Page 25 of Gingers Can Do Maths

The timer goes off and so does Sin.

Sin

This is all out of order.

We should talk first. I'm still hurt. He has to be hurt too.

There’s so much left to be said but dammit I don’t want to talk.

Not now.

Every nerve ending in my body’s singing for him, begging for us to unite in ways we never have.

I slide beneath the table, the crumpled exam paper in my hand and a feeling of pure euphoria washes over me as I lock eyes with my sweet Han.

Not Ice Prince Rohan.

His hardened eyes have thawed to liquid pools of tropical water. Warm and inviting like I remember.

Damn, he’s painfully handsome. So handsome it almost hurts to look at him.

My nose brushes his wet one, my nipples scraping against his chest from how close we are, crowded beneath the table top like we’re kids all over again.

But nothing childish is happening between us anymore. No more innocent sleepovers where we stayed up to do maths with torches beneath the covers. Maths is the last thing on my mind even as I lift the paper.

“I finished it,” I say, breathlessly, hopefully.

Han reluctantly breaks our eye contact to flip through the papers, checking that each problem is complete. “So you did. Good girl.”

Warm tingles surge to my throbbing clit at the last words.

“I want to be good for you,” I say, and it’s the truth. I want to make up the past three years to Han. I know it’s technically impossible, but I’ll try my damnedest.

He strokes my cheek, and while I’m on my hands and knees with his head hovering above mine, I feel so damn small, like a little lap dog desperate for its owner’s affection.

His thumb swipes my lower lip and I suck on it without thinking.

A low, throaty moan vibrates in his throat. “Then be patient while I check your work.”

I deflate, releasing his thumb with a wet pop. “Right now?”

His smile is downright cruel. “I’m sure you’ll find something to quietly occupy your time.” Sliding his hand onto the table, he grabs my pencil with blind precision and begins to seriously go through the papers.

Before I can pout, he strokes my spine with his fingertips and I damn near pur, dipping my head onto his lap.

“Be good, Sinny,” he says, his face obscured by the papers.

But as I settle into the cradle of his thighs, I find exactly what it is I can occupy myself with.

His thick, veiny cock is partially hidden beneath his waistband, but when I tug the dark fabric down, it springs free with a heavy bob, pointing at me accusingly. The head that curls ever so slightly upward is glistening with precum, the shaft coated in so much wetness that it can’t be his own.

Is it mine?

I remember the rhythm of him sliding his fingers into me and then out methodically.

Had he been jacking himself off with my slick?

Just the thought of it sends more liquid heat rushing to my core and as he scans the paper, I can’t help leaning forward and planting a kiss right on the head.

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