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He pushes a second finger inside me, and sparks dance at the edges of my vision. I’m so wet that his fingers glide in and out of me with ease, hardly needing to try at all. His thumb nestles up against my clit again, not rubbing yet, just pressing gently against me, and it’s nearly enough to make me shudder to an orgasm already.
Fuck. He knows how to touch women. He knows how to touch me, in a way I can already tell is so different from the few guys I hooked up with in high school, all fumbling and awkward.
But at the same time… it’s infuriating how guys like Keanen always get what they want. He backed me into this alley knowing he would fuck me out here, and part of me wants to disappoint him. Show him that money can’t buy everyone in this town.
“Actually,” I say, slowly. I reach down to catch his wrist. Then, with every ounce of willpower I possess, I pull his hand up. Away from my pussy. “I don’t want to fuck you tonight.”
I’m rewarded by a flash of genuine surprise in Keanen’s eyes. It’s the first time I’ve seen him look surprised by anything, and it gives me a twisted sort of thrill.
Not as big of a thrill as that thick cock of his probably would have given you, complains the other side of my brain, the animal part that wants to take it all back and jump him right here. Fuck the consequences.
But I’ve been around enough guys like Keanen to know where that will lead. And I don’t want to go down that road. I’ve got enough on my plate between schoolwork and this job. The last thing I need right now is to get embroiled in some romantic drama with the hottest asshole in school.
He said it himself. I’m a bad guy. He’s still standing there, watching me quietly now. Something more than just heat in his gaze now. Curiosity. Desire.
I force a smile of my own, mimicking his usual cocky grin. “I’ll see you at school, Keanen.” Then I shoulder my purse and brush past him, just close enough to bump my arm against his, the hot touch of his skin on mine sending fire through my veins. I stride away, knowing his eyes are following me, focused on my ass.
I can’t help it. I smile, just a little, my face still flushed. Keanen might be holding a secret over me, but now I have one over him, too.
I know what he wants.
Me.
6
I don’t see Keanen for two days. I tell myself I’m not looking for him, but that’s a lie. He’s been on my mind nonstop since he cornered me in the alley. Every time I close my eyes at night, I see his eyes gazing down at me, his knowing little smirk.
I’m a bad guy, he whispers in my dreams. Do you want me to fuck you?
Except in my dreams, my answer is different. Yes, I scream. Yes, please, God. And in my dreams, he pins me against that alley wall, unbuttoning my jeans with one deft hand, pushing them down with the other. And God, his cock is as big as I imagined, thick and swollen at the tip. When he pushes himself inside me, I scream aloud at the pleasure of it, the feeling of being so full I can hardly stand upright.
In my dreams, he fucks me all night, until I’m breathless from coming.
I wake up with stars blinking at the corners of my vision, and slide a hand under the blankets to press a hand to my soaking wet pussy. I’ve had sexy dreams before, but nothing like these. None that make me wake up in a cold sweat, already pushing my fingers inside myself, desperate for release.
I come at least twice before I drag myself to the dorm shower, and yet it never feels like enough. Because my fingers, my imagination, aren’t enough to sate me.
Only Keanen can do that now, I realize, and I both love and hate the feeling of being so totally under his spell.
But at least he doesn’t have to know it, yet.
Monday night—one of my few nights off since I got to Tanglewood, because thankfully the bar is closed at the start of the week—I wind up at a sorority mixer with Leah and Sara. It’s my first big social event, and I’m enjoying the chance to let my guard down, actually have fun. Leah fetches us drinks from the bar—some kind of fruity punch that tastes dangerous, because you can’t taste the booze in it at all.
I’m halfway through my second cup, pleasantly buzzed, when someone calls my name.
“Missy, right?” Bette stumbles toward our group, away from a cluster of impeccably dressed girls. She looks like she’s wearing full on designer, head-to-toe. For a Monday night sorority mixer.
