to the man still laying beneath me is, oh. My face is on fire.

“I—my pants.”

“I know. Me too.” His hand strokes down my back and sends residual shivers through my body. “It’s okay. Stay a second. You don’t need to do that unsure apologizing thing. We are both human, and apparently horny.”

I shut my mouth. I was going to apologize and the fact he knows me that well is a little unnerving. He sinks his fingers into my hair and tugs my head down to his chest, holding me. His heart slams under my ear, going as fast as mine, and I catalog that too, because if this was a lesson I don’t know what unit we’re in anymore, and I don’t really want to get off of him until I know my legs will hold me up.

THIRTY-THREE

DANIEL

Coming down from the blissed out high I was in is worse than coming in my sweats.

Quinn’s still laying on top of me, breath coming out in little wrecked puffs across my throat. My sweats are a disaster, and I’m sure his jeans aren’t any better. I can feel both messes cooling against my crotch. And I should be focusing on how absolutely amazing being dry humped was by him when I’ve wanted him for what feels like weeks. Instead, I’m already putting up my emotional walls, the same way I do after a one-night stand when the fun part is over and staying cuddled in bed feels like a promise I’m not ready to keep.

This isn’t a one-night stand. I am going to have to see Quinn for the remainder of our last year, every single day. I swallow. That’s a problem.

I stroke his back once because I’m not an asshole, and then I shift. “Hey. Let me up.”

He freezes. Then he peels off of me as though the instructions physically hurt. He sits back on his heels at the foot of the bed, and I try really fucking hard not to look at the wet stain spreading across the front of his jeans. His mouth is red and puffy, his eyes wide and still a little shellshocked, and he’s looking at me like I hung the fucking moon.

I sit up, putting space between my legs and him. Then I grab his glasses on the bed next to me where I tossed them a few minutes ago and hold them out instead of putting them on his face, because putting them on his face is intimate, and I just came in my pants with him, and I can’t do intimate twice in two minutes without giving him the wrong idea.

“Thanks,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

Oh fuck. I know better. Shit. The single thing I shouldn’t have done with him is this. Because he already admitted he has a crush on me…sure, he was drunk and he doesn’t remember it, but I remember it, and that is all that should matter.

“Bathroom’s yours. Shower. You’ll feel better.”