I do.He’s not wrong, and I’m excited enough that, as I tease my clit with the small vibrator, I shudder and hold back a moan. Not that it would matter, since I’m alone. But this would be a bad time to learn that someone’s kitchen is on the other side of my bedroom.
Work yourself up for me. I bet you look so sweet. Are you loud or quiet when you’re fucked, love?
Quiet, I type back, my lips open as I fight not to pant. My thighs tremble and my knees fall open so I can give myself better access. The cold air on my clit is sharp, and I nearly shiver at the feel of it on my wet entrance.Fuck. This is way easier than it should be when talking to a stranger.
Not with us, you won’t be. I bet we’ll have you making the prettiest sounds. Do you want to come for me, love?
It’s an easy answer, and easy to type with one hand.Yes.Yes I do.
I want you to.His answer is immediate, like he was waiting for it.Come for me, my sick little puppy. Grit your teeth together so you don’t make any noise. I bet you’re so sweet when you come.
I read that and my soul exits my body once more. I come, gasping softly before gritting my teeth together like he’d said.My thighs shake in earnest, toes curling, and I ride out the waves of my orgasm before pulling my vibrator away from my body and turning it off.
By the time I look back at my laptop, he’s messaged me again.
I bet you’re gorgeous when you’re getting fucked. Since you’re stunning the rest of the time as well. Did you have fun?
I did. I had a lot of fun, I admit, wiping my fingers off on my shirt for good measure before touching my keyboard. Making a mental note that I’ll definitely need to disinfect it this weekend.
Play with me again sometime, won’t you? I hate that I have to go so soon, but I wanted to make sure you got to have some fun. You deserve it. You earned it. Have a good week for me, love.
You too. And I mean it, I really did have fun talking to you.
I hit the send button right as the notification box lights up, drawing my attention. I click it, and my eyebrows jerk up in surprise.
Treat yourself to something that makes you happy this week.
The message, and the hundred bucks, are fromThrillingterror.But this time when I tell him thank you, he doesn’t reply. I guess he really did have to go.
As I’m closing my laptop, I notice another message from rob784 pop up, and roll my eyes. I don’t have time for him right now, nor am I in the mood. He’ll just have to get a reply some other time, when I feel like being nice.
For now, I’m going to text Juniper to not worry about bringing me food, and find the best pancakes in St. Augustine to see if they’ll cover them in cherries and whipped cream so I can have the world’s best dinner while watching the world’s shittiest reality tv.
Chapter 9
Ifrown as I stare down at my ankle boots. They’re well worn, and the shiny black material looks cracked and creased from every angle now. Of course I could replace them. They’re knockoffs, for one. But they’re also comfortable now that they’re broken in, and I don’t want to have to get rid of them. Not yet. Not when it’s taken me this long to make them absolutelyperfect.The heel on them adds a solid couple of inches to my height, and since they’re chunky to match the aesthetic of the combat boots, it didn’t take any practice to get good at walking in these.
In fact, I’m pretty sure that if I were going to be dropped into the middle of a zombie apocalypse, these are the shoes I’d pick to go in. Probably. At the very least, they’d be good to kick zombies with. Paired with them are my favorite black tights, a black skirt, and a dark red tee that’s nearly the color of dried blood. Tucked into my skirt, it’s still loose enough that I can run or twist to a spontaneous yoga pose at a moment’s notice.
I feel fine. I feel comfortable, especially with my hair in a loose bun that’s starting to collapse from the weight of my intelligence, surely. That, or the humidity. But that’s not new. In fact, my bun has done remarkably well today, and my mascarahas only run enough to make me look like I’m still in the first act of a Shakespearian tragedy, instead of the third.
But I don’tfeelfine. Not completely. I feel like there’s something wrong. Something off. Like if I just turn my head far enough or fast enough, I’ll see someone tickling me with the tip of a pen or something else that’s just as far-fetched.
Stupidly, I give into my intuition, turning to look across the campus grounds at the people lounging in the grass, or in hammocks, or sitting at tables with cups of coffee. There’s no one here even bothering to look at me, let alone charging across the grass with a knife raised like they’re going to end my life.
But I still just feel so on edge.
So… not quite right.
“Are you going in, Love?” The drawling, dry tone has me wincing, and I turn to see Professor Solomon standing near me, obviously wanting to enter the part of the campus center where the coffee shop is housed.
“Sorry,” I mumble, sidestepping the doors. “I didn’t mean to be in your way.”
He shrugs and opens the door, then… doesn’t move.
I throw him a quick glance, confusion in every line of my body, only to be met with a dramatic and loud sigh. “You were going in, weren’t you? Before you decided to stare into the abyss?” He raises a brow, his light brown eyes sharp in the warm sun. With the afternoon light sinking into his hair, I see that it’s lighter than it appears to be in his classroom, with flecks of auburn and not a hint of grey. I wonder if he dyes it.
“What?” I ask, even though I’ve heard him just fine. Thankfully, the coffee shop is empty at this time of day, save the students studying at the tables, so we’re not really creating a scene or holding anyone up.