Page 21 of Most Likely to Match
Dean’s forearms flex as he makes a fist around my panties, but the surprise on his face has morphed into what looks like…anger.
His knuckles are white from his tight grip. Slowly, he looks down, opens his hand. He lifts my cotton panties like he mightsmellthem, and that is too far. I should be scandalized.
There’s no room for scandal, though. Not when I can feel my wetness paint the inside of my upper thighs, when every subtle shift feels like the whisper of his fingertips, or— oh god— his tongue.
Dean stops himself before he does anything with the panties that might make me want to rub myself all over his leg. “You,” he says, husky, like he can’t catch his breath, “are wet?”
I flush, embarrassed and confused. “You…you’re angry about that?”
Dean crowds me against the shelves, his hand sliding up the back of my thigh. “No, I’m not mad,” he says, a barely contained growl. He squeezes me. “I’m gonna do something about it.”
But he doesn’tdoanything. He waits with his hand on my thigh. My heart pounds in my throat. I listen for muted footsteps on the carpeted floor, the hushed voices of librarians or students or a freaking janitor. There’s nothing, no one. Yet still he waits, holding me by his fingertips off the edge of a cliff when I wish he’d let me fall. Except, maybe that’s why he waits.
He needs me to jump.
“Well?” I ask, barely recognizing the sound of my own voice. “Do something.”
4
DEAN
She arches her eyebrow when she says it, her challenge thrown like a glove between us. And it’s funny, because this whole time, I’ve been trying so hard to be the asshole I wish I’d been years ago; the character has felt like an ill-fitting glove.
But this? Sliding my hand up the back of her thigh to hitch it high around my waist, cuppingherwaist with my other hand, my thumb brushing the underside of her breast through the soft fabric, pushing her skirt up to her hip to catch a glimpse of her pussy, bare, glistening.
Nothing has ever felt moremethan this.
The first pass of my thumb through her lips, wetting my skin with her essence, brushing over her clit, and her sharp intake of breath in response, makes my dick hard. A teeth-gritting wave of arousal moves down my spine. I have to close my eyes, brace my whole body against the urge to unzip myself and fuck into her like I’ve wanted to do since I first saw her again.
The position is a bit awkward, my arm wrapped around her leg, holding her up and pinning her between my body and the stacks, but it’s the best one to keep anyone from seeing her. Though no oneseems to have entered this specific aisle since around the year we graduated anyway.
Still, when I pump two fingers inside her and she moans, I cover her mouth with my hand— the hand still holding her panties.
Chloe watches me, my hand, her panties between us, each exhale against the side of my hand unsteady.
“You have to be quiet, okay?”
She nods. I press my fingers deeper into her as a reward, and she moans without regard.
“You want me to take my hand away?” I ask.
Her eyes get wide. She shakes her head, makes fists in the poly-cotton blend of my shirt. She makes a different sound, a helpless, begging moan, one that vibrates like a shock through my hand, down my arm, straight into my cock.
No. She does not want me to remove my hand. I have to close my eyes again, because I can’t look at her right now. I can’t contend with all of this, the desperate way she pulls me closer to her, the heat of her cunt, the slick honey halfway down her thighs, and stillseeher, too.
That is a bridge too far.
But because I can’t ever do anything other than exactly what she wants, I keep my hand, and her panties, over her mouth. I fuck her with my fingers, my eyes closed, my forehead pressed to hers.
Our sounds are muted. Harsh breaths and wet skin and the occasional thump when I readjust my grip on her thigh or she shifts her weight. My mouth waters to taste her. Those sounds. Her mouth just inches away. Her perfume, sweet and fruity, reminiscent of the body butter she used in high school but more mature. Grown. And beneath that, the fucking smell ofher. Salt, sweat, and sex.
I could drop to my knees right now and smell her on my lips for the rest of the day, taste her again every time I swallow.
A sharp pain against the side of my hand pulls me out of that fantasy. Chloe smiles at me, her teeth still leaving indents in my skin. I’ve pressed her into the corner, wall and shelving on one side, me on the other. My cock throbs from the pressure of rutting against her.
“Sorry,” I say. My eyelids are heavy, my pulse a slow glug at my throat. “Is that okay? Are you okay?”
I pull my hand away.
