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"I didn't mean right this second. After class? At the coffee shop?"
That's code for off campus, away from anyone who might see us together. Meaning, he's still trying to keep this a secret, and we're not even screwing anymore. We're. Just. Friends.
Or at least, we could be again someday. Maybe.
But not right now.
"Maybe."
I don't want to give him a straight answer because I'm not sure I'm strong enough yet to be alone with him. If my body is responding this strongly to him in public, I can't guarantee I won't slip and give in if we're tucked in a table in the corner of the coffee shop.
My hands would want to wander. To slip under the table. Reach inside his pants. Take hold of his cock and stroke until he makes a mess in his jeans.
And I'd want him to do the same to me. He'd be surprised to find I have undies on today. They'd be in his way, but that wouldn't stop him. He'd press on, make sure he worked me up good, and then when I couldn't take the torture anymore, he'd slip a finger inside me.
But that wouldn't be enough.
Not after knowing what he feels like inside me.
So I'd pull him into the bathroom and beg him to take me against the wall.
Which he'd happily do. Against the wall, thrusting so hard I'd hit my head. But I'd beg him to keep going. Because I can't get enough of him. And he can't get enough of me. And we fit together perfectly. We'd come in unison, our breathing heavy and our brows drenched in sweat.
After we'd exit the bathroom, things would still be the same, though. We want different things, and there's no middle ground.
Fanning my face, I push away the visions I've created. Because if I keep thinking about him inside me, I'm going to have to go home and take care of myself.
Who am I kidding? That's exactly what I'm going to have to do after this class is over. And I'll be thinking about him the entire time. Which only makes this situation worse because unless he's on my mind, unless I'm replaying what we've done or a fantasy I've created that stars him, there's no way I'm going to get off.
When I sidestep Brady this time, he doesn't stop me. Slipping into the stairwell, I take the stairs two at a time. When I reach the first landing, I look back and find Brady staring up at me. His foot is on the first step, as if he's considering running after me. When our eyes meet, I can see the uncertainty in his marble grays.
And when I shake my head, I see the devastation, but I don't stick around to watch for long. I continue up to the second-floor landing and burst through the door, watching my professor close the door as I rush toward him.
"Running late, Miss Campos?" His observation is formulated as a question as I step inside the classroom. I can feel thirty sets of eyes on me as I mumble my excuse.
"Coffee accident."
"Well," he continues, “now that we're all here, I hope you're prepared for our first exam of the semester.”
My mind reels as memories of our last class come back to me.
It was only our first time meeting for the semester. He handed out a syllabus, but said it was subject to change. I remember being excited because I'd already gone over most of the outline in a previous class. That's when he said we'd be testing today. So he can see what we already know. And I completely forgot about it. Which means I didn't study. And the last time I even thought about Pharmacology was six months ago.
So the answer to my questionCan things get any worse?is yes. Yes, they can. And they have.
