The Other Girl

I would do this every time the clock chimed the hour.

It was a silly game, and really not that inventive. But as an only child—and one whose parents were away traveling a lot—I found ways to keep myself entertained.

I’m thinking about this now as I watch the clock on my office wall, because the mustache—the clock hands—are pointed to nine and eleven.

And that’s not possible.

I tap my phone: 2:11

I know it’s after two, because I’ve been here most of the day. I mean, time is relative…but this is absurd.

My mother’s grandfather clock eventually died, the mustache hands stuck on one and ten. That’s the day the game stopped. This clock must be broken, or t

he battery is going dead. I tow my office chair across the office and stand on it—very carefully—to reach the clock.

I find the backing and pull out the battery. For good measure, I turn the dials on the back to make sure the time reads anything other than the dreaded number, then I reach up to place it back on the wall.

A knock at the door.

“Just a minute…” I look down as Carter enters the office.

A shot of arousal hits my bloodstream. My legs go weak, and I teeter on the chair. Carter reaches up to steady me. His hands grab hold of my thighs with purpose, as if he memorized every inch of me last night and I belong solely to him.

He smiles that devious smile. “Glad I was here to catch you again, Ms. Montgomery.” He reaches one hand over to lock the door. The distinct click of the mechanism sliding into place sends a current of heat over my skin.

“We don’t have an appointment today, Mr. Hensley.” I play along, barely able to keep the smile from breaking free.

He returns his hand to my thigh. But this time, he slips his fingers beneath my skirt and slides his hands upward, his thumbs catching the hem and dragging my skirt along.

“I have a free study period,” he says, positioning himself so that his chest is right between my thighs. “Ms. Canterbury is sick, so my fifth period calculus class got canceled. Figured we could make up our session from yesterday that I missed.”

I bite my bottom lip as I place my hands on his shoulders. Apparently, my plan worked, and with a very favorable outcome. “You know I can’t condone you cutting class…” My words die off at the feel of his fingertips reaching the apex of my thighs; that highly sensitive area right at the seam of my panties.

His height puts his head level with my stomach, and Carter uses his teeth to untuck my blouse. He works a pocket open as his lips seek my skin, then tenderly kisses my belly.

My fingers curl into his hair as I find purchase to hold myself upright.

“Your scent is all over my jacket. Did you know that?” He groans against me, the vibration eliciting a deep ache in my core. “It made me crave you all fucking day.”

I brace my hand against the doorjamb as he hikes my skirt up farther. He dips his head lower and kisses the inside of my thigh. I have to press my lips together to keep from moaning at the salacious feel. “Carter…wait…”

But he doesn’t stop. His mouth hovers over my thigh, the rough pads of his fingers trace upward. “I put these bruises here,” he whispers, and I know the marks he’s referring to. The imprints of his fingers, from where he grabbed my legs from behind as he drove inside me.

My eyes seal closed as he kisses the bruises. My legs quiver with need as he moves higher, his breath touching my panties and sending an arousing pulse deep inside.

He flicks his tongue over my clit, the material of my panties warm from his breath, and I feel myself grow wet with anticipation.

“Still want me to wait?” he asks, making his point as he slyly slips my panties aside. “Tell me to taste you.”

My hand grips the doorjamb. I’m scared I’ll fall…but I’m even more afraid of losing this moment between us. “Taste me,” I say, my voice breathy.

“Yes, ma’am.” Then he has my skirt bunched up around my waist. He forcibly tugs my panties aside even more as his mouth surrounds me.

My other hand digs into Carter’s hair as his tongue decimates my sanity. He sucks my clit into his mouth and releases, only to relentlessly flick his tongue over the swollen nub. A tingling wave of heat travels up my back, and I arch toward him on impulse.

I hear the tantalizing sound of his zipper lowering…and then his finger sinks inside me. “God, baby, you’re so wet for me.”

His hands go to my hips and, in one swift motion, he has me off the chair and in his arms.