How to Date the Guy You Hate by Julie Kriss Page 0,16
and she heard it. She made a strangled sound, hooked her legs around mine, grabbed me by the hair, and kissed me.
I kissed her back. She was wild against me, her body straining up and pressing into mine, her knees gripping me. In response I pinned her down, slamming my body back against hers, tilting her head back and opening her mouth. She gripped my hair harder and tasted my tongue like she was dying for it. Like she was dying for me.
I couldn’t remember the last time a woman was dying for me.
I ground into her harder, pressing her into the grass, and she moaned—actually moaned—into my mouth. I dragged my hands down her body and lifted the hem of her skirt and she kissed me harder, biting my lip as I grabbed her spread inner thighs, as I touched the edges of her panties.
“Oh, God,” she said. “Do it quick.”
“Ssh,” I said, and slid my fingers into her panties. She was drenched. I felt my cock jump in my shorts, impatient. I touched her more thoroughly, sliding my fingertips over her, feeling everything. Everything.
In response, she lifted her hips from the grass and ground into my fingers, gasping.
She was as desperate as I was. I swirled my fingers over her clit, making slow little circles. Just the feel of it could make me come in my underwear. “Harder?” I asked in her ear, my voice a rasp.
“Yes,” she panted, grinding into me. “Yes. More.”
“Inside?” I asked her.
“Fuck, yes.”
I slid one finger inside her, then a second one, rubbing slowly in and out. She gave a moan, the kind that I hadn’t realized until that moment that I’d been dying for—the kind that said she was craving this, and only this, in this moment.
I could have fucked her. I wanted to so badly. But because of that moan, I made it about her.
I kept my fingers moving, slowly, as I bent and kissed her again. Tasted her mouth, her tongue. Let her rub against me, her hands in my hair. I fucked her slowly with my fingers and then I slid them out and rubbed her clit again, over and over, driving her crazy.
She broke the kiss, gasping, close. “More,” she said. “Fuck, Jason. More.”
I gave her more. When she came, I felt it, the tremble of her muscles, the clench of her body. Her knees squeezed me and her breath hitched. But she didn’t cry out or make a single other sound. She just breathed in a silent gasp as the orgasm rippled over her, as if her voice was gone.
I had never heard a woman be so quiet when she came.
I hadn’t heard a woman come at all in years.
I dropped my face to her neck and felt it, heard the harshness of her breathing. Smelled the damp wetness of sex. She came down from the orgasm and her body slowly turned into a puddle of wax, her breathing slowing, her knees open. I slid my fingers out of her panties and put the fabric back in place.
She let her hands slide from my hair and her arms dropped to the grass beside her, boneless as a doll’s. We were both soaked and freezing, on the ground in a public park. I put my hands in the wet grass and lifted off her a little, my head still dropped to her neck, and then I laughed.
Because even though I was currently feeling the Blue Balls of Death, we were both just so fucked.
I looked into her face. She looked baffled and turned on at the same time, her gaze taking me in as if she was trying to read me. As if part of her worried that my laughter was directed at her.
I kissed her gently, sucking her lower lip before I let it go.
“All right,” I said to her. “I guess you win. You have a fucking date.”
Seven
Megan
It rained all night and into the morning, and when I walked into the Five Spot restaurant, it was still dark outside the windows. I checked the clock on my phone. Four minutes to eight. I was four minutes early.
I slid into a booth. The restaurant was nearly deserted except for a couple of sleepless retirees. I’d worked here once, a few months ago. I’d been fired, but that didn’t mean I didn’t know a good breakfast when I saw one.
A waitress came by—her name was Tina, and I recognized her from when I worked here—and dropped off menus.