12. Amanda

CHAPTER 12

Amanda

W hat the hell just happened?

It was my last thought before I fell asleep and my first thought as I woke up.

I lie back in bed, staring at the water stain patterns on the ceiling, as my head once again goes over everything. Only now it's the harsh light of morning and I still haven't figured out how to process it.

Last night…we got carried away. I should have known it was leading to that point. I mean, I kind of brought it upon myself. I shaved my legs. My cooch. I put on my fanciest lace bra and panties. I even wore my hair in a braid, which is one step away from it being down.

I knew Ana was gone (or was supposed to be gone) and I invited him over because I wanted him to see that part of me. I was only half-joking when I brought him to see my room—I wanted him to really know who he was dealing with here.

He didn't care. If anything, I think it endeared me to him. I'm sure if I suggested we skip writing and just play Fallout 4 instead all day, he'd totally be down for it.

Video games might have been a smarter choice. Video games don't lead to acting out sex scenes from your erotica novel.

I groan and cover my face with my hands. What am I going to do? We kissed. I felt his erection, how fucking large he is, and it was all for me.

Me.

I mean, how can we go back to just writing and pretending that didn't happen? I don't think I can.

You have to , I tell myself. Otherwise you won't be able to write a word, and throwing away a good thing for a quick fuck is the wrong choice here.

I'm right. I'm usually right. As well as we work together, as much as I've fantasized about Blake that way, sleeping with him would be a massive mistake. It would be good…hot…no doubt wild and sweaty and sorely needed, and god I'd give anything to wrap my hands around his cock, feel how thick he is and…

No. It would be a massive mistake. And he'd never commit to you, so don't even think about having a future together.

Fuck. One kiss and a hint at heavy petting and I'm spending my morning arguing with myself.

Luckily the smell of coffee and bacon brings me out of bed. After Blake left—and I felt kind of bad being so dismissive with him—Ana and I stayed up for a bit watching James Corden and drinking wine. She volleyed a thousand questions at me and I deflected them all with simple yes or no answers. I hope she doesn't start that today because I definitely don't have the patience before my coffee kicks in.

"Good morning," she calls out as I take a seat at the kitchen table. "I'm making bacon and regular pancakes."

"I'll just have the bacon," I tell her.

"But I've put the bacon in the pancakes," she says.

I sigh. "Then those aren't called regular pancakes. "

"Wow, you're grumpy. I thought all the sex would have helped."

"Again, we didn't have sex."

"Well, you never said what you had."

"Does it matter?" I ask. She comes over and hands me a mug of coffee. "Thanks."

"Drink that and cheer up. This is a great day." She flashes her megawatt ivory-veneered grin at me.

I slurp back the coffee and close my eyes, taking it all in. "It's always a great day for you."

"I had a great date last night," she says. "Life is goooood."

"Do I want to know?"

"Yes," she says, sliding the pancakes onto two plates. "But I don't want to say anything about it in case I, how do you say? Ruin it all to shit." She brings me one, despite the fact I'm waving my hands for her not to. "Eat it, you're too skinny."

"Yeah right," I scoff. I feel like my ass has gotten wider ever since school finished. All this writing and sitting all day has made the excess fat and wine congregate in my butt cheeks. I figure it's my body's way of giving me a permanent seat—you're a writer now, here's your portable cushion!—but even so, it's not appreciated.

"Don't listen to me, then," she says. "Besides, your boyfriend seems to like your body."

"Not my boyfriend," I tell her quickly. "Never my boyfriend."

She opens her mouth but I cut her off. "Not my fuckboy either." Speaking of fuckboy adventures, I wonder if I should text Rio about this. I want to dish all about it but at the same time it doesn't seem right. She'll wonder why I'm spending all this time with someone I'm supposed to hate.

And I do feel like I hate him this morning.

Just a little.

For being so damn smooth .

And firm.

And good with his lips.

Tongue.

The hard length of his cock.

The way he made me moan, louder than I ever have before.

"Look at you," Ana coos. "So in love."

I let out a strangled cry of frustration. "Oh my god, I can't talk to you anymore," I tell her, getting up just as my phone rings. I expect it to be Blake with his ears burning but my heart sinks when I see it's my mother.

"Shit," I swear. "What day is it?" I've totally lost track after school ended.

"Thursday," Ana says.

Fuck. I promised to have lunch with my parents today. They've been hounding me about coming over for ages now and I've deftly avoided it. Until they brought up me being selfish and having no respect and blah blah blah.

"Hello, Mother."

"Don't sound so happy. You knew I'd be calling," her crisp voice comes through.

"It's early."

"Early to bed, early to rise, that's the life of a successful adult," she says, and it's loud enough for Ana to hear because she's already rolling her eyes, motioning that she's blowing her brains out with a gun. I don't know why parents always have to talk so loud on the phone, it's like they think they're underwater trying to talk through a tin can.

"Right," I tell her. "This successful adult is on vacation now."

"That may explain why you've been ignoring your parents. No need for school funding, no need to talk to us."

Ugh. The guilt trip. "I'm not ignoring you, I'm just…so what time is lunch? "

"Eleven-thirty," she says. "Your dad is making your favorite. Don't be late."

I assure her I won't and say goodbye. My parents are these real sticklers when it comes to punctuality. Actually, they are real sticklers when it comes to everything in life that is proper and safe and orderly. No matter how much I feel like I'm progressing and becoming an adult—on my own terms—they're always there to remind me that I'm still their child and most likely doing it wrong.

I show up at my parents' house at twenty after eleven, just in case, and to my surprise I see my Uncle Seth's 1980s hunter green Jaguar outside. Uncle Seth and Aunt Sylvia are ridiculous. When I was growing up I was taught to view them as eccentric, but now that I'm older, I realize they're dumb and kind of senile. I know everyone has relatives and family friends that embarrasses them for one reason or another but these two take the cake.

This is the house I grew up in. It's a large two-story built in 1912, which gives my parents an edge over their friends—at least they think so. "Anyone can build a new house. Not just anyone can buy something historical," my mother has stated. I mean, it is gorgeous and has been updated a lot and I loved how vast the property was as a child. I'd flit around, pretending to be a superhero, running from the nanny and interrupting my father's croquet game.

Yup. Some people actually do play croquet. My parents. Along with bocce ball and any other game that involves standing on the lawn in white pants with a drink in one hand.

Actually, that sounds kind of ideal. Except for the white pants thing.

Out front there's an iron gate flanked by a pristine brick wall that spans the brick driveway and stately columns on the front porch. At the back there is a clay veranda that overlooks the oasis and pond .

That's where I find my mother, Uncle Seth, and Aunt Sylvia, huddled around the table, sipping tea from fine china and snacking on scones and crustless cucumber sandwiches from a copper tiered serving tray. My mother likes to pretend her house is the Empress Hotel when guests are over.

"There you are," my mother says as if they've been waiting forever. "Your father was worried."

I roll my eyes and don't even bother pointing out that I'm early.

My mother gets up and gives me a light hug. She smells like Chanel and disappointment. Aunt Sylvia gives me a shy little wave and Uncle Seth just nods. He doesn't say much in general, which is just as well because the few times he does it's usually racist or sexist.

"There you are," my father says, coming outside, wiping his hands on his apron. At least his hug is more genuine than my mother's. I bask in the affection for exactly three seconds before he says, "You know, I had lunch with Alan's parents the other day."

Everything inside me freezes. "Great. Hope they're well."

No, I don't. I fucking hated his parents.

"Where is Alan?" Aunt Sylvia yells in that grating, nasally voice of hers. Think George Costanza's mother on crack. Uncle Seth can't hear that well and she assumes no one else can hear well either.

My mother gives her a look. "You know they broke up in January, Sylvie."

I look at my dad, dying for a change of subject. "Let's eat. I'm starving!"

There's a vague sense of awareness in his eyes before he heads back into the kitchen that perhaps I don't want to talk about my ex.

We head into the dining room and sit down at the table, all made up with layers of place settings like royalty is coming. My father serves my favorite salmon salad, and as usual there's more tea.

Aunt Sylvia gets an extra strong martini, as that's her thing. All day, every day. In fact, my father leaves the shaker beside her glass and a small jar of olives because he knows how fast she'll go through them. Saves time this way.

"So how do you feel having only one year of school left?" my mother asks as she picks at her salad.

Hmmm. A "how do you feel" question. I rarely get those.

"Great," I tell her. "I love school but I honestly can't wait to be done."

"Have you started looking for jobs?" my dad asks.

Sigh. I glance at him, keeping a smile pasted on my face. "Not yet. Next year."

"Do you still want to be a writer?" Sylvia yells over her martini.

Another sigh. "I'm studying to be one."

My dad puts his elbows on the table, folding his hands over each other in a near offering of prayer as he looks to my aunt. "With her degree, Amanda can work as a teacher if she wishes."

"But I'll be a writer," I remind him.

"Even though writers don't make money," my mom scoffs. "Who is going to pay for your place and your clothes and everything else? Once you're done with school, our help is gone. You'll be living on the streets." Here we go. Same old, same old. "You really made a big mistake breaking up with Alan." She throws down her napkin, genuinely upset.

"Um, I didn't love him," I reply testily.

"Why not?"

"Maybe she loves women," Aunt Sylvia yells.

I give her a withering glance before turning back to my mom. "Because I didn't love him. I don't know. He's a nice guy but... "

"The best guy," my mother finishes.

"Men like him don't come around very often," my father says, jumping in. "He'll make one hell of a dentist."

"I'm not sure that's a good thing," I mutter, spearing a piece of salmon with my fork.

"But he could have supported you," my mother says. "If you had just said yes, you'd be planning your wedding right now. I'd be planning it! Then you'd get married when you graduate, you'd be having children by twenty-five and learning what it's like to be a mother, a real woman, and then if you still have your flights of fancy, you could dabble in writing on the side. Maybe write children's books."

My face is burning with rage. I have a million things I want to say and yet my throat is so choked with anger I can't even say it.

"There's nothing wrong with being a lesbian," Aunt Sylvia prattles on.

My mother ignores her. "Amanda, you threw away the one good thing you had going for you. Alan would have made you a woman. Instead you broke up with him, humiliating him in the worst way, and you're back to the petulant child that you are. You'll never grow up now, you'll be lonely and single and chasing something that doesn't even exist."

I'm close to tears now and I never cry.

"I love writing," I manage to say, staring down at the salad. "It's what I'm good at. It's what I love."

"I love a lot of things too," my mother says. "And I never even dared to make them a career. You need to stop living in this fantasy land and start living in reality."

"Your mother is right," my father says, voice all low like he's really getting down to business and throwing his man of the house card around. "The minute you graduate, you're getting a steady, respectable job. I don't care where it is, but it's not going to be based on some half-assed dream of yours. Very few people in the world get to write for a living. You have to be pretty damn special to be one of them."

"Oh my god!" I cry out. "You haven't even read my stuff! You have no idea at all if it's any good."

"You know, it's pretty acceptable nowadays," Aunt Sylvia says, sloshing her martini around as it splashes over the side of the glass. "One word—Ellen Degeneres. She's a big deal. Oops, I spilled my drink."

"I'm sure you're good, sweetie," my father says, changing his tone. "But having talent and being good at something doesn't mean you'll get far in life. Stick to what's dependable. You know. Alan's getting pretty serious with a new girl…"

I frown at that. Really? Already??

"Apparently she's going to be a genetic scientist," he says. "But you know, if you want him back, I'm sure I could put in a word for you."

"Jesus Christ, I don't want Alan back!" I yell.

"Amanda!" my mother cries at me. "You do not use the Lord's name in vain in this house. In any house." Her hand goes to her chest and she looks like she's having a heart attack. "You are just taking a turn for the worse. I think you better start coming to church with me again." She makes a faint sign of the cross.

"When I was in college, I had a very good girlfriend," Aunt Sylvia notes.

"Amanda," my father warns. "You better shape up or ship out. I'm serious. You need to get a hold of yourself and act like an adult, or we'll stop paying for your education. You won't survive very long on a government loan."

I try to breathe in deep but it's hard. My whole chest feels thick, like I'm drowning on the inside. No matter what, they still have this fucking noose around my neck.

"What did we do wrong?" my mother asks my father, shaking her head slightly. "After Dahlia threw her life away, I had such high hopes for this one."

"One night my girlfriend stole some barbiturates from her mother," Aunt Sylvia continues, finishing her martini. "Boy, did we have a wild night. I had rug burns on my knees for days."

I pause mid-chew. Now she has my attention.

"Amanda," my father says. "Just promise me that you'll think about it. About taking him back. Or at least letting us set you up with one of the Birmingham boys. All of them are going to law school now."

I don't say anything. There's no point.

Aunt Sylvia sighs dreamily. "Sometimes I wished I had run off with her to Mexico like we'd planned. I would have never had to marry Seth."

"What?" Uncle Seth says.

"Yeah, what?" I repeat.

Surprised, Aunt Sylvia looks up at us with glazed eyes. "What were we talking about?"

"Never mind," my father grumbles. "Let's just try and eat the rest of the meal in peace.

And that's how lunch went with my parents. Not only do I think Aunt Sylvia and Uncle Seth are getting a divorce now, but I've learned just how much my parents don't believe in me.

It makes me realize how badly I want this book to succeed, to prove them wrong, even if in secret.

It also makes me realize that there's no guy I want to be set up with, none that I would be interested in dating. There's only one guy for me at the moment.

And after last night, the thought of him scares me more than anything.

By the time I get back home, I've pushed my parents out of my mind and Blake's found his way back in. I'm a nervous wreck again. Fortunately, I have the place to myself so I have time to stew over shit in silence.

Blake hasn't stopped texting me.

Let me know when you're free to talk – Turd Ferguson.

Give a shout when you can – Homer Sexual.

I just booked the editor for this weekend – Yuri Nater

Seriously, I'm not good at this game. We need to talk books. I promise I won't kiss you – Hugh Jass.

Call me for the sake of your future – Mike Rotch.

The last one has me laughing, even though I can't take a threat from Mike Rotch seriously.

I text him back.

What up?

He calls me.

I knew it.

I pick up the phone. "Why can't you just text me?"

"Why can't you use your mouth?" he answers smoothly.

Tread carefully. "I'm better at writing things out than saying them."

"Oh, you mean you're socially awkward and prone to saying the wrong thing all the time? You don't say."

"Shut up. What do you want?"

He snorts in amusement. "What do I want? As your business partner I'm here to remind you that we're on a deadline. We only have a couple of days to finish the book and then it's off to the editor and then it's uploaded to Amazon. Release day, baby."

"Did we figure out a cover yet? "

"The designer is looking. She knows the drill. Hot guy, shirtless, abs for days."

"Well, why doesn't she use a picture of you?"

"Riiiiight. You haven't even seen me with my shirt off. How would you know?"

"I felt your abs through your shirt last night," I tell him.

"Ah. She admits that last night happened."

"Fine, but it's over so please stop talking in third person."

"I'm flattered that you think I do steroids, but honestly I'm way too pretty to be on the cover of an erotica novel."

"I think your ego may be in some need of a boost," I muse dryly.

"So you've noticed? It's hard to stay confident when the main woman in your life won't return your goddamn texts."

"Well, you won me over with Mike Rotch, so what does that say about me?"

"It says let me come get you, let's write this bloody thing."

"Fine. At the library. The one at the school is still open."

"What? Why?"

"I don't think we should be alone together."

Silence. I can practically hear him thinking. "And why is that?"

"Because sex makes things messy."

"Messy is good."

"And according to you, so is greed and we won't even get a chance to be greedy if we're too preoccupied with sex."

"Believe me, you'll be greedy," he says lazily. "You'll have the greediest cunt around once I've gotten through to you."

My cheeks flame. Damn.

"You're speechless," he says after a beat.

I clear my throat a few times. "I'm trying to think of a witty comeback."

"Don't think so much then. In case you didn't notice, we didn't have sex. I just kissed you. And I asked permission. "

"No you didn't, you just told me you were doing it."

"And you were totally fine with it."

"I was caught up in the moment."

"And there's nothing wrong with that. When should I get you?"

"I'm serious," I tell him, my resolve coming back. "Meet me in the library at six, the same corner we were in the first time we met there."

"Ah, memories."

"See you then." And I hang up on him before he can say anything else.

Lord help me get through this.

Despite not texting Rio earlier, she ends up texting me about wanting to go to the beach and smoke some weed, so I agree to spend the day with her on the sandy shores of Cordova Bay.

Though the sun is hot and strong and I have to apply SPF 50 every twenty minutes, it's still May and the ocean is only for the brave. I don't smoke a lot of pot but I have a toke or two, enough to just relax and get my mind to stop racing over all the Blake and my family bullshit. Rio, however, runs in and out of the water, shrieking as she goes, much to the annoyance of families nearby. She's actually quite the sight—even though it was her idea to go to the beach and she managed to pack a cooler full of cider and sandwiches, she's wearing mismatching bra and underwear in lieu of a swimsuit and you can totally see her nipples.

I really want to talk to her about Blake but somehow I keep it inside. It helps that when she gets high, she talks a mile a minute and about her own romantic endeavors. I learn that the single dad is gone, some foreign exchange student named Xan is in temporarily, and she's seriously considering abstaining from sex and chocolate for the rest of the summer.

"You're nuts," I tell her.

She shrugs, her dark curly hair falling over her shoulder. She's lying on her stomach on her ratty towel, reading the latest issue of Travel and Leisure with a dreamy look on her face. "I like a challenge. Don't you?"

I thought I did. It turns out that the erotica is the easiest part of our whole deal. It's Blake who is going to test me until the very end.

At just before six I get to the library and Blake is already there, the corner set up with his laptop and notepads, and it's like we're starting our night shift at the perv factory.

He looks up at me inquisitively, his hair rumpled, the slate grey sleeves of his shirt rolled up to showcase his strong forearms. He's so utterly gorgeous, I have no idea how I'm going to survive tonight.

"I was worried that you chickened out," he says quietly as I take the seat across from him. My eyes linger on his strong jaw, and I remember the way his stubble scraped against my sensitive skin last night and how badly I wanted him to keep going.

"We've got some smut to write," I tell him, taking out my computer. "A world of horny women is depending on us."

He stares at me for a moment, smiling faintly. There's no masking the sheen of intensity in his eyes, the way they hold me in place.

Please stop staring at me like that , I plead internally, ignoring the flash of heat between my legs. Say something.

He doesn't say anything, but he eventually looks away and starts typing. We both have our last chapters to write, which of course are pretty much nothing but sex, then there's the epilogue from Ford's POV, which again is full of weeping cocks and clenching pussies.

Only now I'm stuck, just as he was the other day. I really want this scene to pop, but once again I'm wary that I'm not saying anything new. You wouldn't believe how hard it is to find different words for dick and cock and pussy and cunt. After a while you just have to accept that erotica is going to always be a bit repetitive, even though you strive to be different.

"I, uh, need a new way to describe a cock," I tell him.

He giggles at that, brushing the back of his hand over his mouth.

"Oh, you're so mature," I chide him.

"Hey, I'm a twenty-three-year-old recent graduate. I won't become an adult until I'm forty, if I'm lucky." He pauses and puts his hand to his crotch, looking at me in all earnestness. "Want me to whip it out? Will that help?"

Yes.

"No." I glare at him.

His dimples deepen. "Are you sure? I'd think if you were writing about a thick, veiny cock it would help to see one."

Yes. It would.

"Keep it in your pants." I pause, trying to keep my eyes off his crotch. "Wait, are you saying you're hard right now?"

He scratches at the scruff of his chin, eyes dancing. "Pretty much, considering what I'm writing. Just say the word cock again."

"Fuck you."

"Well, what do you know," he says lazily. "The word fuck works too."

And the way he's saying it, the way it rolls off his tongue all slow and languid, works for me too. But he doesn't have to know that.

I look back to my work and do my best to ignore him, even though he's right there, so fucking close and representing so much I shouldn't have.

The chapters we have left are short and I'm a faster writer than Blake, so I push through my writer's block by pulling out some secret desires and finish mine within two hours.

While he's still writing, brow furrowed in deep thought, which I always find comical considering what we're writing, I go and get a bottle of Diet Coke from the vending machine. I normally don't drink anything with corn syrup and chemicals in it but I need something to stay awake.

Or do I? When I get back to the table, feeling the aspartame and caffeine leach into my system, I see Blake's taken my laptop and is reading my chapter. My heart somersaults and I know it's not because of the soda.

I stop by the edge of the table, tapping my fingers nervously along it until he eventually looks up at me.

"I can't believe you just wrote all this," he says softly. His voice is gruff and threaded with amazement.

"You like it?" I ask.

He murmurs an agreement, nodding as he looks it over again. "Darling. You're fucking filthy."

Is it strange to be proud of that? I give him a half-smile, feeling a little self conscious. "You said it needed to go out with a bang."

"Yeah, but I didn't think it would be an anal cream pie kind of bang," he notes, clearing his throat a few times after.

"Those are the best kind of bangs," I tell him, sitting back down. "Let's see what you wrote," I tell him, taking my laptop away from him and reaching for his.

"No way," he says, shielding it. "This is rubbish. I need to top you. You can't out-smut me."

"I think I did." I take a sip of my Diet Coke and grimace at the chemical soup. Felt like a good idea at the time.

There's not much for me to do while he fervently tries to up the smut in his chapter, so I get up again, tossing the almost full can in the trash and head down the aisles to my favorite section: fantasy . It's tucked away in the back on this level, and with the library being practically empty during these summer hours, it's like a ghost town. In fact, I think Blake and I are the only people up here and even Treebeard isn't anywhere to be found.

It's just what I need. Writing the anal sex scene between Shasta and Ford in the principal's office got me riled up enough, but now that I've seen Blake's reaction, that heat in his eyes, I can't pretend I'm not turned on. I need the peace and quiet and the wonderful smell of old books to calm me down, so I can regroup and refocus.

But even as I flick through a few Terry Goodkind novels I haven't read, my mind tumbles through the world of "what ifs." What if the book sucks and doesn't sell a single copy? Will we write another one together or is that the end of it? The end of us?

But what if the book does amazing? Am I prepared to keep writing more? Will we work as a duo still?

Will I be able to handle being around Blake over and over again without anything more happening between us?

What if I can't?

I have no answers.

What I do have is his sudden presence at my back. I feel his heat, his height, his strength, his build standing right behind me. I was so wrapped up in my thoughts that I didn't even hear him approach.

I swallow hard, gripping the worn copy of Sword of Truth in my hands like it's a life raft. I'm too afraid to turn around because he's right there, waiting for something, for me. I can hear his raspy breath, smell the sage and salt, and feel the electricity thrumming between us .

He doesn't speak. I hear him shift and his hands are at the back of my head, fingers carefully sliding the elastic down the length of my hair. I close my eyes and try to steady myself as he runs his fingers through my loose strands, spreading it out on my shoulders and breathing it in, before pushing it to the side, leaving the back of my neck bare and exposed.

I inhale sharply, my skin prickling in nervous anticipation.

He places a soft, warm kiss at the back of my neck and my limbs immediately want to turn to jelly from the current of his touch running down my spine.

Stop him , I tell myself. This wouldn't happen otherwise. You're both just getting high on your own supply.

Yet I want to get higher.

I want to stop thinking.

I want to be free.

And I want him to show me.

Carefully, as if I'm made of glass, he slips a finger underneath the straps of my camisole and bra and slides them down my shoulder, his lips moving along, his kisses become harder, deeper, hungrier as he goes. I shudder, unable to hide what he's doing to me.

I try to turn around, to meet his mouth, but he holds me in place with a hand at my waist before it slides slowly down my side, over my hips, and down to the hem of my skirt. He slips his fingers underneath the fabric and starts bringing his palm up along my thigh, so large and warm against my sheltered skin.

I have a hard time swallowing. Thinking. I want this so badly, but I know we shouldn't and we shouldn't do it here, but as his fingers curve in between my legs and brush my cleft, I nearly fall over, almost delirious.

"Fuck," he hisses at my back, withdrawing his hand. "You're bare. "

"I was at the beach earlier," I tell him, as if that's a reason why I'm not wearing underwear.

"That's even hotter. I'm imagining grains of sand in all those places." He grabs both my wrists, the book dropping to my feet, and raises them above my head so I'm gripping the bookshelves, my back still to him.

"Just hold on," he whispers gruffly.

I don't need to ask him what he's about to do.

I could give you an orgasm in thirty seconds , he'd once said. I smile to myself, resting my forehead against a few copies of Patrick Rothfuss novels, grateful for their soft spines. Even if his claim was all bullshit, I want him to try.

I feel him drop to his knees behind me, his hands running along my ass, squeezing and kneading until they slip under my skirt and gently tease the bottom curve where my cheeks meet my thighs. I stiffen, my skin so fucking sensitive, like a hair-trigger. Yet I'm wanting more, afraid for more, knowing that things are moving so fast and needing them to move faster.

"Patience," he whispers, his voice choked as his fingers slide between my legs. "Do you realize how wet you are?"

I do now. Slowly, deliberately, he drags his long fingers over my clit and I gasp as the bundle of nerves threaten to shatter me.

"God, you're like silk," he murmurs, groaning. "So perfect." He presses the rough pad of his finger over the swell and makes a small circle.

Over.

And over.

Again.

Fuck.

Everything inside me tightens and I feel like a rogue bomb that could go off at any second, right here in the fucking school library. He keeps moving his finger, adding more and more pressure until the tension is nearly unbearable and my skin feels licked by flames.

My skirt lifts up higher and he's adjusting his position behind me. Suddenly I feel his nose, the scruff of his chin on the back of my thighs and I nearly yelp from shock.

"Just relax," he says huskily. "Bite on a book if you have to."

I might have to. He parts my ass with his hands, firmly squeezing my sensitive flesh and I grow rigid in anticipation, waiting, waiting, waiting before I feel his wet tongue snake out between my legs.

The shock makes me shudder.

He's licking my cunt.

From behind.

His face practically buried in my ass.

I hate to be one of those virgin erotica heroines that say oh gee golly but…

Oh. Gee. Golly. And fucking then some.

But before I can come to grips with it, with what's actually happening to me under the bright lights of the library, one of his hands goes to the front of me and his fingers start tapping along my clit, sensitive beyond belief, as his tongue keeps fucking my cunt and I am going lose my fucking mind.

He growls into me, muttering something animalistic, about how I taste like the ocean and his tongue is relentless, and I can feel excess dripping down my legs. My thighs start to shake, trying to keep me upright as my body tenses and tense and tenses and…

Spills.

I grip the shelves for dear life as the orgasm slams into me, and if I weren't holding on I'd be writhing and rolling on the floor. A scream claws up my throat and I bite into the top of a paperback, trying to muffle it. Even though we'd just talked about being vocal the other day, I'm still aware we're in a public place.

He just tongue-fucked me.

From behind.

In the fucking public library!

I don't even know what planet I'm on because I'm not even feeling the slightest bit ashamed. It's like all my dirty fantasies about this place have finally come true.

"That was so fucking hot," Blake says with a groan and I hear what sounds like the crinkle of foil. I have to blink hard to come back to reality, and then he's trying to turn me around, only my hands are gripping the metal edge of the shelves so hard it's nearly impossible to unclench them. I also think I'll fall on my face if I don't have the support. I'm lightheaded and my knees want to give out on me. The orgasm has rendered me into dust.

But somehow I do turn around, pressed against the shelves for support, and the sight before my eyes nearly makes me delirious again. His jeans and boxer briefs are down to his ankles, his cock is protruding out in front of him, and he's preparing to slip on a condom.

I don't have much experience, but it's seriously the largest, thickest, most intimidating dick I've ever seen. In person. And totally on par with what I've seen in porn. The sight of it in Blake's hands, the way his fingers wrap along the thick base and slide up to the darkened tip, precum glistening in the lights, makes my head spin, my body immediately hot with need once again.

"Want to do the honors?" he asks, his voice choked with desire as he slowly slides the condom over the tip.

Jesus.

"It looks like you've got a good handle on it," I practically squeak. I can't tear my eyes away—it's fucking hypnotizing. Still I manage to say, "You're pretty presumptuous. "

He grins at me and comes forward, pinning me back against the shelves. "We can quit for today," he whispers against my throat before nipping it between his teeth. "But I felt you squeeze my tongue as you came, like you were milking it. My cock is jealous." He licks up behind my ear and groans. "Don't you want to feel me deep inside you? How hard and thick I am, stretching you, making you full?"

"Yes," I pant, my head going back.

He bends slightly at the knees and his hands go under my ass. Like I weigh nothing more than a feather, he hoists me up and my legs hook around his waist. At first I'm worried he won't be able to hold me up, but there's no sign of concern from him at all except for the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. He's staring at me like I'm something to be conquered, so much desire and determination in his eyes, a primal need to claim.

He positions his cock at my entrance, teasing it against my clit slowly. A low hiss escapes from my lips, my body wanting to tense up and give in at the same time.

"I'll take it slow," he murmurs in my ear. "At least I'll try to."

He slowly pushes himself in, taking ragged breaths, trying to control himself as I stretch around him. I can't even exhale. All the air, the tension, it's trapped inside me as he works himself in, one wet inch by wet inch. Thank god he already made me wet as sin earlier, otherwise I don't think this would work. He would fucking break me in two.

"Amanda," he whispers, my name urgent on his lips. "Fuck. This is better than I imagined."

"You imagined this?" I manage to say, gasping lightly as he pushes in another inch.

"All the time," he says between groans. "All the time. I've been wanting to do this from the very start. When I first laid eyes on you. I wanted to see how damn dirty you could be. Oh, fuck ." He pushes himself to the hilt and all the air leaves my lungs. I've never had someone so deep, like he's embedded himself inside me.

"You okay?" he whispers, his hooded eyes searching mine. His fingers brush the loose strands of hair from my face, already damp with sweat.

I nod, trying to swallow, my hands going to his shoulders, trying to hold on. They're rock solid and taut as he strains to hold me up. "I'm good," I say breathlessly.

He gives me the laziest half-grin and slowly pulls himself out. The drag feels incredible, but when he's almost fully out, I immediately crave the fullness.

"How good?" he says huskily, teasing me as he holds back.

I dig my heels into his ass, pulling him back into me.

We both moan and after my breath returns I say, "This good. Keep going."

"Wasn't planning on stopping, peach," he says in a raspy voice, his accent thicker with pleasure.

He plants kisses along my jawline, his stubble razing my skin until his lips join with mine. Our mouths are moving together in a deep, searing kiss unlike the one yesterday, unlike any I have ever had. Our kiss, frantic, hungry, all-encompassing, leads into a rhythm that his body matches with mine as he thrusts his hips forward, his cock driving deeper and deeper inside me. Every nerve in my body is being pulled inward, swirling into a hard knot, live wires tangled, begging to be set free.

He pulls his mouth away, damp from our kiss. "You feel so fucking beautiful," he whispers, staring into my eyes, fevered with desire, and I can hardly believe these words are coming from his lips, that those lips were just kissing me. I can't believe he's just fucking me, here, now, so strong and thick and hard and making my body and soul feel like I'm about to step over the edge of the universe .

I run my fingers down his forearms, feeling the sinewy muscles as he holds me in place, then I brush my hands back up to the hard planes of his shoulders. I dig my fingers in, needing more, wanting more. He growls unapologetically with wild lust, slamming in harder while one of his hands slips down to my clit.

He knows exactly what he's doing.

We're both on the verge, on that precipitous edge, and one of us has to jump.

He strokes his finger along my clit, swirling once, twice, and then that's all it takes.

I'm an earthquake and the world, my world, breaks in two, and fire and light and everything that is explodes from within me. I'm crying out, the whimpers escaping me, and as I hold on to him, as he starts coming inside me, I don't care.

I've always wondered what Blake would sound like when he comes. It's animalistic. It's guttural and primal and he's fucking, fucking, fucking me, the shelves rocking back and forth, his hips thrusting into me until I'm sure they'll leave bruises, until there is nothing left of him.

He sucks in a breath and slows, his hips coming to a lazy stop.

"Well, that happened," he says, his voice broken. He tries to get better footing and then slowly pulls himself out of me.

I don't even know what's going on. My world is still shattered, spinning on its axis, and all that's left is a warm glow inside me that shines greater than the sun.

He slowly lowers me to the ground and I have to hang on to the bookshelves to stay upright, stacks of books falling out and tumbling to my feet.

"What's going on up there?"

A shrill voice breaks the spell.

I have to blink my eyes a few times to figure out what's happening. The sex has melted my damn brain.

"Bloody hell, it's Treebeard!" Blake exclaims, trying to pull up his jeans.

"You still have a condom on!" I whisper.

"There's no time!"

And there isn't.

Because his pants aren't quite up yet and his sheathed cock is hanging out when Treebeard comes around the corner. It doesn't help that my skirt is still hiked around my waist in bunches.

"What are you two doing?" she exclaims, frozen at the end of the hall as she stares at us.

"Run," Blake whispers to me as he finishes buttoning his jeans.

He grabs my hand and we run down the aisle as Treebeard starts coming after us.

Then we dart up the next aisle, leading her around. "You grab the computers, I'll lead her astray. Meet you outside," he says, and then he's taking off in one direction and I'm going in another.

I hope to god she doesn't come after me because we've been working in a corner, but luckily it doesn't take me long to gather up our stuff and start running down the aisle and to the stairs.

I don't know where Blake is at first, but then I see his dark head disappearing behind the history section and a few seconds later Treebeard (good lord can that woman run). With both messenger bags slung on me like a pack mule, I make a run for the doors, bursting outside into the night just before Blake does.

"Keep going!" he yells, and all my days of running are finally paying off because I plow over to Mr. Mean. But Blake is even more fit, like a superhero, and catches up in seconds.

He runs around and gets in, unlocking my door just as I see Treebeard emerge from the library, shaking her fist at us like something from a cartoon.

I jump in the car but I don't even have a chance to close the door before he drives away, squealing out of the parking lot.

"Do you think she's going to report us?" I ask him breathlessly, watching in the side mirrors as the gleaming glass walls of the library disappear. My heart is racing so hard I can hear it.

"Well," he says, letting out a little laugh. "Let's just say you should avoid that library next year. Or wear a disguise."

"That was my happy place, you know!"

He raises his eyebrows suggestively. "And yet somehow I just made it a hell of a lot happier."

I can't think about that right now. I'm not even over what we did. My skin is hot and flushed, not just from the escape but the damn sex. I'm still aching inside from where he just was.

"Holy shit," I finally exclaim, leaning back into the seat. "I can't believe we just did that." My head lolls to the side and I stare at him, wide-eyed. "I'm not sure that was smart."

"It was the smartest thing we've ever done," he says, turning up "Fur-Lined" by How to Destroy Angels on his stereo.

The jury is still out on that.

"Shit," I swear. "My car is there."

"You can get it tomorrow," he says.

I look out the window as we approach the downtown core. "Where are we going?"

"My place," he says.

He gives me a sidelong glance, razing his teeth over his lower lip. "You know I'm not fucking done with you."

"You're definitely not done with yourself. I believe you have a condom somewhere in your underwear," I point out .

He looks back to the road. "Okay, maybe not my finest moment. All the more reason to get it right the second time."

Despite the muffled protests from my brain, like someone yelling behind a bank vault, my legs are still weak and my lips still remember the taste of myself on his tongue, and my body knows just what it's like to come with him inside me.

There's no going back.

I push my brain aside. My body rules tonight.