I slide into her, and the world narrows to the heat of her, the wetness pulling me deeper. Chloe gasps, her back arching off the mattress, and I grip her hips, stilling because I can't believe this is real. Her dark eyes find mine in the dim lamplight, and she smiles—that slow, knowing smile that makes my chest ache.
"Don't stop," she whispers, and I don't. I move, and she moves with me, her legs wrapping around my waist, her nails digging into my shoulders. The bed creaks beneath us, the fan hums, and the only other sound is her breath hitching, her moans, the wet sound of our bodies coming together. I bury my face in her neck, inhaling the scent of her skin—something floral, something warm—and I feel her clench around me, her body trembling as she comes apart beneath me. I follow a moment later, the release crashing through me like a wave, and I collapse against her, my heart hammering against her ribs.
We lie there, tangled and slick, my weight on her, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on my back. I don't want to move. I never want to move. Her hand finds mine and guides it to her chest, and I cup her breast, feeling the soft weight, the hardened peak against my palm. Within minutes, her breathing evens out, and I feel her drift to sleep. I let myself follow, my hand still on her bare skin.
Something wakes me. A sound—a sharp intake of breath, a shuffle of feet. I blink, my eyes heavy, and see the dim light of the desk lamp casting a glow across the room. Chloe is still asleep, her body pressed against mine, her chest rising and falling. But there's someone else in the doorway. A guy—my roommate, Kevin—standing there, his jaw slack, his eyes wide, a laptop bag hanging from one hand. He's staring at Chloe, at her naked body, at the curve of her hip, the full swell of her breasts, the dark hair splayed across my pillow.
Chloe stirs, and I feel her body tense. She blinks, sees Kevin, and then—she fucking smirks. She doesn't move to cover herself. She just lies there, completely naked, letting him look. And I feel something hot and sharp twist in my gut. Jealousy. Rage. Possessiveness I didn't know I had.
I rip the covers over her, yanking the sheet up to her chin, and I'm sitting up before I even know what I'm doing. "What the hell, Kevin?" I shout. My voice comes out ragged, half-asleep, but loud. "Get out!"
Kevin fumbles, his face flushing. "I—I forgot my laptop—"
"I don't care. Get out. Now."
He backs out of the room, almost tripping, and the door clicks shut. The room is silent except for my breathing. Chloe is laughing—a soft, throaty laugh that makes my head snap toward her.
"What?" I ask, my voice still rough.
"You're jealous," she says, and there's a smugness in her tone that should annoy me but doesn't. It makes my heart race. She reaches out, her hand sliding over my chest, down my stomach, to my cock, which is already hardening again. "I love it."
She guides my hand back to her breast, and I don't resist. I cup her, my thumb brushing over her nipple, and she arches into my touch. "Now," she says, her voice low, "finish what you started."
I don't need to be told twice. I slide into her again, the wetness still there, the heat still there, and she moans, her legs wrapping around me. I thrust, harder this time, faster, and I feel her nails rake down my back. She's close again, I can tell, her breath catching, her body tensing. I push deeper, and she cries out, her cunt clenching around me. I follow her over the edge, my release pulsing hot inside her, and I collapse, my forehead against hers.
We lie there, breathing together. After a long moment, she speaks. "We should get to class."
I groan, but I know she's right. I pull out of her and roll off the bed, searching for my jeans. Chloe sits up, the sheet pooling around her waist, and watches me with that lazy smile. She doesn't bother to cover herself. She just stretches, her breasts rising, and I feel a fresh ache in my groin. But we're already running late.
We dress in silence—her in a thin tank top that leaves nothing to the imagination and a pair of cut-off shorts that show the curve of her ass. No bra. Of course. She catches me staring and winks.
We walk to class, her hand in mine, her fingers intertwined with mine, her thumb brushing over my knuckles. I feel the stares of other students—guys checking her out, girls whispering. But Chloe only has eyes for me. She leans her head against my shoulder as we walk, and I feel like I'm floating.
Halfway across campus, she tugs me toward a narrow hallway, and before I can ask what she's doing, she pushes open a door labeled "Janitor's Closet" and pulls me inside. The space is small, dark, reeking of bleach and dust. The only light comes from a crack beneath the door.
She presses me against the wall, her hands on my chest, and she drops to her knees. My breath catches. But she doesn't go for my zipper. Instead, she pulls up her tank top, exposing her breasts, the dark nipples already hard. "Suck them," she says, her voice a command.
I don't hesitate. I lean down, taking one nipple into my mouth, and she gasps, her fingers threading through my hair. I suck, I lick, I bite gently, and she arches against me, her moans filling the tiny space. She's already wet, I can tell from the way she writhes, the way her breath hitches. I switch to the other breast, and she cries out, her legs trembling.
"Yes," she hisses. "Just like that. Don't stop."
I don't. I keep going, my mouth focused on her nipples, and within a minute, her body locks up, a sharp cry escaping her lips as she comes, her fingers digging into my shoulders. I feel the tremor run through her, and I pull back, watching her chest heave.
She steadies herself against me, then laughs, breathless. "Okay. Now we can go to class."
I pull my tank top down, and the fabric is damp against my skin, clinging to my nipples where his mouth was. I giggle, the sound light and breathless, because I can feel the wetness cooling on my chest, and I know everyone is going to see it. I want them to see it.
Marcus grabs my wrist and drags me out of the closet, his grip firm, almost possessive. I stumble after him, laughing, my heart racing. The hallway is empty, but the moment we step into the main corridor, heads turn. A group of guys near the water fountain stop mid-conversation, their eyes trailing down my body, catching on the dark wet circles staining my thin tank top. I see the envy in their stares, the hunger. I feel Marcus's hand tighten on mine.
"This way," he mutters, pulling me toward the lecture hall. I let him guide me, my hips swaying a little more than usual, my chin lifted. I can feel the eyes on us—on him, on me, on the wet fabric clinging to my breasts. I know exactly what they're thinking. They're wondering what happened in that closet. They're wondering if he got to taste me. And the answer is yes. He did.
We push through the doors of the lecture hall, and the buzz of conversation falters for a second. The room is half-full, students scattered across the tiered seats. The professor hasn't arrived yet. Marcus scans the rows, his jaw tight, and then he spots two empty seats near the back, against the wall. He drags me up the stairs, past rows of faces that turn to watch us pass.
I feel their gazes slide over me—lingering on my chest, on the wet fabric that leaves nothing to the imagination. A guy in the third row whistles low under his breath. His friend elbows him, but they're both staring. I catch a girl's eye, and she looks away quickly, her lips pressed thin with jealousy. I smile, slow and satisfied.
Marcus doesn't sit in the seat. He drops into the one nearest the wall and pulls me down onto his lap before I can even think. My ass settles against his thighs, and I feel him hard beneath me. His hands find my breasts immediately, cupping them through the damp tank top, his thumbs brushing over my nipples. I gasp, my back arching into his touch.
"Marcus," I whisper, my voice husky. "We're in class."
"I don't care," he says, his voice low, rough. His fingers pinch my nipples, rolling them between his thumb and forefinger, and I bite my lip to keep from moaning. The wet fabric makes it worse—better—the sensation sharper, more direct. My head falls back against his shoulder, and I let him play with me, my eyes half-closed, watching the room.
Everyone is watching. The guy who whistled is openly staring now, his mouth slightly open. The girl next to him whispers something to her friend, her eyes darting to us. I see the professor walk in, a middle-aged man with glasses, and he sets his briefcase on the lectern without looking up. He starts talking about the syllabus, but I'm not listening. All I can feel is Marcus's hands on my breasts, his fingers twisting my nipples, the ache building between my legs.
I shift on his lap, grinding against his erection, and his breath hitches. His cock is hard against my ass, and I want to reach back and free it, to slide him inside me right here, in front of everyone. But I hold still, letting the tension build, letting the room watch us.
His hand slides down, over my stomach, to the button of my shorts. I catch his wrist, my eyes meeting his. "Not here," I breathe. "Not yet."
He nods, but his hand doesn't stop. He cups me through the fabric of my shorts, his palm pressing against my cunt, and I feel how wet I am. I'm soaked. My shorts are damp, and I know if he pushed a finger inside, he'd find nothing but slick heat. I clench around nothing, my body aching for him.
The professor drones on, but I can barely hear him. All I can hear is my own heartbeat, the soft sound of Marcus's breathing, the whispers from the row behind us. I don't care. Let them look. Let them see. They can want me all they want, but I'm on his lap. I'm his.
Marcus pinches my nipples again, harder this time, and I gasp, my hips bucking against his hand. I feel a tremor run through me, a sharp pulse of pleasure, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out. The lecture hall is too quiet. Someone coughs. The professor turns a page. And I'm sitting on Marcus's lap, his hands on my breasts, my cunt dripping, and I've never felt more alive.
I turn my head, pressing my lips to his ear. "After class," I whisper, "I want you to fuck me in the bathroom."
His hand tightens on my breast. "Deal."
I settle back against him, feeling the weight of all those eyes on us. I smile, small and secret, and let myself enjoy the rest of the hour—the wet fabric against my skin, his fingers moving in slow circles, the jealousy radiating from every corner of the room. They want me. But I chose him. And that's the best part.
The guy who whistled doesn't look away when I catch him staring. He holds my gaze, a smirk playing on his lips, like he's daring me to do something. Like he thinks I'm going to crumble, going to shrink under his attention. But I don't. I feel Chloe's weight on my lap, her heat through the damp fabric, and I let my fingers tighten on her nipple, rolling it between my thumb and forefinger. She gasps, a small sound she tries to swallow, and the guy's smirk flickers. He sees her reaction. He sees how her body responds to my touch. And I see the jealousy flash behind his eyes before he looks away.
I don't stop. My fingers keep working her nipple, feeling it pebble harder under the wet fabric, and Chloe's breath hitches again, her hips shifting on my lap. I feel her wetness through my jeans — not just hers, mine too, the ache of her grinding against me. I lean forward, my lips brushing her ear. "He was watching you," I murmur, my voice low, almost a growl. "He wants you. But he can't have you."
She shivers against me, her head tilting back, her dark eyes finding mine. There's a hunger there I've never seen before, a raw need that makes my cock throb. "I know," she whispers, her voice breathless. "I'm yours."
Those two words undo something in me. I press my palm against her breast, feeling the weight of her, the heat of her, and I kiss her neck, just below her ear. She tastes like salt and sweat, like the closet, like the morning we spent tangled in my sheets. I want to mark her. I want everyone in this room to know she's claimed.
The professor's voice drones on, talking about midterms and attendance policies, but I barely hear him. All I can hear is Chloe's breathing, the soft sounds she makes when I touch her, the rustle of fabric as she shifts on my lap. I slide my hand down her stomach, resting it on her hip, and I feel the tension in her body — the way she's holding herself still, waiting for more.
I give her more. I push my hand lower, my fingers pressing against the damp fabric of her shorts, and I feel the heat of her cunt through the denim. She's soaked. I can feel the wetness seeping through, slick and hot, and I press harder, my middle finger finding the seam of her shorts, rubbing against her through the material. Her breath catches, and she grabs my wrist, her nails digging into my skin.
"Marcus," she breathes, her voice strained. "We're in—"
"I know," I say, my lips still against her ear. "But I can feel how wet you are. I can feel how much you want me."
She doesn't argue. She just lets her head fall back, her eyes closing, her lips parting. I keep my hand there, pressing against her cunt, feeling her heat, her wetness, her need. I don't move, not yet. I just hold her there, letting her feel my presence, letting her know that I know what she wants.
The guy who whistled is staring again, but now it's different. Now he's watching us with something like respect — or fear. I catch his eye, and I don't look away. I hold his gaze as I slide my hand lower, my fingers rubbing against her through the fabric, and I see the hard swallow in his throat. He knows. He knows what I'm doing. He knows she's mine.
I turn back to Chloe, my hand still on her, my fingers pressing against her wet heat. I can feel her pulse through her shorts, a steady throb that matches my own. I lean in, my lips brushing her ear again. "I want to take you to the bathroom right now," I whisper, my voice rough. "I want to bend you over the sink and fuck you until you can't walk straight."
She shudders, her hips bucking against my hand. "Then do it," she whispers back. "I don't care if we get caught."
I pull my hand away, and she whimpers at the loss. I grab her hips, lifting her off my lap, and she stumbles to her feet, her eyes wide. I stand, ignoring the stares, ignoring the professor who's still droning about the syllabus. I take her hand, and I pull her toward the door at the back of the lecture hall.
The whispers follow us, a low murmur of speculation and jealousy. I don't care. I push open the door, and we step into the empty hallway, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Chloe's hand is trembling in mine, and I turn to face her, my heart pounding in my chest.
"Bathroom," I say, my voice a command. "Now."
She doesn't argue. She grabs my hand and pulls me down the hall, her hips swaying, her thin tank top still damp against her breasts. I follow, my eyes fixed on her, my cock aching in my jeans. We push through the door to the men's room, and it's empty — a row of urinals, a couple of stalls, a sink with a cracked mirror.
I lock the door behind us, the click echoing in the small space. Chloe turns to face me, her chest heaving, her dark eyes blazing with need. I step toward her, my hands finding her hips, and I press her against the sink, the porcelain cold against her back.
"You're mine," I say, my voice low, rough. "You understand that? Everyone in that room saw you on my lap. Everyone saw my hands on you. You're mine now."
She nods, her lips parting. "I know," she breathes. "And I don't want anyone else."
I kiss her — hard, hungry, my tongue pushing into her mouth. She tastes like mint and want, and I feel her hands find my chest, gripping my shirt, pulling me closer. I press my body against hers, my cock grinding against her hip, and she moans into my mouth, her legs spreading to wrap around my thigh.
I break the kiss, my breath ragged. I drop to my knees in front of her, my hands on her shorts, and I look up at her, my eyes meeting hers. "You want this?"
She nods, her fingers threading through my hair. "Yes. God, yes."
I unbutton her shorts, pulling them down, and she steps out of them, her thong already soaked, a dark patch of wetness on the thin fabric. I lean forward, pressing my mouth against the damp spot, and I feel her gasp, her hips bucking. I pull the thong aside, exposing her, and I see her cunt, slick and glistening in the harsh fluorescent light.
I taste her. I press my tongue against her clit, feeling it pulse against my lips, and she cries out, her hand slapping against the mirror behind her. I lick her, slow and deliberate, tasting her wetness, her need, and she trembles above me, her thighs tightening around my head.
"Marcus," she gasps, her voice cracking. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."
I don't. I push my tongue inside her, feeling her clench around me, and I hear her moan, high and desperate, filling the bathroom. I suck her clit, hard, and she cries out, her body locking up, her orgasm hitting her. I feel her flood my tongue, hot and slick, and I lap her up, drinking her pleasure, feeling her tremble through every wave of it.
I stand, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. She's leaning against the sink, her chest heaving, her eyes half-closed. I unbutton my jeans, pulling them down just enough to free my cock, hard and aching. I step toward her, lifting her onto the sink, spreading her legs open.
"Look at me," I say, my voice a command.
Her eyes find mine, dark and hazy with pleasure. I push into her, slow, feeling the heat of her cunt wrap around my cock, and she gasps, her nails digging into my shoulders. I thrust deeper, filling her, and she moans, her head falling back against the mirror.
"Yes," she whispers. "Yes, Marcus. Fuck me."
I do. I fuck her hard, fast, the sink rattling against the wall, the mirror fogging with our breath. I watch her face, watching the pleasure twist her features, watching her mouth fall open in a silent scream. I push deeper, harder, and I feel her cunt clench around me, her second orgasm building.
"Come for me," I growl. "Come on my cock."
She does. She cries out, her body arching off the sink, her cunt milking me, and I follow her, my release pulsing hot inside her. I bury my face in her neck, breathing her in, feeling her heart pound against my chest.
We stay like that for a long moment, breathing together, trembling together. Then she laughs, a soft, breathless sound. "We're going to be late for class."
I laugh too, pulling out of her slowly. "Worth it."
She slides off the sink, her legs shaky, and I help her gather her shorts. She pulls them on, her thong still damp, and she turns to face me, her smile wide and satisfied. "Let's go back. I want them to see us walk in together."
I take her hand, and we push open the bathroom door, stepping into the hallway. The lecture hall is still going, the professor's voice a distant hum. As we walk back in, every head turns. I feel the jealousy radiating from the room, the hunger in their eyes — but Chloe's hand is in mine, and I know she's mine. And that's all that matters.