My knuckles go white as I grip the table.
His tongue is so much hotter and wetter down there that the first touch startles me. I have to fight to keep my thighs from clamping around his head, because it just seems like the polite thing to do. He must sense this, because his palms run back up my thighs, kneading into my muscles before gently pushing them farther apart.
I’m grateful for it when I do, because it gives him more access, that silver tongue of his lapping at my clit, and then farther back. From this vantage, all I can see are the muscles in his back working beneath the fabric of his shirt as he moves. And he seems to be moving, like, a lot.
More than necessary.
But my brain is too muddled to really focus on anything but the machinations of his mouth, and God. It’s like someone bottled tingling heat and sunshine, and for some reason, I can’t seem to catch my breath. My head keeps falling back and if I grip this table any tighter, I’m convinced I’ll crush it.
The orgasm is like none other—a slow rolling wave of crashing heat, my walls clenching and nerves coiling, winding tighter and tighter—and it comes upon me so intensely that I don’t even realize I’m clutching his injured shoulder until I feel him grunt against me.
It sounds more pained than anything.
I snatch my hand back, gasping, “Sorry, sorry,” but his tongue never stops, he just eases me through the crest and fall of it.
I squirm away when I start feeling too sensitive, and he finally emerges from beneath my skirt, red-cheeked and shiny-mouthed. He doesn’t meet my gaze, though, eyes clamped tightly closed as he—
I bite down hard on my lip. He’s pulled himself from his pants and his hand is flying over his erection, these sharp little breaths punching from his chest with every stroke. His whole torso clenches when he comes, spilling over his fist and onto the white floor below.
The sound he makes is guttural, breathless.
When he’s done, he leans back on his heels, head thrown back. “Fuck, yes.”
We’re both hot and sticky messes. We untangle and I try to decide how a girl usually takes care of cleanliness in a situation such as this, but my mind is totally fogged. I turn away to awkwardly pull up my panties. The shake in my hands is different from the quiver in my knees.
He adjusts himself behind me, obviously needing to clean up his own mess.
“What was that?” I ask him, pushing my hair from my sweaty face. “Why does it keep happening?”
Why do I let it keep happening?
His voice is languid. “I don’t know. Because it feels good?”
Is it as simple as that? No. He’s not a good person. He’s hurt my family, my sister, me. Maybe it does feel good, but after the whole tangled sex fog settles, it mostly just feels super shitty.
“Why is it okay for us to do that, but not for you to look at me in the hallway? Or speak to me in class?”
“I don’t make the rules.” He tucks in his shirt.
“That’s bullshit and you know it.” I face the sink and scrub my hands. I’ve already learned you can’t wash out shame or regret, but I try anyway. The heat is scalding, burning my skin, and I sense him behind me just before he turns off the faucet.
His chest presses against my back. Gentle fingers push aside my hair and I feel his breath on my ear. “You’re right, it is bullshit. I don’t know why, but I can’t stay away from you, and I think... I think maybe you can’t stay away from me, either.” His mouth presses a slow, wet kiss into the spot below my ear. “If you ask me, we’re doing this because it feels good and we’re both in a place where that’s hard to find. Can’t that be enough?”
His teeth tug at my earlobe and my hands clench the side of the sink.
I want him to go away.
I want more.
I want...
The lunch bell rings shrill
y, shattering the fragile warmth of the moment. I duck away, grabbing my backpack and slipping out the door. I merge seamlessly with the tide of kids headed to class and try to ignore the heat of his kiss, just below my ear, like a brand. Although I’m put back together and no one would ever guess, I feel naked, dirty… exposed.
Knowing Hamilton Bates, that’s exactly what he wants.
Other than basic swim captain duties, I resolve to avoid Hamilton for the rest of the week. Without giving Tyson any details, I ask him to stick around and wait for me after lunch, after practice. He’s happy to do it, and if it means I won’t suddenly find myself alone with Hamilton in the captain’s office or anywhere else, then it’s working.