Page 67 of Spearcrest Knight

Because I don’t have to like Sutton to want her. In fact, the more I dislike about her, the more she mocks me and scratches at me with the talons of her words, the more I want her.

I want to hold Sophie, touch her and kiss her again, just to prove to her I can. I want to kiss every part of her she hides beneath her tidy uniform, her baggy sweaters. I want to make out with her in my car until she’s so turned on she has to beg me even though she hates me.

Just thinking about it makes me painfully, achingly hard.

I slide my hand into my boxers. My cock twitches at my touch. My head is full of all the things I want to do with Sophie, all the things I want to dotoher.

Her room is only a couple of doors away. She’d probably be disgusted if she knew I was touching myself thinking about her. But her proximity only makes this more forbidden, more tantalising.

Wrapping my fingers around my cock, I close my eyes.

What would I do if Sophie were to walk in right now? I’d look her right in the eyes, touching myself. Willing her to know my cock is hard for her. Pulling on my cock, pushing myself closer to the edge.

What if she came closer? I can think of a thousand things I’d do. Kissing a wet line from Sophie’s mouth to her throat, tasting her pulse. Exposing Sophie’s breasts to admire the colour of her nipples, to suck on them until they hardened under my tongue. Pushing up her skirt to reveal the pale skin of her upper thighs, licking her through her underwear, teasing her clit, making her squirm.

My eyes are clenched tight and I’m pumping my cock hard, now.

Sophie is so fucking harsh, so hard to crack, I couldn’t possibly go easy on her. I couldn’t just suck on her nipples—I’d have to bite them. I couldn’t just slide my fingers between her legs—I’d have to bury my face there. It could never be just sex with Sophie—it would have to be fucking.

Hard, rough fucking.

I’d have to fuck her hard enough to knock every thought from her head, to make her forget how much she dislikes me, to ensure she could never want another guy. I’d have to fuck her hard enough to make her scream, to break her voice, to make her shake in my arms.

I’d have to fuck her until she threw her head back and came on my cock and—

I come with a cry of surprise—I come so hard my back arches off the bed. My eyes blink slowly open as I try to catch my breath, and then clarity sets. I’m in big fucking trouble.

“Fuck.”

The next morning, I wake up both happy and sheepish. Luckily, Sophie’s already gone by the time I pull on my clothes and amble downstairs to rifle around the kitchen for some breakfast. The relief I feel is short-lived, though. On one hand, I don’t have to face her knowing I jacked off to thoughts of making out with her in my car, but on the other hand… I’m not going to see her all day.

She ends up working every day until Christmas Eve. I try to stay busy while she’s out, but it’s getting harder and harder to not spend every waking hour thinking about her.

Spending time with Sophie is like eating when you’re starving, except that no matter how satisfied you are while eating, you’re left feeling even hungrier than before. No matter how many evenings I spend with her, cooking with her or playing video games or just lounging around while she reads a book, I just end up wanting to spend more time with her.

Christmas Eve finally comes, and it must be a pretty special day because it’s the first time Sophie accepts my offer to pick her up from work. To be fair, it’s also been hailing through most of the day, and the cold is brutal by UK standards.

So I throw on a big sweatshirt and get in the car, trying my best to forget about all the fantasies I’ve had featuring the tinted glass and reclining seats.

I park up outside her café and try to peer through the strings of Christmas lights dangling inside the window. I’m desperately curious to see who she works with, but all I can make out are plants and the outline of big armchairs.

A minute later, Sophie comes running out of the door, holding two cups in her mittened hands. I reach over her seat to open the door, and she slumps inside with a sigh and hands me a paper cup.

“What’s this?” I ask, taking the cup.

“It’s hot chocolate and arsenic,” she answers drily.

“What do you mean?”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m joking. It’s hot chocolate, marshmallows and cream.”

“For me?”

“Evan,” she says, giving me the kind of impatient look she would give me when teaching me Shakespeare, with a tilt of the head and a raised eyebrow. “Yes, it’s for you. I made it myself. Happy Christmas Eve.”

She holds up her cup and taps it against mine, then takes a deep sip.

My heart clenches uncomfortably, and my throat suddenly feels a little swollen. I’m not one to get emotional, but for some reason, this hits me right in my feelings. I swallow hard and take a sip.

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