The Hook Up
Page 7

“Shit.” My voice echoes in the shower.
And though goose bumps cover my skin, I’m hot again. And hard. The tip of my randy dick presses against the cold tiles, and I find myself nudging forward just to alleviate the pressure. Shit. I want her again. Now. Badly.
I don’t even try to stroke myself. It’s not going to help. The horny bastard wants Anna, not my hand. Besides, I cringe at jacking off to thoughts of her now like a pathetic beggar.
God, it was humiliating to watch the realization of what she did steal over her features and the horror creep into her eyes. She couldn’t get away from me fast enough. I’d sat back on my haunches like a moron as she wrenched up her top and scrambled off the sofa. Her panties were a lost cause, apparently, because she simply fled the room with a mumbled “Sorry—Bye” tossed my way.
She didn’t even let me kiss her. That burns the most. As if kissing me was so personal that she couldn’t bear it. As if she needed to relegate me to some random, near faceless f**k.
I groan again and run a hand over my face. My arms feel like lead, and I’m shivering. Slowly, I turn on the hot water and sink to the hard floor of the shower stall. I’ve just experienced the hottest, most erotic, life-changing sex of my life, and I don’t think I’m going to get a repeat. Tonight was obviously an ill-advised hook up for her. And I’m so screwed because it was the best thing that has ever happened to me.
Chapter 6
IT DIDN’T HAPPEN. That’s what we’ll pretend. Flashes of Baylor rising over me, of his chest sliding against mine, his thick, heavy c**k sinking… My steps wobble. Okay, it did happen, and I’m unable to pretend otherwise. But it doesn’t really count. It was a…a…cosmic blip, a slight detour from reality. It was a hook up. No more. No less. I can do this. I’ve had hook ups before. Wham, bam, thank you, man. Lust satisfied. Life goes on.
Taking a deep breath, I head down the hall toward my class.
Shit on a Popsicle stick. Baylor lounges against the door, one long leg crossed over the other, his arms lightly folded over his broad chest. My heart pounds like a frightened rabbit trying to spring from a fox.
He watches me, a small, smug smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Traitor that my body is, my pulse leaps at that smile. My mouth wants to smile back. I bite the inside of my lip. It gets worse as I draw up before him. I know him now. I know the texture of his skin, what his c**k feels like deep inside of me, the sounds he makes when he comes.
“Hey,” he says.
My skin prickles. God, his voice. His voice whispering against my wet sex. Stop me. I swallow thickly.
“Hey.”
His smile grows. “I’ve been thinking about you, Jones.”
“Don’t strain yourself.”
“Such animosity.” A warm puff of air touches my cheek as he leans in, bringing that body of his way too close for my sanity. “I thought we were past that stage.”
I’m in my own personal hell because all I want to do is lick the side of his strong neck and dip my hand into his well-worn jeans and grab hold of what’s mine. I wrench my head back and glare, focusing on his chin because I can’t look at him in the eye. Coward. “You’re right. Let’s move on to the ‘never mentioning it or thinking about it again’ stage.”
Baylor frowns. “I don’t like that option.”
“I don’t care.” I give a pointed look at the door then his big, broad chest. “Do you mind moving out of the way? I want to get to class.”
He simply stands there, arms crossed in a way that does interesting things to his biceps and forearms, and scans my face. I still can’t meet his eyes, which annoys me.
“Are you embarrassed?” he asks in a lowered voice.
“No. Hardly.” Yes. Completely.
“You look embarrassed. You’re all flushed here.” He brushes a finger along my cheek.
I bat his hand away. “I get flushed when I’m annoyed.”
His voice rumbles along my skin. “That isn’t the only time you flush.”
And now my knees are weak. I glance at him, see the heat and teasing light in his eyes, so I focus on his earlobe instead. A nice, innocuous earlobe. That I want to bite. “Is this your post hook up protocol? Bug the girl afterward? Do you need feedback or something to stroke your ego? Are you going to ask if the earth moved for me?”
He lifts up his hand and starts counting off points with his fingers. “I don’t need to ask that, Jones. We both know the earth f**king melted. I don’t have a hook up protocol. I’d make a joke about what needs stroking, but that’s too easy. Frankly, I’m disappointed that you left yourself wide open for that one.” He touches the tip of my nose, and that shit-eating Baylor grin grows. “I expected more of a challenge.”
“Gah!” I shove past him.
“‘Gah?’” He laughs, as I wrench open the classroom door. “Is that even English—?”
“Mr. Baylor,” Professor Lambert says in greeting, her pale eyes sharp with reprimand. “Miss Jones. So glad you two could make it. Would you please take your seats?”
I give her a quick nod and head for mine, utterly aware of every eye on Baylor and me as we walk down an aisle. As for Baylor, he is a presence I cannot shake. And my stupid body is humming as if it’s at its own, personal happy hour.
Class ambles along at an excruciating pace. Lambert is discussing Plato’s utopian ideal, and though I try to focus, my body is too attuned to Baylor to be successful.
“What say you, Miss Jones?”
I jump at the sound of Lambert’s voice. Surely I’m staring up at her like a slack-jawed idiot.
“Could you repeat the question?” I force myself to ask. I will not look at Baylor, who is likely smiling with smug satisfaction.
Lambert’s lips twitch. “Do you believe that Plato’s utopia could work in a modern day society?”
“No, ma’am, I do not.” It’s a short answer, but I’m too aggravated by Baylor’s presence to give a better one.
“And why is that, Miss Jones?”
Right. I suppress a sigh and try to look unfazed. “Because, at its core, it is based on the notion of perfection. That perfection is possible. Which it is not.”
“Hold up,” Baylor cuts in, so fast, I wonder if he wasn’t waiting for an opening that would force me to look at him. “Are you saying we shouldn’t strive toward perfection?” His eyes twinkle, and I know he’s having fun egging me on. “Quite the defeatist attitude, Miss Jones.”
“I’m saying that it isn’t attainable, Mr. Baylor, because perfection is impossible to define.”
“I agree with Baylor,” a guy two rows up says. He’s wearing Baylor’s team jersey so I’m not surprised. Baylor’s defender gives me an accusatory glare. “I mean if Drew didn’t try to achieve perfection, we wouldn’t have won two Championships under his leadership.”
I barely refrain from rolling my eyes.
“This is true,” Baylor puts in helpfully.
Ass.
“There is a difference between trying to obtain a level of personal perfection verses expecting a society to unilaterally live in perfect harmony,” I say. “One relies on a personal expectation. The other is based on the masses following the opinion of one. And who decides? Who dictates this utopia?”
“Plato, obviously.” Baylor grins at me.
I glare back, but it’s hard to stay annoyed at his playful attitude. “Never mind the fact that we have virtually no examples of a utopian society thriving in a real world situation,” I say.
One of the girls who has been mooning over Baylor since the beginning of the semester raises her hand, as if she needs permission to speak. “What about Atlantis?”
Oh, Jesus Christ in a peach tree.
I glance at Baylor, and he’s biting his lip to keep from laughing. It’s all I can do not laugh too. I look away before I lose it. But I feel him beside me, and know that he’s itching to let loose, which only makes it worse. It’s so bad that I barely hear Lambert’s response, which is good because I know it would make me laugh. A repressed snort to my right has me turning. My gaze clashes with Baylor’s and we share a look of glee, but it’s short-lived. Suddenly I remember the last time I stared into his eyes. When he was deep inside me, his c**k thick and pulsing with his release, and the strangled sound he made as he let go. Heat swamps me.
It must show. I don’t know how to hide it. His smile slips, as his lips part. On a breath, his gaze goes molten.
Holy hell, I’m in trouble.
Vaguely, I’m aware of people rising up around me. Class is breaking up. I can’t look away from Baylor. Not when he slowly rises. Not when he stops in front of my desk and holds out his hand.
“Come with me.”
I go, because I cannot ignore this need. But I don’t touch him. The moment I do, it will be over. I’ll jump on him right here and disgrace myself in public. Maybe he knows this because he lets his hand fall and clenches it in a fist, as if he too needs to practice restraint.
The corner of his mouth trembles. He’s looking me over. I’m the meal and he’s planning how to go about consuming me. We turn as one and walk out of the classroom with deceptive casualness. But inside? Inside I’m burning hot. Again. How is this happening again? My black sweater smothers me, my tight knit skirt scratching the sensitized skin on my thighs. I want these things off. I want skin to skin. I want him so badly, each step is a struggle. Like I’m walking through warm, soap-slick water.
Though he’s not touching me, Baylor is herding me along, clearly intent on some place to go. We can’t get there soon enough.
A strangled sound of impatience escapes me, and his pace increases, his hand hovering just behind my back. I quicken my strides as we head for the massive main library that sits caddy-corner to the history hall. People come and go, striding up the wide front steps and under the high columned portico. Oblivious to us. To the thick heat that swirls around me, threatening to melt me the moment I come to a stop. I’m so worked up, I can barely get my student ID out and slide it through the scanner. Baylor does little better.
A quick, hot look from him, and I’m shaking again, heading toward the elevator. God. I can have him there. Wrap myself around him. Sink my teeth into his firm flesh. Or sink to my knees and…
The door opens and we step in. And so do three other students.
My teeth meet with an audible click.
Baylor stands next to me, his arm barely brushing mine. I feel it to my toes. We don’t look at each other. Don’t speak. He hits the button for the top floor where the rare folios are housed. Library Siberia. A haven.
Slowly people get off on other floors, and we are left alone. But neither of us dares to move. As soon as the doors open, we burst free of the elevator. We’re walking as fast as we can without actually running. My throat feels raw, the space between my legs slick and my ni**les tight and pushing against my bra.
Baylor’s sneakers don’t make a sound on the polished linoleum, but my boot heels hit with a steady hard click, click, click. The floor is devoid of people, and so quiet that I can hear my own breath coming out in disjointed bursts. We head for the back, to the farthest row. My knees nearly buckle, and he takes my elbow. The touch burns.
The second we reach the shadowy row, he pulls me in and whips me around to face the bookshelves. Without ceremony, he yanks up my skirt, shoving it to my waist. Rough, determined hands haul my h*ps back, practically lifting my ass into the air as he gets me into the position he wants me. It’s all I can do not to thank him, beg him to hurry the f**k up and f**k me. My fingers grip the steel edge of the bookshelf and slip a bit from the sweat on my palms.
His breath is a raw, uncontrolled sound behind me, his heat palpable against my exposed skin. I press my lips into my sweaty wrist and arch my back, giving him a better view. The sound of his zipper going down and a foil packet tearing fills the air. My breath hitches, anticipation clutching low and tight in my belly.
My panties are wrenched to the side. One stroke of his finger to test my wetness. Yes. Yes. And then he thrusts. Hard. I bite the inside of my lip to hold in my cry.
So thick. So, so good. So deep that I’m on my toes, my sex pulsing. His fingers dig into my hips, pulling me back down on him, forcing himself deeper still. A ghost of a sound comes from his direction as if he too is swallowing his groan. I can’t take it. He’s too big. Too there. And then he moves, a fast, frantic pumping.
I close my eyes, rock into his hips, meeting him thrust for thrust. Excitement and lust run over my skin with hot bites of pleasure. All is quiet except for our muffled breaths and the wet slap of flesh against flesh that we can’t control. His jeans-clad thighs press up against the backs of mine as he ruts into me. Because there’s nothing smooth or polite about this. He’s f**king me raw.
My fists clench, the effort to keep quiet making me shake.
His hands slide from my h*ps to under my shirt. His skin is so hot, his palms so wonderfully rough, that I suck in a breath. He slips under my bra, cups my br**sts, and holds them as he f**ks me. He’s going to kill me. I’m sure of it. I nearly scream when he captures the tips of my ni**les with his fingers and tweaks them, plucking in time to his thrusts.
Holy. Shit.
My orgasm hits in a series of waves, my sex convulsing and clamping down on his dick. And he loses it. His mouth finds that vulnerable spot on my neck as he wraps his body around mine. The blunt tip of his finger touches my clitoris, and I’m coming again, just as he does.
Thoughts scatter like dry leaves until only one remains. I’ll never get enough of him.