The cool wall bites into her shoulder blades, a stark contrast to the fire he’s stoking under her sweater. His hand slides down, past the waistband of her leggings, and the rough pad of his thumb finds her, slick and swollen through the thin cotton of her underwear. He presses. A slow, circular torture that makes her hips jerk against his hand.
His eyes lock on hers, gray-blue and unblinking, watching every flicker of surrender, every gasp he pulls from her lungs. The fluorescent light in the hallway buzzes above them. She can smell the cheap carpet dust, the laundry detergent on his worn henley, and underneath it, the sharp, clean scent of his sweat. Her own breath comes in shallow hitches.
He doesn’t speak. His thumb keeps its relentless, slow orbit, the cotton growing damp. The pressure is perfect and agonizing. Her head falls back against the wall with a soft thud, her dark hair fanning against the pale paint. She’s trembling again, a fine vibration deep in her muscles that has nothing to do with the cold.
“Look at me.”
His voice is a low rasp, barely audible over the hum of the light. It’s not a request.
Her eyelids feel heavy, weighted. She forces them open, finds his gaze still waiting. His jaw is tight, a muscle feathering there. His other hand is still splayed on her rib cage, under her sweater, his palm a brand against her skin. He shifts his stance, leaning his hips into hers, and she feels the hard, insistent line of his erection against her thigh. A broken sound escapes her—part whimper, part plea.
His thumb presses harder, the heel of his hand grinding against her. The friction is a lightning strike. Her knees buckle. His arm around her waist is the only thing holding her up, his grip iron. He watches the shockwave move through her, his eyes darkening. He dips his head, his mouth brushing the shell of her ear.
“This what you wanted?” he murmurs. His breath is hot. “When you shook your head?”
She can’t form words. Her body is a live wire, every nerve ending screaming where he touches. She manages a nod, a frantic little dip of her chin. Her hands, which have been hanging useless at her sides, come up to clutch at the fabric of his sleeves, her fingers digging into the corded muscle of his forearms.
He makes a sound—a low, satisfied hum in his chest. His thumb slows, becomes a maddening, gentle stroke. The change is worse. The need coils tighter, desperate. She grinds herself against his hand, seeking the earlier pressure, but he denies her, holding her still with the arm banded around her waist.
“Ryan.”
His name is a gasp, torn from her. It’s the first thing she’s said since he kissed her.
He goes very still. His thumb stops moving. For a terrifying second, she thinks she’s broken the spell. Then his eyes drop to her mouth. “Say it again.”
“Ryan.” It’s softer this time, a surrender.
He kisses her. It’s not soft like before. It’s deep and consuming, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, claiming the taste of her plea. His hand moves, finally sliding past the barrier of her underwear. His fingers find her wet, open heat. One finger sinks into her, slow and inexorable.
She cries out against his mouth, her body arching off the wall. The stretch is exquisite, a fullness that makes her see stars behind her closed lids. He swallows the sound, kissing her deeper. He works his finger in and out, a slow, devastating rhythm, his thumb still circling that swollen, aching peak. The world narrows to the buzz of the light, the scrape of the wall, the slick sound of his hand moving against her.
He adds a second finger. The stretch burns, just for a moment, before it melts into a pleasure so sharp it borders on pain. Her hips move with him, chasing it, her leggings tangled around her thighs. She’s babbling into his mouth, fragments of words that mean nothing and everything. He’s breathing hard now, his control fraying at the edges, his own hips rocking against her thigh in a silent, desperate echo.
“I can feel you,” he grits out, his forehead pressed to hers. His fingers curl inside her, finding a spot that makes her vision white out. “Every fucking pulse. You’re gonna come for me.”
It’s not a question. It’s a decree. And her body obeys. The orgasm rips through her, violent and silent, a seismic shudder that locks her muscles and steals the air from her lungs. He holds her through it, his fingers buried deep, his mouth on her throat, murmuring words she can’t comprehend over the roar in her ears.
When the waves finally subside, she’s boneless, held upright only by his body and his arm. He slowly withdraws his hand. She feels empty, exposed. The hallway air feels cold on her damp skin. He brings his fingers to his mouth, his eyes holding hers, and licks them clean. The sight is more intimate than anything that came before.
He tucks her back into her leggings with a startling gentleness, his touch clinical now. He smooths her oversized sweater down. His own breathing is still uneven, the bulge in his jeans prominent. He doesn’t move to adjust it. He just looks at her, his gaze sweeping over her flushed face, her swollen lips, the dazed surrender in her dark eyes.
“Your roommate’s at a study group until ten,” he says, his voice rough. He finally takes a step back, putting a foot of charged space between them. The absence of his heat is a shock. “My number’s on your desk. Text me when you’re alone.”
He turns and walks down the hallway, his footsteps silent on the thin carpet. He doesn’t look back. Emma slides down the wall until she’s sitting on the floor, her legs unable to hold her. The cool wall is against her cheek. She can still feel the ghost of his fingers inside her, the brand of his mouth. The fluorescent bulb buzzes and flickers.