Beneath The Skin(179)

“Someone’s going to catch us,” I breathe, fighting my restricted hands—except I don’t really want to be free. Who in their right mind would?

He leans in, his face inches from mine. “You’re so wet,” he whispers. “You want me.”

“Yes,” I say, but the word turns into a desperate moan that pushes out of my throat. Oh my god. He’s making me so dizzy with his beautiful torment.

“Come on my fingers,” he whispers.

“Clayton …”

“Come for me.” His fingers twist.

I squirm against him, pushing my clit up against his palm, rubbing frantically and trying to get more friction. He presses up against my body. I feel his fingers dig deeper, pulsating inside me and working me like a damn puppet.

What the hell is he doing down there that feels so fucking good?

And then I feel myself letting go. I can’t stop it. I cry out in his face, my orgasm rocketing through me. Shockwaves of pleasure race up to my fingers, down to my toes, and through my clenching stomach.

I flick open my eyes.

His victorious face hovers in front of mine. Then, his fingers slip out of me and, without breaking his fierce gaze for a second, he brings those fingers to his wicked mouth and slips them in, his tongue dancing up and down each digit as he tastes me.

He lets go of the cord and it slides off the hook, my hands dropping with it. Gently, he unties his thick knot, releasing my wrists and winding the cord back up over his shoulder, like his job’s done.

He offers me a wink before tossing the wound-up cord back onto the wall. Then, he faces me to say, “Looks like our little list’s complete. You’re free to return to rehearsal, Dessie.”

Massaging my wrists, I lift my eyes to him, feeling bold, and throw my arms around his neck. I kiss him without warning, tasting myself on his swollen lips. “I think I’d rather work overtime,” I whisper.

An amused smirk darkens his face.

I don’t suspect I’m leaving anytime soon.





DESSIE



We’re only able to get away with our Wednesday Night Lighting Crew Sexcapades for two more weeks before rehearsal would take its due priority, forcing me to attend the earlier and far less desirable Tuesday afternoon lighting crew shift that fits neatly between my movement and voice classes.

Of course, Clayton makes sure to be there during said shifts. Unfortunately, so are five other guys.

We meet up for lunch or dinner on the “good end” of fraternity row a few times a week. It almost feels weird to eat alone now. I always seem to learn a handful of new signs each time we get together. I practice each one to him while he patiently corrects me. I know signing in public isn’t something he likes to do, but he’s become way more comfortable with it around me.

We both pull each other out of our comfy boxes.

I stay at his place two or three times a week. I’m sure Sam doesn’t mind the random nights she gets to have the dorm room all to herself, composing her music at top volume. I told her to install her software on my laptop so she can use my computer when I’m not there. Turns out, my computer is approximately nine billion times faster than hers.

She doesn’t know it, but I’m totally letting her keep that laptop; I can afford a new one.

It’s only a matter of days before Clayton and I become so highly attuned to each other’s schedules that we surprise each other after classes. It becomes a routine on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons for him to hang out in the lobby until I get out of my voice class, and then we grab dinner together before I head back to the theater for rehearsal.

“Is this how you do it?” I ask him one Thursday evening after I take a bite of cake, signing that my chocolate cake’s tasty. Clayton fights a laugh because apparently I just signed: Church is tasty! When I repeat the sign back to him, annoyed, he laughs harder because my second version comes out as: My computer is a tasty cake! When I put a piece of that cake into his face, he isn’t laughing anymore, and then for a few minutes we become one of “those couples” as I kiss the chocolate off his face. I might say, it’s one of the best desserts I’ve had in a while.

“So, what are we?”

He squints, having missed what I said.

My feet shuffle under the table. Maybe I shouldn’t push the subject. “Never mind.”

He growls, frustrated. He really hates when I don’t repeat something I’ve said.

I lick my lips, still tasting chocolate. I poke my chest—I. Then, from the place I just poked, I pull an imaginary pencil out with just my thumb and middle finger—Like. I’m drawing a blank for the remaining signs, so I mouth the words, “Whatever we are.”