Asher's free hand finds its way to my hip, fingers pressing into the flesh there, steadying me. The touch feels possessive, claiming, and my mind reels at how much I like that.
"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice rough with something that might be appreciation. "Fucking gorgeous like this."
The praise makes my cock pulse in Asher's grip. I want to protest, want to maintain some semblance of control, but my body betrays me. My hips stutter forward, fucking into Asher's fist with increasing desperation.
The pleasure builds exponentially, a tide threatening to sweep me away. My muscles draw tight, heat pooling low in my gut, and I know I'm about to fall apart. Part of me wants to fight it, to prove I have more stamina than this, but Asher's next words shatter that resolve.
"Come for me."
The command, spoken in that velvet-rough voice, pushes me over the edge. My orgasm hits me like a tsunami, washing away every thought, every reservation, every doubt. My body convulses as waves of pleasure crash through me, each one more intense than the last. Stars explode behind my closed eyelids as my cock pulses in Asher's grip, painting both our hands with my release.
When the aftershocks finally subside, I find myself sagged against the railing, my legs trembling beneath me. My chest heaves as I try to pull air into my lungs, but breathing seems like a foreign concept right now.
Through the pleasant haze clouding my mind, I watch as Asher casually wipes his hand on a tissue produced from God knows where. With practiced efficiency, he tucks us both back into our pants, his movements quick and precise.
When he's done, he looks up at me through those ridiculous lashes of his. His lips curve into a smile that somehow manages to be both predatory and playful, and he throws me a wink that makes my spent cock give an interested twitch.
Then, without a word, he turns and saunters back toward the party. The door slides shut behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone with the crickets and my scattered thoughts.
Earlier tonight, when my brain had started entertaining the possibility of maybe, possibly, hypothetically kissing a guy, I never imagined I'd end up here—with another man's come on my dick, my own cum cooling on my stomach.
Chapter 6
I'M SITTING AT a wooden table tucked away in a corner of the university library's third floor, surrounded by towering shelves of books on economics and business theory. The smell of old paper and wood polish fills my nostrils as I hunch over my textbook, trying to focus on words that seem to swim before my eyes.
This place has always been my sanctuary—the one spot where my brain cooperates and lets me study. But today, the usual magic isn't working. My mind keeps drifting back to last night, to the terrace, to Asher's hands and the sounds he made and—
Focus, damn it.
I shift in my seat, the wooden chair creaking slightly. A girl at the next table shoots me an annoyed glance over her laptop. I mumble an apology and try to immerse myself in macroeconomic theory.
It was just a temporary lapse in judgment. That's all.
I underline a sentence in my textbook with such force that my pen tears through the page.
A lapse in judgment that felt so unbelievably good.
I drop my pen and run both hands through my hair, tugging slightly at the roots as if physical pain might drive away the memory of Asher's touch. I've spent the entire morning trying to rationalize what happened. Maybe it was the alcohol (though I'd barely had two beers). Maybe it was the music, the atmosphere, the stars aligning in some cosmic joke at my expense.
Whatever it was, it doesn't matter. It was a one-time thing. An experiment. Nothing more.
I pick up my pen again, determined to actually accomplish something today. I have a paper to finish and an exam to study for. My GPA doesn't care about my sexual crisis.
The sound of the elevator doors opening breaks my concentration. I don't look up—people come and go constantly in the library—until I feel a prickle at the back of my neck, that sixth sense that tells you you're being watched.
I glance up, and my stomach drops.
Asher stands by the elevator, scanning the room. He's dressed simply in jeans and a gray henley that hugs his shoulders in a way that shouldn't be legal in an academic setting. His hair is in slight disarray, and he carries a leather messenger bag slung across his chest.
For one hopeful moment, I think maybe he hasn't seen me. Maybe I can duck behind my textbook and—
Our eyes meet.
Fuck.
I tense, my fingers gripping my pen so tightly it hurts. A dozen scenarios flash through my mind—Asher smirking at me, Asher making a scene, Asher telling everyone what happened.
But Asher just nods, casual as can be, and starts walking toward me.
