Why wasn’t I frightened? I was trapped by a man I didn’t have any reason to trust, and I’d been in a similar situation and been violated. I should have been scared out of my mind.
But instead of feeling scared, I felt empowered.
And turned on.
Just like in all those fantasies I’d had.
“No,” I said. “Don’t stop.”
I wriggled against his hold to reinforce my request, using my entire body to fight him. Before I’d been keeping back. Now, I struggled with all I had.
Donovan fought harder too, but only with enough strength to just overcome me. He wrapped his arm around my waist, sliding my shirt up so he touched bare skin. I elbowed him in the ribs. His knee grazed against my inner thigh. Could he tell how wet I was through my leggings?
When he had me captured again, one arm behind me, one across my chest, he suddenly pushed me back until I was pinned against a bookshelf.
I gazed down to where his lower body met mine. Pressed hard at my belly was the firm bulge of his erection.
I’d long forgotten why I’d come here.
When I looked up again, his eyes were waiting. “I could smell you on his fingers.”
I barely had time to wish his mouth was on mine before it was.
There was nothing tentative or easy about the way that Donovan Kincaid kissed. The pressure of his lips was firm and intent. His tongue was thick as it dipped inside, tasting me in long licks. He dropped my arms and with one hand held my face at my chin, sort of cradling it, and it felt sweet, but also like it was meant to hold me in place. So he could kiss me how he wanted. So he could suck my top lip until it was fat. So he could nip along my neck while I wriggled against him.
My knees could barely hold me. I couldn’t breathe because I wanted him so much. I threw one arm around his neck, needing to hold on to something. Needing to hold on to him. His kiss got deeper as if he liked the way I clutched on to him. Then meaner—pulling roughly at my lip with his teeth while pinching my nipple with his fingers—as if he wished he didn’t like it like he did.
His lips never left mine, but I was very aware as his hand slid down my side and under the band of my leggings, under my panties, past the hood of skin to find my clit.
My breath hitched, and he slipped deeper, through the soft curls, burrowing inside me.
“Was this how he did it?” he said, pulling away. I don’t know if he wanted to watch the reaction to his question or to what he was doing.
“Yes.” It was mechanically the same. Two fingers stroking my sensitive inner walls.
But it was also nothing at all the same. I was so wet. And it felt so good. So fucking good. Like kindling catching on fire, spreading heat, growing hotter. Burning. Blazing. “Donovan,” I moaned.
“Say it again,” he growled.
“Donovan.” I’d said it so many times in the dark, in my head. It felt new to say it out loud in this way but comfortable, like finding a pair of jeans that seemed to have been perfectly tailored.
His lip turned up, the closest thing to a smile that I’d ever seen him give. Damn, his face was really striking. I’d never seen it this close up. Not pretty but captivating. He was only twenty-two and yet he already had lines starting at his eyes. His thick brows and the deep line in his chin gave him a rugged appeal, and the way he studied me while he rubbed and kneaded me below was intense and committed and…god, what he was doing to me…I closed my eyes as the pleasure built toward a climax.
“Did you touch him?” he asked, suddenly withdrawing his hand.
I opened my eyes. “No.”
“Touch me.” It was the same way he’d told me to sit when I’d first arrived. Then it had pissed me off to be ordered around. Now I was so eager, my hands were shaking.
Donovan caressed my face and kissed along my forehead while I worked to get his black trousers open. When I got his pants and boxer briefs worked down to the top of his muscular thighs, his cock fell out, long and thick and hard. His tip was purple and stretched tight, and all of a sudden I knew that this was going to be it. This was going to happen. This was going to be inside me because there was a cyclone of want blustering at the core of me, begging me to have him. But also, it had to happen because I had a very real fear that whatever this strange, complicated thing was that was going on with Donovan might never happen again if it didn’t happen now.
I skimmed my palm across his crown, reverently, then drew my fingers closed around him and pulled down.
He hissed, and my stomach flipped.
Donovan brought his hand to join mine—the one slick with my wetness—and together we stroked up, down. Up. Down.
Up.
He pulled his hand away, but I kept working him, even though I could feel his eyes on me, watching me. Asking me.
I didn’t look up. Because I didn’t want to be asked, and I didn’t want this to stop. And that made me an awful person and an awful woman and probably someone who needed to schedule an appointment with a campus psychiatrist as soon as possible, but so be it. This was my consent. I was touching him.
He seemed to understand because then he was pulling out his wallet, tearing open a condom, pushing my hand away and rolling it over his erection. Or maybe he was never asking my permission, after all.
I shimmied my leggings and panties down to my knees. Donovan lifted me and they fell to my ankles. I widened my knees, giving him room. He lined his head at my entrance and, without any hesitation, drove inside.
It hurt at first. A lot.
I was too tight and too dry, even as wet as I was. Donovan was persistent, though, pushing and nudging until I opened up for him and he could slide all the way in. Tears fell down my cheeks and my nails dug into his back. Fluid trickled past where we were joined and down my leg. I felt tense and wound up and unbridled.
But then there was Donovan’s mouth, kissing me, centering me. He was just as demanding as before. Greedy and impatient like his cock. But as I gave in to his lips, my body relaxed, and soon there was no more pain, just pleasure coiling inside me, tightening and expanding.
He noticed when I gave in. I could feel his attack change. He hitched me up higher so the angle of his pelvis was better against mine and ground into me repeatedly with deep, merciless jabs. I tried to speak, to say his name, but all that came out was grunts and groans and incoherent syllables.
I was lost to him.
The shelf behind me cut into my lower back and my phone buzzed in my coat pocket on the floor by the desk and I had an F on my paper and the door to the office was unlocked and I had a date with Weston, but all I cared about in the world at the moment was the dirty, filthy scenario I was living out. It was everything I’d imagined those nights in my room—a little bit cruel and a little bit hard—plus as erotic as hell. And the man knew how to touch me. Knew how to move inside me.
It was also more. Because I’d never once imagined that, while he did those terrible sexy things, Donovan would look at me the way he looked at me. Studying my face. Watching my eyes. Like he cared about what he’d find there.
I’d never once imagined that I’d want that from him.
I came without warning. I’d always been finicky when it came to orgasms—my high school boyfriend had found it hard to make me come with his tongue and fingers. I’d had better luck on my own, depending on my mindset. Maybe I was a girl who needed penetration. Maybe I was a girl who needed Donovan.