Legacy: A New Adult College Romance (Palm South University Book 4)

by Kandi Steiner

  I gasp at the feel, my knees trapped by my jeans. I can’t open wider for him, can’t give him better access, and he just teases me more — not fully entering, not filling the depth I ache for him to fill. Instead, that fingertip just tickles my skin, building my desire, the feather-light touch not enough.

  “It’s maddening, isn’t it?” he rasps, leaning down to bite my neck. His finger presses just a centimeter deeper, and I moan, arching my back more as if that will force him all the way inside. “Being so close to something you want, something you desire, and yet not being able to have it?”

  Oh, he’s good.

  That power I thought I held over him is instantly reverted back to the original owner, and Brandon claims it proudly, as if it never left his hands in the first place.

  Maybe it never did.

  He’s the cat, I’m the mouse.

  I like when he reminds me.

  “Please,” I whisper, squirming. “You made your point. Let me touch you. Get inside me.”

  “Which one first?”

  “Both.”

  He smirks, the curve of his smile on the skin of my neck as he pulls back from the table. In an instant, I’m standing, ripping my jeans and panties down my legs in one fell swoop. I don’t bother with my top, reaching for Brandon, instead. He backs me up to the table, lifting me and spreading my legs wide.

  “I’ll touch you,” he promises, his fingertips teasing my throbbing middle again. He pulls them away too quickly, running them up my arm until one hooks between my lips. “But I’m not done punishing you yet. Lie down.”

  I do as he says, my ass still at the edge of the table as my head hits the other. He walks around the edge of it slowly, unzipping his dress pants and pulling them down to his knees. He stands wide once he’s above me at the other end, his erection posed above me, and then he leans forward, gently grabbing my hips and pulling until my head is hanging off the table.

  My instinct is to clasp my legs together but he stops me, pressing one hand onto each knee to keep me spread eagle. Then, he stands again, smile wicked as he gazes down at my mouth.

  “Open.”

  Oh.

  I swallow, heat pooling between my legs as I do as he demands, opening my mouth slowly with my eyes locked on his. But when he steps forward, the tip of him touching my tongue, all I can see is his glorious shaft, his smooth balls, his slacks stretched around his knees, his designer shoes. I take a breath and hold it as he slides all the way in, slowly, coating himself with my saliva before he hits the back of my throat.

  “Goddamn,” he groans, withdrawing before flexing his hips into me again. He fills my mouth, pressing into my gag reflex as I gag, my back arching off the table. “Stick your tongue out, hold your breath.”

  I do as he says, sticking my tongue out as far as I can and holding it there as he drives in again. He’s slower this time, careful, and with the new lubrication and angle, he slides even deeper — deeper than I even knew I could fit him.

  “Yes,” he whispers, his voice heated. “Good girl.”

  Why does it turn me on so much when he says that?

  I’ve never been dominated like this, and yet I feel no desire to pull the power back into my own hands. I want him to own me, to use me, to find his pleasure in only me.

  “Do it again,” he says, withdrawing to give me a breath. “And hold on, because this might be rough.”

  I nod, inhaling and pressing my fingertips into the cool metal of the table for grip as I stick my tongue out again. He cradles my neck, sliding in slow and easy, somehow deeper than before, and then he lets out a long, animalistic groan of approval.

  “Fuck yes, Ashlei. God, that’s incredible.”

  He holds me there, one of his hands tracing my throat as if he can feel himself inside it. And then, slowly, carefully, he pumps.

  In and out, just marginally, his shaft stretching my throat as I hold my breath and ride out his thrusts. It’s uncomfortable, yet the powerful feeling of being so desired by him, and so sexually satisfying, has me fighting against the urge to push him away. It’s only when my body reacts, when a gag heaves through me that I press one hand into his thigh and he backs off, stroking my hair.

  “Are you okay?”

  I nod, wiping my mouth. “Yes. More.”

  He smiles, tracing my lips with his thumb. “That’s my girl. Open.”

  This time when I open, his hard cock slides inside my mouth at the same time as he leans forward and slides two fingers inside my soaked pussy. I moan around him at the feel, the ache inside me growing stronger. He leans forward even more, his cock deeper in my throat, but then his mouth is on my clit.

  Another moan surges through me, muffled around the fill of him as he carefully thrusts. I find a breathing pattern, slowly and deliberately pulling oxygen through my nose so as not to gag again. It’s hard to do when all I want is to focus on what he’s doing between my thighs. His fingers work in and out effortlessly, his tongue circling in perfect rhythm, and when I reach forward to cup his balls in my hand, his guttural groan sends a wave of want through me.

  “Oh, fuck, yes, I’m coming,” he grunts, and then he thrusts in one last, hard time, and I can’t fight the gag as he spills inside me.

  His release is warm in my throat, but I swallow it down, and the god that he is — he never stops working me. He sucks my clit between his teeth, sucking and letting me go with a pop as his fingers dive in deeper. He’s still coming, his ass flexing, balls throbbing in my hand as he empties. And it’s that reaction to what I do to him that makes me come, too.

  I can’t scream, can’t say his name the way I want to as I fall apart under his touch, his cock still in my throat. I just swallow as I can, eyes closed before they burst open with the incredible ecstasy surging through me. My knees shake on the table, my glutes on fire as I squeeze, chasing my release until the very last vibration.

  And when we’re both sated, when the final wave subsides, Brandon carefully removes his fingers first and stares down at me one last time with his softening cock in my mouth. When he pulls it out, I gag a little, but not a drop of his release is left.

  “Damn, girl,” he says, holding out one hand. He helps me sit up and spin on the table before my feet find the ground, and he pulls me into him, hugging me tight before his lips press against my forehead. “You are phenomenal.”

  I smile, inhaling the scent of his cologne on his collar as I blush. “And you are a sadist. That wasn’t just punishment, that was downright torture.”

  “You loved it.”

  I can’t even argue that.

  When both of our pants are back on and the conference table wiped down, Brandon walks me back to my desk, watching me pack up my purse.

  “Come stay with me this weekend.”

  I smile. “On your yacht?”

  “If you want. Or my apartment, or a hotel, or a fucking hotel in Paris. Where do you want to go?” he asks. “Just say it, and I’ll take you there.”

  My eyes find his, flicking between the golden hue of them, trying my damnedest not to fall in love. Because that’s what I feel, I recognize, every time I’m with him. I feel desired, and wanted, and safe, and cared for. And if I’m not careful, I’ll make more of this than I should.

  “Anywhere?”

  “Anywhere.”

  I smile, shaking my head as I toss my purse strap over my shoulder. “Happy Hour.”

  He balks.

  “You said anywhere,” I remind him, one finger extended. “And Mykayla is literally going to burst through that door in five minutes to drag me down if I don’t show up.”

  “I can’t go with you.”

  “Sure you can,” I say. “Stay up here another half hour and then casually show up. They’ll love it, getting to spend time with you outside of the office.”

  “Sounds like more work. It’s the weekend.”

  “It’ll be fun,” I promise him, leaning up on my tiptoes to plant a kiss on his lips. “And I’ll be there.”
r />   He groans, conceding though he makes it seem like I’m twisting his arm. “Fine. And after? Will you come home with me then?”

  At that, I press another kiss to his lips, sauntering off with him still standing at my cube.

  “If you behave.”

  I throw him a wink over my shoulder, blowing a kiss before I push through the glass door.

  JUST AS PROMISED, I show up at Becca’s dorm at eight on the dot Saturday night — box of donuts in hand. She smiles when she opens the door to greet me, tapping the lid of the box with one nude fingernail.

  “You remembered.”

  “I already screwed up once, figured I wasn’t ready for strike two yet,” I say, and she smiles wider, taking the box from my hands and depositing it on a small table near the door behind her.

  As she says goodbye to her roommate, I shamelessly check her out, starting with the ample curve of her ass highlighted in a pair of high-waisted, bell-bottom pants. They’re a thin fabric, flowy at the bottom and too tight for church at her hips. When she swings around, joining me in the hallway, I step back enough to let her out, but don’t stop my visual assault.

  I’m blatantly staring at the way her simple white crop top hugs her rack when she crosses her arms, pushing them up a little more.

  “Either you haven’t been laid in a long time, or you’re not used to a girl with curves like me,” she muses.

  My eyes flash to hers, meeting her cocky smirk with my own.

  “Both. Definitely both.”

  She laughs, threading her arm through mine as we make our way down the hall and out into the fresh, cool night. Her earrings jingle a little as we walk, and she watches me from her peripheral as I take in her natural hair, styled in a beautiful afro and framed by a unique headband.

  “The coffee shop is just a few blocks down and around the corner,” she says, smiling and keeping her eyes forward. “Unless you’d rather just stare at me all night instead of watching the open mic.”

  “Sorry,” I say, but it’s an insincere apology. I’m not sorry at all. “It’s just, you’re unlike any other girl I’ve seen. That sounds lame and cliché, but I don’t really know how else to say it. You’re just… strikingly beautiful, Becca.”

  “Oh, stop it,” she says, swatting at my arm playfully. Then, she leans in and whispers, “Tell me more.”

  We both laugh.

  “So, no working at the bowling alley tonight, huh?”

  “My one Saturday off in the past three months,” she says. “Hence why I was so adamant about you taking me on a date.”

  I chuckle. “Yeah, definitely can’t say that you’re subtle.”

  “Never promised to be.” She winks, tightening her grip on my bicep a little. “So, Bear-er-Clinton, why the hell were you on a dating app?”

  I smile at her reference to me telling her what my name was the night we met.

  “Honestly, I have no fucking idea. My fraternity brother suckered me into it, said I’ve been grumpy lately due to my lack of…” I almost say pussy, catching myself at the last second. “Dating.”

  “He said you needed to get laid.”

  “He did,” I admit on a laugh.

  “And why haven’t you had a lady friend in your bed in a while?”

  I scratch the back of my neck, a little uncomfortable at how fast the conversation has gone toward my lack of sex in the past year. “Let’s just say I was getting it on a regular basis, but then circumstances changed.”

  “You were dumped.”

  “Technically, I did the dumping, but yeah… same shit.”

  I feel Becca watching me as we round the corner, and I shift to the other side of her so I’m walking on the edge closest to the street. That earns me a smile.

  “Ah, I see,” she says after a moment. “So, you had a girl break your heart, decided fuck that shit, and swore off every other girl.”

  I clear my throat. “Kind of. I was hooking up with this one girl, not exclusively or anything, but it didn’t last long.”

  “Probably because you were still hung up on the other girl, huh?”

  I stop, turning to face her as we reach the coffee shop. “It’s like you’ve read the book on my love life.”

  Becca snorts, both eyebrows raising. “Well, let’s just say I could have wrote it.”

  “Someone break your heart, too?”

  Her face falls then, and she shrugs. “We’ve all had our hearts broken, and probably done some breaking, ourselves. But, I’m not focusing on what the past has held for me anymore,” she says, decidedly, her chin lifting and her eyes finding mine. “I like how the future looks better.”

  I smile, eyes washing over the beautiful angles of her face highlighted under the neon buzz of the coffee shop logo.

  “Me, too.”

  I gently guide Becca inside the shop with a hand at the small of her back, keeping it there until we find an empty table near the front corner of the stage. There’s a young guy with long, blond, almost dreaded hair playing a set of bongos as we find our seat, his raspy voice fitting in the cool vibe of the shop. Our waitress stops by to take our order with a smile, and once coffee is on the way, I take the time to look around.

  It’s like a psychic and a hippie got married and made this place their love baby.

  The menu is filled with tea and coffee of all different flavors, each with its unique, “star-given” name. The wall is covered with photography from around the world, mostly in shaded hues of sepia, and behind those photos hang large, yoga-inspired tapestry sheets. The ceiling is dotted with tiny, luminescent lights that give the appearance of us being under the stars, and with the lights dimmed low other than the spotlight on stage, Becca’s face glows in a mixture of warmth and shadows.

  “You come here a lot?” I ask, still taking in the décor. There’s a faint scent of burning wood and essential oil, likely from the incense lining the bar.

  “At least a couple times a week,” she answers, waving to one of the bartenders. “It has a great vibe, doesn’t it?”

  I shift in my chair. “It’s… interesting.”

  Becca chuckles. “I take it you’re not really connected with spirit and the universe, huh?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Well, don’t be scared. I won’t force you to get a tarot card reading or anything.”

  I smile, leaning back a little in my cushioned chair as our waitress drops off our orders. I opted for coffee, but Becca chose tea, and she pours the steaming hot water from the little tea pot they brought her as I consider my next words.

  “I’m surprised you haven’t asked me my sign yet.”

  “Oh, I don’t have to. I already know.”

  I balk at that, watching as she dunks the little bag of herbs into the hot water. “Bullshit. How?”

  She smiles, eyes on her tea. “It’s in the way you carry yourself. You’re practical, very grounded. You seem to think before you speak or act, and you’re aware of how your actions affect those around you. You’re not necessarily an overly caring person, because you watch your own back, but you also don’t intend to run people over in your path. It’s not that you don’t have emotions — because you do — but you’re not ruled by them, you don’t let them deter you from your main focus.”

  I shift.

  So far, she isn’t wrong.

  “You’re a bit shy, a little reserved, but at the same time, open to the possibilities around you.” She continues, chuckling. “Like going on horrendous dating app dates, or meeting a weird girl in a hippie coffee shop.”

  I smile. “Hmm,” I muse, thinking over her assessment. “So you think you have me all figured out, then?”

  “No, not even close,” she says quickly, slipping her fingers around the handle of her mug. “But, I know enough to hope I get to discover more.”

  Well, that was adorable.

  “You never did say what you think my sign is.”

  “Capricorn.”

  I blanch, lifting my coffee for the first
sip. “That’s pretty impressive. And what’s yours?”

  “Pisces.”

  “I’ll have to research the sign to figure you out.”

  She lifts her tea, taking the first light sip. “Or, you could just get to know me yourself. It’s way more fun than reading astrology books, I promise.”

  “Oh, that I don’t doubt.”

  We both pause our conversation to clap as our friend on the bongos finishes up, and a soft music fills the shop as they prep the mic for the next performer.

  “Tarot card reading, huh?” I ask, taking another drink of coffee. It’s warm and nutty, with just a touch of cinnamon. “You must do that all the time.”

  “I do. Tarot cards are fun, they help you when you’re navigating through trying times, when you have a question or are unsure about a path to take. But, my favorite, personally, is palm reading.”

  “That so?”

  She nods, sipping her tea. “I had mine read at a young age, and I’ve had follow-up readings. I loved it so much I actually studied it so I can do it on my own.”

  “Wait,” I say, holding out my hand in a pausing motion. “You’re telling me you read palms?”

  “I do.”

  I raise my brows, setting my coffee down and propping one elbow on the table before handing her my right palm. “Do me.”

  She cocks a brow back. “Right here? Now? I think we might get kicked out, but I mean, I’m not opposed.”

  I smirk, shaking my head at her joke, though I can’t deny that my dick hardens at the thought of her mounting me right here and now. “My palm. Read my palm.”

  “I don’t know if you’re ready for that,” she says.

  “Humor me.”

  She narrows her eyes, taking one more sip of her tea before sliding it to the side and grabbing my hand in hers. “Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  I watch Becca as she studies my palm, taking any excuse I can get to study her. As much as I wouldn’t mind having her ankles hanging over my shoulders as I plow into her, I oddly find myself wanting to just stay up all night talking to her, instead. What makes her mind tick? What was she like as a kid, what does she want to be as an adult, who broke her heart, and where does he live so I can break his fucking face?