Page 109 of Spearcrest Queen

She gazes up at me, and the expression in her face is the kind I never dreamed I’d ever see on Sophie Sutton’s moody little face: admiration and relief and pure adoration.

“Evan Alexander Knight,” she says in a sigh. “I could kiss you.”

I smirk down at her. “I dare you to.”

She looks up at me, and then it’s her turn to smirk. Grabbing me by my collar, she suddenly shoves me back. I stumble in surprise, and the backs of my legs hit the edge of the armchair behind me. Sophie pushes me back, and I grin up at her, heartbeat quickening as I wait for her to straddle me,but she doesn’t.

Instead, Sophie kneels between my legs. With her black turtleneck and her short denim skirt and her thick-framed glasses, I could come just looking at her.

She catches my eyes and bites down on a smile, teeth digging into her bottom lip as she unbuckles my trousers.

“I didn’t saywhereI could kiss you.”

“Sutton,” I say—but the rest of my sentence dies in my throat as she wraps her fingers around me. “Fuuuck.”

“Language,” Sophie tuts, and she shoves me back into the armchair, and my eyes roll into the back of my head when she takes me into her mouth.

There’s really no sight in the world more erotic than the sight of Sophie Sutton with my cock in her mouth. Seeing her on her knees knowing what a proud creature she is, meeting her dark, defiant gaze as she glides her mouth up and down the length of me, and, as my pleasure builds under her commanding tongue, gathering her long hair in my fist to control her head, the little glare she tosses me when my thrusts become rougher and less controlled, and then seeing her cheeks darken to a heavy pink, her thick eyelashes grow wet with tears, tiny moans vibrating low in her throat as I fuck myself into her mouth.

“Fuck,” I whimper, my entire body tightening with pleasure. “Fuck, Sophie, you take my cock so well.”

She lifts her mouth off me to catch her breath, and I wipe a string of saliva off her wet, swollen lips with my thumb.

“Gorgeous girl,” I rasp when she lowers her mouth back on me, my words growing incoherent as she builds an irresistible rhythm that makes my entire body grow tense, my fingers tightening around her hair. “Sophie, fuck, yes, god.”

She looks up at me, and I come looking into her eyes, bucking into the hot, tight heat of her mouth. She weathers my orgasm like a champion, too proud to pull away, and when I slumpback, stunned and spent, she straightens herself, swallows and dabs her puffy lips with the tips of her fingers, elegant and imperious as anything.

“Fuck,” I whine, covering my eyes with a hand.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she says smugly.

“Wipe that arrogant smirk off your face,” I say huskily, shoving myself up to my feet. “Your turn.”

“Pizza’s going to be here soon,” she says, stepping back.

I catch her by her waist and throw her over my shoulder. “Pizza can wait.”

47

Summer

Evan

It’s not very difficultto convince Sophie to let me fly her parents in for her graduation. I know her too well, and I’ve known her for too long. What I do is spend months telling her I want to buy her a $60,000 white diamond necklace for her graduation.

I let her horror and dread build over time, and when I can tell she’s reached a peak of stress about the situation, I offer her a compromise in the form of allowing me to fly her parents to the US.

She agrees.

(And anyway, I’ve got the rest of my life to shower this proud, stubborn woman in diamonds.)

Her parents somehow look exactly as I pictured and not at all. Both of them are shorter than her, for one. They’re both elegant and a little awkward, with straight postures and sharp bone structure. Sophie has her father’s dark eyes and hair, his olive colouring.

It’s strange to see her with them: it reminds me of the way she used to be around teachers in Spearcrest. Standing tall, back straight, full of contained nervous energy, rigid and solemn.

Despite how obviously anxious she is, Sophie is a fucking vision on Commencement Day. The black robe and red hood suit her: she wears it over a structured black dress and plain heels, her make-up understated and striking. Even the mortarboard cap looks good on her long, shiny hair.

Her mother is misty-eyed the entire time: it’s not hard to see how proud her parents are of her. They take pictures of her in her academic regalia, pictures of her shaking hands with her mentor, Mr Park, and then the president of Harvard, pictures of her with her diploma.

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