I don’t stand a chance and I come hard, too, right after she finishes. I bury my face in her shoulder and my cock deep inside her, holding her tight against me and I growl her name into her ear while the aftershocks are still moving through her body and she’s still rocking back and forth against me.
Finally, we stop. I’ve got my arms wrapped around her and we stand here, braced against my desk, towering over the paperwork that I didn’t quite get finished earlier, my office spooky in the low light of the single desk lamp.
“We should probably never do that again,” she murmurs.
I grin, then kiss her on the cheek.
“Probably not, but you liked it.”
“True,” she admits, leaning back against me, laughing softly. “True.”Chapter Thirty-EightThaliaI’m ten minutes late to the Rail, and they’re already suspicious the moment I walk in the door. I can tell. I get a beer at the bar and slide into the round booth next to Victoria, and even though she, Margaret, and Harper all try to act like they don’t notice I’m late, they do.
“Okay,” says Harper, who seems determined to get this back on track. “Here’s to the end of another semester, and to one more ahead of us.”
“Hear, hear,” says Victoria.
“Aye, aye,” says Margaret.
“You’re a pirate now?” Harper asks, and we all drink.
“I’ve always been a pirate,” Margaret says when she comes up for air. “Not my fault you haven’t noticed.”
"I did think all those times you told me to walk the plank were odd,” Harper admits.
“And that hook hand is pretty notable, but I didn’t want to be rude,” I add.
Victoria’s got her beer in one hand, then points at Margaret with the other, her nails a deep, shimmering purple. That’s how you can tell Victoria’s stressed: she’s painted her nails, something she always does when she needs to assert control over a situation, even if the situation is what color her nails are.
“Wait,” she says. “Wait, no, this is a joke about booty and how much of it she finds.”
“Yarr?” says Margaret, and with that whatever nervousness I had about this dissolves, and I start giggling like a schoolgirl. I start giggling and I can’t stop, and after a moment Margaret and Victoria and Harper are giggling too, and then there are tears running down my face and I can’t look at any of them and I also can’t stop laughing.
“Stop,” Harper gasps, hiding her eyes.
“I can’t,” squeaks Victoria.
“It’s okay,” says Margaret. “It’s okay, it’s under —"
Then she snorts and starts laughing all over again.
“Do you bury it?” Victoria asks, wiping tears out of her eyes.
“Booty?” snorts Margaret.
“Those poor boys,” I say. “They must have sand in the worst places if she buries her booty.”
“Oh no,” giggles Harper. “Oh no. No, now I’m picturing it.”
“Margaret’s buried booty?” I ask. “I’m sure she gives them straws to breathe through.”
“Those aren’t straws,” says Victoria.
“This is too weird, stop it,” says Margaret, laughing almost too hard to talk.
“Is there a treasure map?” I wonder aloud. “Is this an ‘X marks the spot’ thing, or…?”
“Here be dragons?” says Victoria.
“Here be booty,” corrects Harper, and Margaret just covers her face.
“I’m dying,” Margaret says from behind her hands. “We have to talk about something else. Med school placements. Anything. How’s Todd?”
“Well, and back in Boston,” answers Victoria. Todd’s her boyfriend of a little over a year. “I guess that’s where the X on my booty map would be.”
I snort.
“Don’t laugh or we’ll talk about where your booty map X is,” she says. “What’s Josh the frat boy up to right now?”
I look from her to Margaret to Harper, then drain the rest of my beer.
I may have told them that I’m dating someone named Josh, a frat guy. None of them believed me for a single second.
“He went home,” I say. “To… California. Does anyone else want another drink?”* * *An hour and a half later, we’re all on our fourth beers. Should I be having four beers? No. I should never be having four beers, because four beers is so many beers, but The Rail is having a ‘last day of finals’ special and most of campus has already gone home, and why not have four beers for once in my life?
That said, my fourth beer is still practically untouched, sitting in front of me, because three beers was already a lot.
“No,” Margaret is saying, leaning forward over the table. “I hate it. I refuse to accept it. It’s wrong.”
“There’s scientific evidence,” Harper points out.
“My argument is a moral one,” Margaret insists. “I reject this assertion on moral grounds.”
Victoria just sighs.
“Margaret, that’s stupid,” she says, sounding very, very patient.
“No,” Margaret says.
“Dinosaurs having feathers isn’t immoral, it’s just… a thing,” I say, eloquently. “Like how you have skin. And hair. And a nose. Do you guys ever think about if aliens find human skulls a million years from now? They’re going to reconstruct us so ugly.”