Van really, really had one up on Ricky Trebecki. Though in truth, was that such a surprise? The rest of him seemed built out of thick, heavy materials, and he definitely measured over six foot—more, in fact. He was a big guy, and it would have seemed strange if he’d been small in that one department.
Unfortunately, the thought didn’t stop her swallowing her own heart out of sheer terror. If he split her in two, she wasn’t sure modern science had a way of putting her back together again.
“Did you wear that on purpose?”
He asked it so abruptly, so roughly, that for a second she had to consider what he meant. What terrible thing had she done, without knowing it? But then of course her mind went to the t-shirt she’d chosen, and how disgusting it probably looked now—nipples sticking right through it, all rude and insistent.
He knew what she’d done. He knew it, and now he was going to punish her for it.
Though she had to admit, running his hand over her belly and her rib cage and finally her far too sensitive left breast seemed like a funny way to go about it. As did murmuring some heated words, shortly afterward.
“God, your breasts are beautiful. That feels good, huh?”
He said the latter as his fingertips just ever so slightly grazed one stiff nipple. Of course, once he’d done so she couldn’t answer him. She couldn’t have said anything even if she’d tried, because the flood of sensation from that one little touch…how hot it felt, how impatient…she couldn’t fully process it.
Her body just kind of bucked instead, until Van had to do something mortifying like put a hand on her hip to hold her steady.
“Easy, easy,” he said, while all the heat in her body rushed to her face. She could only imagine how sluttish she looked, how ridiculous—to go so crazy over one little stroke over that spiky point.
But in truth, he didn’t seem to care. In fact, she kind of suspected he liked it.
“I’m gonna get you off now,” he said, which were definitely not the words of someone who had a problem with a woman writhing and squirming beneath them. However, they didn’t exactly feel like a comfort either.
They just made her think of his enormous erection again, and how big it would probably feel sliding into her little, tight…
“Oh God, please. Please. Van. Please.”
She didn’t mean to say it. It just sort of fell out of her, the moment he started easing her skirt up over her thighs. She had her legs crooked on either side of his body, everything so ready to be exposed, so open to him before he’d even gotten halfway—which was both exciting and terrifying.
He was going to see, in a moment. More than that—he was going to feel, oh God he was going to feel what she’d done and shit, shit, could she get away with shoving his hand away now? She had to shove his hand away. Any second and he’d know about the wetness all over her thighs, about the state of her soaked panties and that little swollen thing that felt about as big as a truck—
“Ohhhhh Je-sus you’re wet. Oh fuck, you’re so wet, baby. Are you serious with this? It’s all over your legs.”
She blurted the words without thinking.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Before trying to do something mitigating, like closing her legs. Doing so proved hard, however, with him almost between them and his big hands refusing to move from her thighs.
And he looked so…so incredulous too.
“Don’t be sorry. Don’t. You should know it’s hot as fuck that you’re like this. Seriously.” He paused. Seemed to consider, before continuing. “You always like this?”
She thought of the class she’d had the day before last. The one about positive and appropriate gender roles, in which she’d spent most of her time thinking about how he might look between his legs.
“Quite possibly, yes.”
He didn’t hesitate then. He didn’t even restrain himself from sliding his palm over that jutting shape, once he’d gotten to some unbearably private place with his other hand—like that strip of skin between her thigh and her stretched-too-taut panties.
Of course it made her jerk to feel him there, thumb stroking just ever so softly, eyes on her all the time. But she had better control of herself now. She didn’t need to buck or bite her lip or even more terrible—get him to stop—and when he found his way to the edge of the material, she kept almost completely still. Held her breath, waiting and waiting.
He didn’t do what she expected, however. She thought of him ripping them away, suddenly. Shoving her skirt all the way up to expose her completely—or worse. But he just rubbed there, maddeningly, until all of the stillness she’d so carefully worked toward started to break apart.