See Me After Class

by Quinn, Meghan

  When she’s done retrieving her drink, she joins me at the island and takes a sip before asking, “Do you drink apple juice often in the middle of the night?”

  “First time,” I answer.

  “Well, I’m glad I could be a part of such an historic occasion.”

  I tip my drink back then take the empty glass to the dishwasher. Turning toward her, I say, “Do you need anything else?”

  She shakes her head. “No, I’m good. The guest bed is really comfortable.”

  “Okay, well . . . have a good night, then.”

  I start to walk past her when she stops me, placing her hand on my bare chest. I suck in a sharp breath and then stare at her, my blood immediately pooling in my groin.

  Innocent eyes look up at me as she says, “Thank you for letting me stay here.”

  “No need to thank me,” I say. “It’s better than you driving.”

  “I know. But still, it must be weird having me here.”

  I shrug. “Didn’t think much of it.”

  What a fucking lie, but she doesn’t need to know that.

  “Yeah, I’m sure I’m the last thing on your mind.” Her hand drags down my chest and over my abs before dropping to her side. The light scrape of her fingernails over my skin just threw gasoline on the flame I have burning for this woman.

  “Do you want to be on my mind?” I ask, my voice heavy, deep.

  Her eyes flash to mine, indecision weighing heavily in them. “Thought maybe I was,” she says, turning away from me and leaning against the counter, her pert ass inches away from me. Did she just grant me an invitation?

  Jaw clenched, my hands itching to reach out and touch her, I ask, “Why would you think that?”

  She looks over her shoulder, and that’s when I catch it: seduction in her eyes. “Since you dressed up for me.”

  She shifts, her ass so goddamn tempting that I feel my mouth go dry as I tell myself to stay still, not to reach out, not to fall under the spell she’s trying to cast.

  “I didn’t dress up for you,” I say, keeping still, but hell . . .

  She shifts again, and I’m fucking dying.

  I want to touch her. I want to toss her up on the counter and get lost in her scent, in her wild hair.

  I want to punish that mouth of hers, make her think twice before tempting me.

  “Then why did you dress up?” she asks, turning toward me.

  “Turn around.”

  “What?” she asks, her brows furrowing.

  “Turn. Back. Around.”

  “Arlo—”

  “Don’t make me tell you again,” I say, my will slipping.

  I feel it drain out of me, the wall she’s cracked inside me slowly crumbling.

  The resistance falters, and I blame it on the lack of sleep and pants in this kitchen, because when she turns back around, my hand falls to her lower back as I step in behind her.

  “You think I dressed up for you?” I ask, spanning my hand over her back and slipping it under her shirt. I feel her muscles bunch up along her spine as I move my hand higher.

  “I can’t come up with another reason.”

  “So you assume it’s for you?” I move my hand back down, loving the sharp intake of breath I hear.

  “Wasn’t it?”

  I lean over her back, my arousal pressing against her leg as I whisper, “It was for you.”

  Her head twists to the side and she says, “Thank you.”

  “Don’t make a thing of it,” I say, my lips brushing her ear. “And don’t ask me again.”

  “Can’t make that promise,” she says, her voice breathless. “I have so many things I want to do with the English department.”

  “Jesus, Gibson,” I curse and move my hand to the waistband of her thong. “Is it your personal goal to annoy me?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispers. “Is it your personal goal to turn me on and leave me horny and begging?”

  My hand snags the string of her thong and I yank it down, letting it fall to the ground. She steps out of it without being asked and then sticks her ass out as if begging for my touch.

  “Tell me,” I whisper, stepping to her side now and taking in the arch in her back and the curve of her bare ass. “Are you begging now?”

  “No, I’m propositioning.”

  I bring my hand back to her spine, where I drag her shirt up to the bottom of her shoulder blades and then leave it there, knowing the weight of her breasts won’t let it go any farther north. Then I glide my hand down until I reach the globe of her ass. My finger slides over the divot between her cheeks and then to the other side.

  “God,” she grumbles, “you make me so hot, Arlo.”

  “Are you wet?”

  “The minute I saw you shirtless in the kitchen, I got wet.”

  I smooth my hand over her ass, so fucking firm it drives my cock wild with need. “Did you think staying here would lead you to run into me?”

  “No, but I’m glad I did.”

  “So, you’re telling me, you walk around people’s houses in nothing but a thong and a tank top?” I run my finger down her crack, causing her head to fall to the counter in a deep exhale, as her ass pushes against my hand.

  “Never.”

  “So then this was for me?” I smooth my hand down her crack, and her legs are spread just enough where I can reach to her arousal.

  Fuck . . .

  She is so wet.

  “Oh God,” she moans against the counter, and I quickly pull my hand away. In seconds, she lifts up and turns toward me, eyes awake now, needy. “Don’t.” Her voice is stern. “Don’t tease me, Arlo.”

  “What were you expecting me to do? Finger you on my kitchen counter?” I glance down between us, unable to see the luscious spot between her legs in the dark, but well aware of how hard her nipples currently are.

  She brings her hand to my stomach, where she drags her fingers down the divot in the middle of my abs to the waistline of my briefs. I don’t waver, I don’t stray from eye contact, and I sure as hell don’t let her know how fucking satisfying it is to have her hand on my skin.

  “I don’t care what you do to me, Arlo. As long as you do something.”

  “I told you I wouldn’t get into this with you.”

  “Then let’s just call it sleepwalking,” she says, moving her hand down a few more inches. My cock surges forward. Her fingers connect with my erection, just the lightest press, but the look in her eyes and the way her teeth fall over her bottom lip is my undoing.

  I stall her wrist and say, “No touching.”

  “Arlo—”

  I grip her hips and lift her onto the counter, where I spread her legs and step in close to her. Her hands fall to my shoulders and her chest nearly scrapes against mine from the heaviness of her breath.

  I smooth my hands up her thighs, to her sides, and then all the way to her breasts. I pull her tank top down, exposing them.

  Fuck . . . they’re perfect. A handful, firm, sexy as shit, just like her. Her nipples—hard and ready—beg to be pinched, and when she puffs her chest closer, I take one between my fingers, rolling the little nub. Her head rocks to the side as her mouth falls open.

  “You’re not teasing me, are you? I . . . I don’t think I could take it.” Neither could I. I’m burning for her. From her scent. To her wet, dripping arousal.

  I bring my mouth to her neck and kiss along the column. “Are you saying you need release?”

  Her hands pull on the back of my head, keeping me in place. “Desperately.”

  I bite the spot just under her ear and she lets go of me, only for me to pull away a few inches, our noses almost touching, our breath mixing as I play with her nipple, rolling it consistently, never letting up.

  “How do you want this release? With my fingers? My mouth?”

  “I want you,” she answers, her legs locking around my waist so I feel her arousal on my stomach.

  “You want my dick.”

  “Yes.”


  “You can’t have it,” I say, moving my head back to her neck, “but you can have my fingers, or you can have my mouth.”

  “Why not—”

  “Those are the terms,” I say, lifting away and looking her in the eyes.

  She looks away and nibbles on the corner of her lip. Finally, she asks, “Can I have your mouth and your fingers?”

  “Greedy.” I unlock her legs from around my waist. “Get on all fours.”

  “Here? On your counter?”

  “Yes. Quickly, or this offer expires.”

  I let go of her and snap the towel off the oven and fold it lengthwise for padding. When she turns over, I help her place the towel under her knees.

  “Now lean your head down and stick your ass out at me.”

  “Arlo—”

  “That or nothing,” I say, smoothing my hand over her ass right before I smack it, the sound ringing through the quiet house.

  “Oh . . . Jesus,” she cries into her arm.

  Smoothing my hand over the sting where I slapped her, I say, “It’ll be in your best interest to be quiet and not wake up my sister. If you get too loud, I’m pulling away and leaving. Do you understand?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “Do you want something to bite down on?”

  “That seems aggressive.”

  “You’ve never had my mouth on your pussy before.” I slide my fingers down her center and press against her entrance. She moans, and I repeat, “Do you want something to bite down on?”

  “Yes,” she says, her voice shaky with a hint of embarrassment.

  Grabbing another towel, I hand it to her and say, “Don’t make a sound. Got it?” She nods and I move in behind her, taking in her pussy and how fucking wet she is. “When was the last time a man fucked you?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Never is the correct answer, Miss Gibson. Because you’ve never been fucked by me.” You never will be, and my cock will hate me for that.

  I place my hands on her ass, spread her, and lower my mouth to her pussy, where I press a gentle kiss. Her back tenses and then she melts into the counter, a moan getting stuck in her throat.

  I play with her for a few breaths, dragging my tongue over her lips, along her inner thigh, back to her center. She writhes beneath me, her pelvis turning, reaching, begging to hit her in the right spot. I clamp down on her hips and say, “Move again and I’m done. I’m in control. Not you. Got it?”

  “Y-yes,” she groans. “Sorry . . . Mr. Turner.”

  Holy.

  Fuck.

  My dick grows even harder, if possible, from the way her breathless, raspy voice just said my last name.

  That deserves a reward.

  I move my mouth from her inner thigh to her center and flick my tongue against her clit. She moans and quickly muffles herself with the towel. I bring my hand inward, keep my tongue flicking quick and short on her clit, and then stick a finger inside of her.

  She moans even louder, and I pause.

  “S-sorry,” she says. “Please don’t stop. Please.”

  I don’t move, instead I wait a few breaths and when desperation laces her voice with another please, I bring my mouth back down onto her clit, where I intensify the pressure.

  Harder.

  Faster.

  More forceful.

  My fingers move in tandem with my tongue.

  Her muffled sounds grow faster, louder.

  My cock juts against the counter, seeking relief as well.

  Her legs tense.

  My tongue fires over her sensitive spot.

  My balls tighten and fuck . . . fuck, my entire body is ignited.

  Her torso quivers.

  Faster.

  Harder.

  Flick. Flick. Flick . . .

  “Ohhhhh,” she cries out, her legs tensing, her back arching, and she comes.

  Fuck . . . yes.

  My tongue flies over her clit at a relentless pace, pulling out every last ounce of her orgasm until I hear her surrender, and watch her lower to the counter.

  Mother of God, I’m hard. It’s painful, as my cock juts against the fabric of my briefs, aching for relief.

  I pull away, taking the towel that supported her knees, I wipe it across my face and then set it on the counter where she lies, sated, trying to catch her breath. I take a moment to pick up her thong and stuff it in the waistband of my briefs, so it’s not discovered by Coraline tomorrow morning.

  Smoothing my hand over her ass, I give her a few more seconds and then turn her around, adjust her tank, and lift her up into my arms. She rests her head against my chest as I carry her through the first floor of my house and to the guest room. I push the door open with my foot, then take her to the bed, the entire walk fucking painful from how turned on I am.

  I move the covers over her body and consider sitting next to her, but think otherwise, knowing that will only result in me crawling into bed with her.

  “Goodnight, Miss Gibson.”

  “Arlo, wait.” She sits up. “Come here.”

  I take a step back. My erection’s quite obvious in my briefs, begging to be freed and buried in her beautiful mouth.

  “What are you doing? Let me give you release.”

  “Not necessary.” I take another step away. “Get some rest.” Looking her dead in the eyes, I say, “And do not follow me. Do you hear me? You’re not to leave this bed until the morning.”

  “Why are you being like this?”

  “My house, my rules.”

  “You didn’t even kiss me.”

  “Were you looking for intimacy or release, Miss Gibson? Release I can give you, intimacy should be sought out with someone else.”

  Her eyebrows pull together. “Why are you against intimacy?”

  “I’m not here for a therapy session.” Reaching the door, I ask, “Do you need anything else?”

  “Your dick in my mouth,” she answers. And God, do I need that. Her. Sucking my cock down her throat.

  Five steps. That’s all it would take for me to be in her hot and filthy mouth.

  But I won’t. Can’t.

  Gripping the doorway, I say, “You should be so lucky.” I’m lying. I would be the lucky son of a bitch.

  But that’s not who I am. Lucky.

  And then I leave before I lose my damn mind.

  Chapter Thirteen

  GREER

  “Good morning,” Arlo says, walking into the kitchen, freshly showered and in a pair of jeans and plain white T-shirt. Hair still wet and smelling incredible, masculine—he’s every bit of a fantasy I had last night.

  I woke up this morning thinking what happened last night was a dream, that is, until I found my thong on my nightstand and a note next to it. In his sharp handwriting, all it said was “You taste like fucking honey.”

  I then proceeded to throw myself back against the plush white pillows and drape my arm over my face.

  It wasn’t a dream.

  It was all real.

  I was on my hands and knees on top of Arlo’s kitchen island while he ate me from behind.

  It was erotic.

  Something I’ve never done, nor thought I’d ever do.

  And it unleashed something inside of me, a carnal need that’s never been tapped into before. That man is provocative, seductive, demanding, and even though I’ve had a few boyfriends, none of them compare to Arlo Turner. He seems so strait-laced, but God, is he not. You taste like fucking honey. My mouth was literally salivating, desperate to wrap around his cock. Another first.

  And yet he denied me. How can a man so virile—amorous—have such crazy self-control?

  “When was the last time a man fucked you?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Never is the correct answer, Miss Gibson. Because you’ve never been fucked by me.”

  Just from the memory, I reached between my legs and attempted to ease the growing ache until I came. But it wasn’t satisfying. It wasn’t even close to what I needed.
It was a means to an end. What I need is him.

  Arlo.

  I want his hands.

  His tongue.

  His mouth.

  His cock.

  I want it all.

  “Ugh, wine always gives me the worst headaches,” Cora says, as she stands next to a glass of orange juice on the counter, the exact spot where Arlo fucked me with his tongue last night. “It was a feat on its own prying my eyes open this morning.” Turning to Arlo, she asks, “I’m going to get some breakfast burritos from around the corner with at least a dozen hash brown patties. Want anything?”

  “I’m good,” he says casually. Barefoot and godlike, he goes to the fridge, where he pulls out the apple juice and pours himself a glass.

  “How are you not completely hungover right now?” Cora asks me.

  Because your brother fucked me sober with his tongue last night.

  “Not sure. Had some apple juice in the middle of the night, so maybe that was it,” I say, glancing at Arlo, whose eyes are fixed on mine as he tilts his glass to his mouth.

  “You’re telling me you mixed sweet wine with sweet apple juice?” She clutches her stomach. “That makes me want to vomit right here.” She shakes her head, completely oblivious to the stare down I’m having with Arlo.

  Those eyes, so penetrating, it’s as if he’s stripping me bare and reading my thoughts with every breath I take.

  “Sleep well, Miss Gibson?” Arlo asks me.

  “Miss Gibson?” Cora scoffs. “Where are we, in the classroom? Call her Greer, you weirdo.”

  But he doesn’t flinch, he just raises a brow, and I know exactly what he’s trying to convey by calling me Miss Gibson. He’s trying to remind me about last night, as if I need reminding. What happened . . . that will be imprinted on my brain forever.

  From the command in his voice, to the way he brought me to the hilt, let me ride out my orgasm, and then tucked me in after—I will never forget the feeling of complete ecstasy followed up by caring warmth.

  “I slept great. Thank you for letting me stay here last night.”

  “Glad I wasn’t the only one drinking.” She presses the palm of her hand to her forehead. “Keeks kept talking about being aroused last night, right?”