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Her eyes light with fire, and an angry sneer curls her lip. “So you’re saying I’m inviting his unwanted attention because of the way I’m dressed?”
“What? No.”
She tips her chin up farther and cocks her head to the side. “Are you sure about that? If I remember correctly, you sure didn’t seem to mind how much skin I had on display when you came into STW. In fact, you seemed to like it a lot then, and you still seem to like it now.” She cups me through my pants to make her point.
She’s not wrong. Which makes me an asshole in this situation, twice. Still, I try to find a way to justify myself. “That kid was staring at your legs through the entire presentation.”
“So were you.”
Shit. She’s right again. “I’m your boyfriend. I’m allowed to get hard over your legs; that little fucker isn’t.”
Her eyes flare with surprise. “Boyfriend?”
“We’re dating exclusively, are we not?” A hot, nearly violent spike of possessiveness makes my jaw and fists clench.
She seems taken aback by the question. “I guess.”
“You guess?” I’m in her space again. In the back of my mind, I acknowledge that this isn’t supposed to get serious. We’re dating casually, both of us leaving for new adventures in a matter of weeks, but I want to be certain that I have her all to myself until then, at the very least. “Is there someone other than me that you’re interested in?”
She puts a hand on my chest, preventing me from getting any closer. “No.”
“Anyone else you want to sleep beside at night?”
She swallows hard. “No.”
I trail my fingers from her hip to the hem of her skirt, which incidentally ends a good eight inches from her knees. I brush my thumb along the bare skin. “Anyone else you want touching you like this?”
“No one else,” she whispers.
“Me either. I think that qualifies me as your boyfriend.” I drag my fingers up her thigh, bunching her skirt.
“Griffin.” It’s just my name, a warning, a plea.
We both look down as I lift her skirt to expose her panties. It doesn’t take much in the way of shifting fabric because her skirt is short—and she knows it. When they come into view, I chuckle. They’re not lacy or satin or sexy. She’s wearing a pair of cheap cotton panties with a cartoon eggplant emoji pattern. “Really, Cosy?” I slip a finger under the elastic.
“What’re you doing?” She’s breathy and panicked.
“Touching you.”
“We’re in a supply closet.”
“Ask me if I give a fuck.”
“I need to get back to my group, Griffin.”
“Tell them you got lost. Better yet, tell them your boyfriend dragged you into a supply closet so he could finger you because he was feeling threatened by some punk kid and decided you might need a reminder as to who rules this body.” I cover her mouth with mine before she can get mad at me again for that dickhead comment and drag a finger along her slit, going low until I can push inside.
“Jesus, Griffin.” Cosy grabs my shoulders. Her legs part, though, inviting me to keep going.
This is a stupid location for this, more along the lines of something my younger brothers might do with their significant others. But watching that kid trying to flirt with her for a goddamn hour pissed me off. Not to mention how unreasonable she’s being about my family’s financial status. It’s not as if she didn’t have some sort of inkling without all the actual details—even if she’s right that I should’ve told her already.
In all my years of working with my father, I have never locked someone in a supply closet to fuck around. I’ve never even had office sex and my ex used to stop by for lunch all the time. Clearly I’ve been missing out.
I stroke inside her a few times, so soft and warm and welcoming, before I add a second finger. Moving her panties to the side, I press my palm against her clit and curl my fingers forward.
Cosy’s eyes flare and she moans.
“Shhh, baby, you don’t want to get in trouble, do you?” I scold.
“No, but, oh God—” She clamps a hand over her mouth at my next finger curl. “Holy shit, what’re you doing?” Her eyes roll up.
“Reminding your pussy who it belongs to.”
“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” she gripes, but that turns into a low moan when I hit the sweet spot. She claws at my suit jacket, looking for something to hold onto as her legs threaten to give out.
“I got you,” I assure her.
She sags against the door and lets me take her weight, sinking into my palm.
“Tuck your skirt into your belt.”
“Why?”
“So I can see what I’m doing to you.” I wait until she complies before I increase the speed.
Her mouth drops open and her eyes flare. “It’s so . . . God.”
