Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #5) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,142

thrust or two. Maybe sooner. Cal adjusts his hips, the tight band of my ass squeezing the base of him so hard that he can barely move. Just that slight shift of his body throws me fully into my climax and a deep, primal groan breaks from my own throat as I sag under him, held up by his fingers inside of me and the rough press of my palms on the stone wall.

The orgasm is lightning fast, a brief overall flicker that makes my pussy clench and ripple around Cal’s fingers as he moans along with me.

“I can feel my own hand,” he whispers as I pant and shake and wonder how the hell I’m going to make it back to our apartment without collapsing into one of the fancy flower beds along the way. “I can pleasure my own dick with my fingers.” He hooks his fingers inside of me as if to prove a point, and I bite my lower lip so hard that I taste copper.

This is what I needed right here, a moment of grounding, of pleasure mixed with pain, of my dark avenger with his hoodies and his shorts, his tattoos and his scars, his rough voice and his too pretty mouth. He begins to move, and I’m struck yet again by how obvious it is that he’s a dancer. He fights like a dancer, kills like a dancer, fucks like a dancer.

Lifting onto my toes gives us both a slightly better angle as I tremble beneath him with my sweats bunched around my knees, and my pussy dripping around his fingers. He rocks his hips against me, rather than thrusting like he might in my cunt. It’s just perfect the way he does that, grinding pleasure into a part of me that’s rarely touched but is now suddenly desperate for more, more, more.

“I love you, Bernie,” Cal says, surprising me. He nips my ear, and I nearly collapse, my body so boneless and full of emotion and pleasure both that I’m basically sitting on his hand. “Maybe I don’t say it enough, but it’s true. It’s the only truth I adhere to. It guides me in all things.”

He starts to move the fingers of his left hand faster, the heel of his hand making my clit harden and thicken with the need to come. His hips continue to rock against me, but he isn’t moving them much, mostly he’s bringing us both toward a climax with his fingers. Teasing his own dick. Teasing my pussy. Making me see stars.

My second climax hits much harder, digs its nails much deeper, and I end up dragging my fingers along the stone wall until they bleed, a long, low groan slipping past my lips as my body contracts and throbs around Callum’s fingers. The feel of that, plus me rubbing my ass back against him drags out his own orgasm, and he sags against me, body shuddering. Callum spills himself inside of me and then tucks me close against him, panting hard.

For god only knows how long, we just stay where we are, frozen, gasping, the evening air prickling at our bare skin.

The sound of footsteps gets us both moving quickly, but I can’t stop the groan that slips from my throat as Callum very slowly slides out of me. Fortunately, the person that’s emerging around the corner isn’t a member of the GMP about to catch us with our literal pants down—it’s Oscar motherfucking Montauk.

“That was brilliant, really,” he drawls in that board, aristocratic tone of his.

“And you were watching, why?” I retort, yanking my sweats up but stumbling just enough that Cal has to catch me by the arm. My skin burns where he’s touching me, and I can’t help but shift my attention up to his face. His cheeks are slightly red, either from the cold or the exertion of a good fuck, I’m not sure but the effect on his pale skin is nothing short of glorious.

“It’s been longer than thirty minutes,” Oscar retorts back, and I remember the words Cal called out before we left through the door of the apartment. Oops. I straighten my tank top out as Callum takes my hand and we follow after Oscar after he turns on his heel to lead us away.

“Did you enjoy the show?” I ask, because I just can’t seem to help myself. Cal lets out a chuckle, meeting Oscar’s eyes when he glances back at us.

“Well, O, did you?” Callum challenges,