I meet his dark gaze. “Yes.”
His fingers drag up at the same time our mouths meet, and it’s almost impossible to track any one thing. The press of his nose against my cheek as he deepens the kiss, the tickle of his fingers as they climb my thigh and go... inward, between my legs. When he finally touches me—finally rubs his fingers against my damp, hot center—I moan into his mouth, my nerves suddenly more alight than ever. It’s different from the other night, those nimble, skilled fingers of his able to find my clit even through my panties.
I rock into it, urging him forward. He responds by fisting the crotch of my panties and yanking them down my thighs. I throw my head back against the wall, gasping wildly for air, and the fingers return, skin to skin this time, nothing between us.
He buries a long, ragged sound into my throat. “God, look at you. Fucking soaked for me.” I can feel it in the way his fingers glide deftly between my folds, my toes curling at the sensations. “Come on,” he says, nudging my face to his before taking my mouth in another kiss. He doesn’t close his eyes, and neither do I. We trade kisses like that as his fingers explore me, pressing harder when my knees shake, pu
lling back when I try to grind into them.
He’s still holding my gaze when his finger finds my entrance. We stop kissing. I can tell he’s waiting—waiting for me to say ‘no’, waiting for me to push him away, to tell him it’s too far, too much.
I don’t.
His finger sinks slowly into me and I feel like if I shook any harder, I’d just fall to pieces right here in the tower. He watches me closely, almost carefully, our mouths barely touching. I’m not sure what he’s looking for, but when I feel the heel of his hand meet my mound, his breath comes out in a hot rush.
“Fuck,” he growls, eyes dropping closed. “Knew you’d be tight.”
I rock into his palm, testing the feel of him against me, inside me. “Oh, god,” I breathe, but my moan is swallowed by his kiss.
The whole thing is so entirely ridiculous—me fighting to rock against his palm as he fights to fuck me with his finger—and it’s still the most erotic thing I’ve ever felt. When his other hand takes mine, I know instantly what he wants. He doesn’t even need to guide my hand to the obscene bulge at the front of his pants, but he does it anyway, pressing my palm against it. I curl my fingers around him through the fabric of his pants and he groans, breaking the kiss to rest his forehead against mine, rocking against my hand the same way I’m rocking against his.
“Should have worn one of the red shirts,” he pants, eyes staring down the neck of my shirt. Preston has a small variety of uniforms, but the red one is the only fully button-down shirt for girls. The one I’m wearing would have to be pulled over my head to be taken off. No way am I doing that up here.
I bite my lip, remembering how good it felt the night before, his hands cupping my boobs, thumbs rough against my nipples, and mutter a curse.
I struggle to pull the tail of my shirt from the waist of my skirt one-handed, but once I do, Hamilton’s ready. He shoves his hand up the front of it and it’s not quite as good—over my bra—but it’s thin enough that the pad of his thumb flicking over my nipple makes me shudder.
All of it combines into this wicked maelstrom of heat building in the pit of my stomach and I know I’m close. I can feel it in him, too—how he gets impossibly harder in my hand, the way his breaths grow into these little punches of air against my mouth, the little crevice that forms between his eyebrows, almost like he’s in pain, but I know better.
My own orgasm comes upon me in a hot shock, thighs clamping hard around his hand. I make a sound that’s too loud and surprised than I have any right to be, but I can’t help it, I just grab two tight fistfuls of the shirt covering his shoulders and go over that edge, shaking.
He buries his face into my shoulder, and I feel more than see him take a biteful of my own shirt and gnash it between his teeth as he begins jerking beneath my hand.
“I cannot fucking believe,” he says, wetting his lips as he stumbles back, “that I just came in my pants again. Jesus Christ, I’d forgotten how much this sucks.” He crams a hand in his pocket and seems to.... adjust things, face twisting into a grimace.
I hastily pull up my panties, feeling red and embarrassed and sore and so fucking good that it’s a legitimate miracle I’m not visibly fluorescent with the glow of it.
Still a bit breathless, Hamilton meets my glazed eyes and ticks off with his fingers, “Never happened. All my fault. You hate me. I’m the worst. Hasty post-coital exit.” He sweeps his own bag from the ground, throwing it over a shoulder. “There, covered all the bases for you. I’ll go ahead and take the last one.”
And then he’s gone.
12
Hamilton
I hear a long whistle as I walk out of the bathroom.
“These are some sweet ass digs.”
I pause, steam billowing from behind me, and see Heston sitting in one of the chairs with his feet kicked up on the desk. He’s wearing plaid flannel pants—red and black—with ‘PP Swim’ stamped on the hip. That had been quite the meme back in Freshman year.
“I don’t remember inviting you in.” I knock his feet off the desk, and they land with a thud.
He picks up a dry erase marker and spins it between his fingers. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about the co-captain thing.”
“Coach wanted to make the announcement.” I rub my hair with the towel, shrugging. “It’s not a big deal.”
He snorts. “You’re kidding, right? You and Adams partnering up? This, plus detention? You’re spending more time with her during the week than you are with Reagan.”