Page 95 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

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Ispread my legs over Finlay’s lap and use both my hands on his cock. I peel aside his boxer-briefs and slide them down past his thighs, where they pool at his ankles alongside his jeans. His cock is dark pink and full of pride, standing to attention in my enclosed fist. It’s smooth to touch yet as strong as iron, and I stroke the warm length in fascination at these contradictions.

Finlay gazes up at me through soft, almost sleepy eyelids, though his green eyes, darkened with lust, are hyper-aware and skewer my soul. “Whit are ye gonnae dae?” he asks again.

I meet his gaze with a smile. “I know you don’t want me to touch you,” I murmur, and so I release his cock from my fist, my hand sliding up past the dark-red head. The skin of my palm glistens with a line of precum and I stare down at it in interest.

With a weak groan, Finlay’s hips tilt up into thin air as though seeking any kind of friction, but the only thing he meets is empty space.

“Ye’re such a fuckin’ tease, sassenach.” Finlay’s eyes slide shut, his head tipped back before lolling across his shoulder. “Keep daein’ that,” he adds quietly, a breath of warm air, a plea through softly parted lips.

“No,” I tell him, and he gives me a furious groan. “I’m not touching you. I’m doing this for Rory.”

“Dinnae say his name,” Finlay mutters as his cock leaps before me. His face is strained with tension, his eyes screwed shut and his brow furrowed with the weight of his protests. “Please.”

“But you react so prettily. I think Rory ought to know.”

Finlay makes a kind of gnashing noise, a harsh groan straight from the pit of his stomach, filtered through a dry and desperate throat. Everything about his primal, strained muscles and gritted teeth is an explosion waiting to happen. And as much as I love watching Finlay on the edge, I want to see his wonderful mind unravel like a scarlet ribbon, so I hasten my pace and arch against him.

“Wh-whit are ye daein’?” He blinks up at me, green eyes shining like rounded gems, and then down to the juncture where I’m positioned on top of him.

I shift forward, pulsing on his lap, stroking his cock with my heated cunt. The slide of him against the fabric of my underwear is painfully arousing — I want to throw away this stupid scrap of fabric, drive Finlay delirious enough that he rips it off me and tosses it against the wall. He inflames me. Each grind of my hips against his stiff cock earns a moan from both of us.

We’re like that for a while, my hips rocking against him. I fan the skirt of my dress out across Finlay’s lap, and it almost looks innocent. It almost looks like we’re playing pretend, that I’m just a girl sitting on a boy’s lap, that it’s casual, so casual, that our hearts aren’t hammering in sync, that our foreheads aren’t beading with sweat, that all I want is to burn all clothes away from my body and curse myself for being as much of a blinding masochist as a sadist.

Finlay meets my gaze, swallowing, and then looks away again. It’s as though focusing has become difficult, as though he’s become engulfed by sensation, that touch has overpowered sight.

“I can’t… I’m gonnae…” he whispers, and I grind harder against his cock, shifting my hips into miniature circles-of-eight. Each brush against him, each electric jolt, sends a collision through my system and down toward my cunt. I’m so desperate for him. I wish he were inside me. But instead I press on, this continual teasing dance between us, until a catch puckers Finlay’s breath.

His hands smack against my skin, fingers tensing around the flesh of my hips. He begins moving me, setting his own frantic rhythm, and I stare at him in awe. At the sheen of sweat glittering across his forehead, at the damp inky strands of his disheveled hair. He’s beautiful like this, captured beneath me, mine, and yet the both of us using each other as objects, with Rory not far from our thoughts.

My thighs are tight with heat, my cunt is wet. Sensation spirals straight to my core like hot little pinpricks that build to slashes I can no longer ignore. With fury, I crush my hips to Finlay’s, marveling at how two-way this has become — both of us chasing something so vast and engulfing it’s worth this, it’s worth this frantic, erratic display of energy, a clash of body parts to ease shockingly responsive nerves.

I surge forward to kiss Finlay, and Finlay cries, sob-like, into my mouth. He shudders beneath me as I slide the tip of my tongue against his, and then I feel him. One spurt and then another, a hot sticky tumult on the underside of my dress. I don’t stop moving. Not once do I slow down. Instead, I piston my hips to a greater degree, to a more severe angle, desperately rubbing my cunt against Finlay’s convulsing cock.

And then I taste freedom. Finlay crushes his mouth to mine, a collision of teeth and tongue, and stars glow in my vision. Orgasm rockets through my body. I scream against the crown of Finlay’s head, surrounded by the scent of vanilla and boy, and plant kisses over and over, rocking my hips as I shudder inside his arms until we reach a point of absolute frozen stillness.

In the darkness, the only movement is our heaving chests. We’re pressed so tight together that they kiss whenever they meet, rapid little butterfly kisses over and over, as though to soothe each other.

Finlay licks his lips, glancing up at me as though anxious, and there’s a heart-stopping moment where I wonder if this has been a mistake, if I’ve taken advantage, if this should never have happened.

But then a slow, crooked smile spreads across Finlay’s face, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen. It feels like sunlight, like renewal, and I stare at him in amazement because I never knew how much I hungered for Finlay’s outright joy.

These days, he’s plotting or planning but never outright joyous.

And I did that to him.

My heart soars like a balloon, like a hot-air balloon, something the prison of my ribs can never contain. I did something good. I actually did something good.

My thighs are sticky with his seed, and fuck pretending to be innocent. I hoist up my skirt and stare at the mess, at the thick white ropes of cum slick across my skin, almost stretching toward my belly button. In awe, I touch one of them. I swirl a finger around in it, spreading the cum across my body like a salve. It’s so sticky, so much like glue, but now I sense our hearts are glued together. Finlay stares at me from beneath half-lidded eyes, as though determined to preserve this image of me in his mind for eternity.

I reposition myself on Finlay’s lap, but this time facing the same direction as him. I snuggle into the side of his shoulder, laying my head down beside his nape. His hands wrap around me like a seatbelt, snug and secure, like he’ll never let me go.

“We should talk,” I murmur, and I nip his earlobe between my lips. “We should talk with Rory.”

Finlay doesn’t react. He remains still, as though all his essence has been drained from him. Eventually, in a gruff voice, he says, “No’ noo. Too much has happened recently, and I’ve nae desire tae throw a grenade in his direction. Later, I promise. We’ll talk. But no’ noo.”

He kisses my temple and smooths his large palms down my front and across the length of my thighs. He gathers me close, my legs dangling over the armrests, and I curl comfortably into his chest.

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