Catch Twenty-Two (Westover Prep 2)

And I love it.

I love that he’s wild and uninhibited. I love that he’s just as affected by me as I am by him, telling from the thickness trapped in his jeans.

Right now, in the middle of a haunted house, surrounded by goblins, demons, and all things spooky, I’m willing to do anything with him. He wouldn’t have to ask me twice if he wanted me to drop to my knees and participate in something I’ve never done. I’d wrap my lips around him and give him a hundred percent, give him the very same care and attention I gave the SATs last school year. I’d want his hands in my hair, hips flexing as he thrusts as deep as I can handle before pulling back only to shove in deeper.

But he doesn’t ask me for that. He doesn’t move my hand from behind my back when he releases it to bring it to the front of his own jeans.

Instead, it’s his hand that shifts toward the front of my shorts, squeezing in between us to tickle the exposed skin below the frayed edge. His mouth never leaves mine as a finger teases the hem before dipping inside. He’s still inches from my core, but I feel him everywhere.

There’s passion in his kiss, in the touch of his other hand as he grips my hip, and I’ve had enough of not touching him. With straining effort, due to my arms being locked behind me for so long, I move them to his shoulders and down his back before lifting the back of his shirt so I can feel his skin against my palms.

“Frankie,” he hisses when my nails dig into his lower back.

His hips buck forward, pulling a low whimper from my lips as his fingers caress even closer to where I feel like I’ll die if he doesn’t touch me. His erection is digging into my hip, but his hand is commandeering all of my attention.

“Please,” I beg against his mouth, not exactly sure what I’m asking for but hoping he understands.

I jolt when his knuckles skate over the front of my panties, electricity ricocheting in all directions that leaves me both energized and drained. He smiles against my lips, but I press harder against him, my mouth begging for more, my lower half demanding it.

“Damn,” he whispers, the word sounding like higher praise when his fingers slip past the lace band at my leg and his fingers slickened with the desire I was so embarrassed about only minutes ago.

The glide of his fingers, made easy with my arousal, coasts back and forth and I swear he grows thicker against me.

“Jesus, you’re so wet,” he hisses against my mouth as his other hand first grips my rib cage before cupping my small breast in his hands. I expect sounds of dissatisfaction to leave his lips, but he groans with his own need instead.

“Zeke.” It seems to be the only word I’m capable of right now, but he still understands.

“Right here, baby.” He dips the tip of one finger lower. “Is this where you need me?”

I cry out, shaking in his clutch as an orgasm slams into me from nowhere. His mouth is on mine, his fingers tracing around my clit once again as my body convulses and shudders against his. My pulse is racing, hammering against my rib cage when I feel him smile against my lips. I’m orgasm-drunk and panting like I ran a marathon when Zeke pulls his fingers from my shorts, and the dampness between my legs has increased so much it can’t be ignored.

“You need to move on.”

I squeak at the unfamiliar masculine voice, and Zeke stiffens in front of me, leaning closer as if he’s territorial and protecting me.

“Fuck off,” Zeke hisses over his shoulder, but when I look around him, I see a huge guy wearing a t-shirt that says STAFF on the front. It’s the same one all the carnival workers are wearing.

“I mean,” the guy states, holding his hands out to his side, “I enjoyed the show, but you need to get moving.”

Even humiliated, knowing this guy just witnessed the most sexually intimate moment of my life, I’m still cognizant enough to grab Zeke by the shoulders before he can rush the guy.Chapter 19Zeke

“Give me a fucking minute,” I hiss at the piece of shit that just intruded on our private moment.

My cock is raging in my jeans, and I can’t seem to catch my breath.

“Sixty seconds,” the guy agrees with a chuckle before disappearing back into the haunted house.

“Shit,” I pant as I turn back around to face Frankie.

I cup her face in my hands, leaning forward, pressing my forehead to hers, hoping to calm down so I don’t walk out of here and let the world know what we were doing, but the scent of her sweet pussy is on my fingers. I lick into her mouth one last time, but she’s frozen, unreceptive. She took what I was offering and is no longer interested.