She stares up at me, quiet, unreadable.
“Want to go to your place for the next hour?” I ask, and I know my meaning is obvious when Lola flushes.
“London is there.”
“London is going to have to get used to me staying over,” I remind her.
Leaning back, Lola levels me with an amused look. “We’re not quiet.”
“She’ll have to get used to the noise then, too.”
“Especially you.”
I shrug, lifting her hand to kiss the center of her palm and still trying to wrap my head around the fact this is a thing I’m allowed to do now. Lola watches with wide, blue eyes as I kiss up her wrist, to the inside of her elbow, sucking lightly at the delicate skin there. “So, we won’t go to your apartment. . . .”
“London doesn’t date much,” she blurts, and I recognize it for what it is: nervous babble now that it’s becoming clear we’re going to fool around back here. It’s so un-Lola to ramble, it makes me smile in surprise. “Like, she gets asked out all the time and always turns them down.”
“Why’s that?” I ask before biting her gently, though to be honest, I’m not really all that concerned with London’s dating life right now. I’m pretty sure we both know this.
Lola blows out a breath. “I don’t know, really. She had a boyfriend for most of college. Not sure what happened.” She pauses. “Anyway, I don’t really want to talk about her right now,” she says, a hint of a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth.
“Oh?”
She watches me kiss her arm again. “No.”
“What would you prefer to do?”
She pulls away gently before walking to my desk, and I follow. Reaching for my belt loop, Lola pulls me closer. “I don’t know. . . .”
My fingers graze her sides and toy with the hem of her shirt. I wait for her to stop me, to give me some sort of sign that she wants to take things slower today. But before I can ask, the fabric is pulled from my hands and her shirt is gone, a blur of blue that lands somewhere in a pile behind my desk.
Her bra is black and covered in white polka dots, her tits pushed up so the swells are full and round. She pulls my shirt up over my head and then stretches, brushing her chest against mine, and even though I know what’s about to happen, I could never anticipate the way it feels when her hands move down to the front of my pants, gripping me over the denim. Her thumb moves back and forth along the tip and my head falls forward, forehead resting on hers as I force myself to hold still, not to rock into her palm or rush this.
Lola pulls my head back down to hers, her warm lips opening against mine. I want to figure out how to go faster and slow down all at once, how to spend an eternity feeling everything. We kiss, lips and the slippery slide of tongues, vibrations of noise, and tiny explosions of realization that seem to pop like flashbulbs in my mind over and over again. I’m an amnesiac: I still can’t believe this is happening. Twenty-four hours ago we didn’t kiss or touch—we definitely didn’t see each other naked—but here we are.
My heart is racing, and when I pull back for breath, I see that Lola’s mouth is red and swollen from the drag of my day-old beard. She looks up at me as her fingers move to the fly of my jeans and unbuttons them one by one. I can feel each teasing pop. I bite down on my lip and try to stay quiet, knowing that if I let myself make even a sound it will be the tiny crack that shatters my control. I’ll throw her down and fuck her, unprotected, messy, half-dressed.
She stretches to suck on my neck and then steps back, bunching her skirt in her hands and pulling it up her thighs. I watch the slow reveal: milky skin, soft curved hips . . . She’s not wearing underwear. Still, she’s fresh-faced, eyes carrying a clear innocence I’m sure she has no sense of whatsoever. Never in my life have I felt more like I’m doing something very naughty with someone very, very sweet. Sliding onto my desk, she spreads her legs and leans back, giving me a rather perfect view of her pussy.
Heat slides through my veins and I step between her thighs, desperation licking at my skin. I slide my hand up the inside of her legs, wondering idly about how many men she’s been with. It could be one or one hundred and I wouldn’t begrudge her any of them, but something tells me this type of relationship is new for her. I know from overhearing her with her friends the past few months that she has no compunction about sex, no sense that it should be held off for some larger declaration, no issue with one-night stands. But I also get the sense that for Lola, it takes more than a momentary desire to let someone into this secret, honest place.
She shivers as my fingers trace the shape of one breast, the pad of my thumb brushing over the taught peak of her nipple until she arches, wordlessly begging for the pinch I know she wants. I lean down and run my tongue over the sheer fabric before I take her between my teeth. Her back bows, pushing her chest to my mouth, and I use the opportunity to reach around, slipping the hook free. I pull the fabric away and watch as she’s unwrapped like a fucking present.
With my gaze locked to hers I drag the tip of my tongue over her skin. She sucks in a breath, reaching to part the denim of my jeans and pulling my boxers down just enough to take me in her palm. I almost bite through my lip when she swipes her thumb across the head, and then reaches up, sliding her fingertip into her mouth.
Her hand returns, thumb even wetter now, and I blink down to where she holds me between our bodies. There’s the flat plane of my stomach and the soft curve of hers, and my cock, hard and swollen at the tip, jutting straight up between us.