Right (Wrong 2)
Thirty-Two
Sawyer’s waiting for me in the lobby when I get downstairs. He always waits. He parks his car, gets out, and comes inside for me. No pulling up and idling at the curb for him. And it’s not because I’m running late. If I get downstairs two minutes early, he’s already there. It gets me a little wet.
He’s observing the shenanigans of Stroh Hall again as I walk up. I’m in comfortable clothes today—the cutest patterned leggings, boots and a snug-fit, white long-sleeved tee. I’m already zipped into my lightweight down coat when I get to the lobby, my weekend bag slung over my shoulder. Sawyer takes it from me as soon as I walk up.
He’s in jeans and his grey pea coat, the collar of a cream-colored shirt exposed at the neckline. I could lick him, he looks so good. He smiles when he sees me and it stops my heart a little each time I see that smile again. His dark hair is rumpled, as if he showered recently and didn’t do much else to it, but on him it works. Perfectly. I tilt my head up to him in greeting and he leans down to kiss me, but I grab hold of his jacket so he can’t pull away.
“I have to tell you something,” I whisper conspiratorially.
“What’s that?” he whispers back, his eyes shimmering with interest.
Around us, the normal chaos of dorm life ensues. I think I hear someone skateboarding followed by a voice booming, “Not inside.” The mailboxes snap open and closed behind us but still, I pause a beat.
“I want to do dirty things to you,” I finally say, looking him dead in the eye and winking before releasing his jacket.
He responds with one of his lazy grins that spread across his face in wonder and end in a dimple on his left cheek. He doesn’t say anything, just ushers me out the front door to his car. We’re on 36th Street before he speaks.
“Tell me about it,” he says.
I’m adjusting the seat heater on my side and it takes me a second to catch on. But once I do, it’s on.
“I’d like to put your dick in my mouth,” I respond. It’s true, my mouth waters a little staring at his profile. I’m not lying when I say the thought of wrapping my lips around the girth of him turns me on.
His jaw tics, and he taps one finger on the steering wheel, but lets me continue.
I place my hand on his thigh, innocently enough. Mid-thigh, my fingers wrapping towards the inside of his leg, my thumb resting towards the outside. I don’t move it up, just leave it there, my palm warmed by the heat of his skin, even through the denim.
“I’d wrap one hand around the base of you, get a good grip, and use the other to guide the tip of you onto my tongue. I’d have to stretch my mouth open pretty wide once I got the head past my lips.” I pause and use a finger to rub along my bottom lip. “My jaw hurts just thinking about it.”
We come to a stop at the light on Spruce and he turns his head in my direction, eyebrow raised in challenge.
“I’d like to deep throat you,” I add, and, using my right hand, run the tips of my fingers down my neck, “but that is just not going to be possible with what you’re packing.”
He places his hand over mine on his thigh and squeezes. The light changes and he accelerates.
“I’d be happy to slide my cock past those lips of yours. But not tonight.”
“What? Why?” It comes out a little shocked, and, if I’m honest, whiny. Is he saying we’re not having sex today? Because I really want it. I’ve been thinking about it all morning. Fine. All week.
“Relax, Boots. I’m still going to fuck you.”
“Whew.” I exhale a giant breath and he just glances over and shakes his head.