How to Date the Guy You Hate by Julie Kriss Page 0,54

pictured this last night. I felt the ridges of him beneath the fabric and drew my knees higher. I started making little begging sounds into his mouth. Last night felt like extended, torturous foreplay. I couldn’t wait.

“Jason—please—” I whispered.

“I know,” he said.

“I just—” I squirmed. “Just—please—”

“I know.”

His hand traced along my inner thigh, and he slid his fingers into me. I made a guttural sound and locked my hands on the back of his neck, bracing myself against the mirror and holding on. I wanted all of him, everything, but in that moment what he was doing was exquisite. Jason—nearly fully dressed, one hand braced on the table, the other fucking me between my open legs as he pressed me back against the mirror—was going to make me come. I could hear his breath in my ear and the quiet of the room and, outside the window, faint laughter and the tinkle of glassware. I pushed my knees up, spreading myself wider, and he ran his teeth over my bottom lip, rubbing me rhythmically in and out, his thumb sweeping expertly over my clit.

I pulsed hard, coming against his hand, crying out softly in the empty room. I tried to be quiet, but the walls were thin, and anyone standing in the hall, or in the next room, would know what was happening. That I was being fucked, pleasured, that I was being brought to an orgasm. The thought only made me come harder.

When I started to come down, I didn’t even hesitate. I knew exactly what I wanted. I closed my knees and nudged him back. When he stood and stepped back, breathing hard, I slid off the table and onto my knees in front of him.

“Megan,” he said.

“Be quiet.” I made quick work of his belt, the button and zipper of his pants. I tugged down his boxer briefs and his cock sprang out, painfully hard. He was already halfway there. I ran my hand up it once, admiring it up close, and then I slid it along the flat of my tongue, closing my mouth over it.

He made a sound that, I thought, I would likely remember for the rest of my life, a surprised grunting exhale of pleasure that made me feel all-powerful. I relaxed my jaw and took as much of him as I could, which wasn’t all of him, and closed my eyes for a second, savoring the heat and the flavor of him, the pulse I could feel lightly beneath his skin, the lines and ridges on my tongue. Then, slowly, I started to move.

He made another sound, this one almost helpless. I braced my hands on his slim, muscled hips, and he put his hand lightly on the side of my head, his thumb against my temple. I hadn’t done this a lot of times, and I had no fancy moves, but as with everything to do with sex with Jason, with his body and mine, it was easy. And intense. And fun. He tasted good. I already knew this wouldn’t take long, and I kept my pace deep and even, enjoying every breath and twitch.

He was breathing harshly, and through the haze of my lust I realized two things. One, he could see us in the mirror on the table behind me. And two, Charlotte had never done this with him. Not once.

The thought made me greedy, and I took him deeper, feeling him bump against my throat as I closed my eyes and ran my tongue over him again. His cock was amazing. I could do this for hours.

“Megan,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Don’t stop. Just give me one more minute. Don’t—Fuck.” His hand flexed in my hair. “Keep going. Keep going. Fuck, don’t stop.”

He came in a hot rush, and I swallowed it, running my hand along him and my tongue, licking him clean. I glanced up to see his eyes were closed, his head bowed. I tucked him back into his boxer briefs, pulled them up, and zipped and buttoned him, re-buckling his belt and putting everything to rights again before I rose off my knees.

As soon as I was standing, he took my hips in his hands and pushed me back against the wall next to the dressing table. He pressed into me and kissed along the side of my neck, hot and sweetly urgent. I touched his chest, feeling his heart pounding as hard as mine was. I was almost dizzy in that moment. I