Page 47 of Her Name in Red
“Fucking hell,” I pant, my forehead resting against her inner thigh as aftershocks wrack my body.
We stay like that for a long moment, both of us panting like we've run a fucking marathon. My face is buried against her thigh, her release cooling on my chin, my own growing uncomfortably sticky. But I don't want to move. Don't want to break whatever fucked-up spell we're under.
“Did you just...” Maren's voice is raspy, disbelieving. “Did you seriously just come in your pants?”
I should be embarrassed. Any other time, with any other woman, I'd be mortified. But with Maren? Fuck it.
“Yep.” I lift my head, making sure she sees me lick her release from my lips. “Came so hard I saw fucking stars. Just from your pussy.”
Her legs are still spread, her pussy glistening and swollen from my attention. I can't help but lean forward and place one last kiss on her clit, making her twitch and hiss.
She reaches down, running her thumb across my bottom lip, collecting her wetness before pushing it into my mouth. I suck on it greedily, my spent cock giving a valiant twitch despite the mess in my sweats.
“That's the hottest fucking thing I've ever seen,” she whispers, her voice uncharacteristically soft.
Chapter 17
Maren
I've been avoiding Riggs for three days. My phone's been blowing up with texts, but I've left them all on read. What are you supposed to say to the guy whose face you rode like it was your last night on earth? Thanks for the orgasm; let's never speak of it again?
Professor Westfield drones on about Faulkner's use of symbolism or some equally mind-numbing shit while I doodle bloody knives in the margins of my notebook. Lit Theory is my personal purgatory—a class I'm only taking because I need the humanities credit to graduate. At least it's a lecture hall, which means I can hide in the back row and?—
“Hey, nightmare.”
The deep voice sends a jolt down my spine. I don't need to look up to know who it is. My body's already betraying me, nipples hardening beneath my thin t-shirt, pulse quickening.
Riggs drops into the empty seat beside me, his long legs stretching out into the aisle. He smells of cedarwood. The scent triggers an instant flash of memory—his face buried between my thighs, his fingers stretching me open.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I hiss, not looking at him. “Your seat is over there. Or literally anywhere but next to me.”
From the corner of my eye, I see him grin, that cocky, lopsided smirk that makes me want to either slap him or climb him like a tree.
“Nah, I think I'm good sitting here,” he replies, leaning back in his chair like he owns the goddamn place. He pulls out his laptop to take notes. “Besides, the view's better.”
I finally turn to look at him, and it's a mistake. His hair is still damp from a shower, the dark blond ends curling slightly. There's a shadow of stubble along his jaw that wasn't there three days ago. My fingers itch to touch it, to feel the rough scratch against my skin.
“Just because I fucked your face doesn't mean we're anything,” I whisper, keeping my voice low enough that the pretentious English majors in front of us can't hear. “You sitting here is going to make people think we're a thing.”
His eyes darken at my words, pupils dilating as he leans in closer. “We are something, Maren.”
“We're nothing,” I snap, but my voice lacks conviction even to my own ears.
“Bullshit.” His knee bumps against mine under the desk, the heat of his body seeping through my jeans. “Nothingdoesn't make you come so hard you squirted down my throat.”
Heat floods my face. Fucking hell. Only Riggs would say something like that in the middle of a damn class.
“Can you fucking not?” I whisper, sliding as far away from him as my seat allows.
The professor drones on about stream of consciousness, and I try—really try—to focus on anything but the heat radiating from Riggs beside me. I scribble nonsense in my notebook, pressing the pen so hard it tears through the page.
“You've been avoiding me,” he murmurs, his voice low enough that only I can hear it.
“No shit, Sherlock.”
“Why?” His knee presses against mine again, and I don't pull away. I can't pull away. My body's a goddamn traitor.
“Because this—” I gesture subtly between us “—is a complication I don't need.”
