Page 99 of Full Service

When I finally pull off his cock, I stare up at him.

“That was really fast,” I say with a grin, and Silas tucks himself away.

“Yes, well, we’re in a rush. I can’t be blamed.”

He takes a step back from me and helps me stand. My dick is straining out from my pants, and I stare forlornly at it.

“I can’t help you, Mr. Winslow,” Silas says with a small smirk. “I really do need to get back to class, but thank you for your assistance.”

I roll my eyes and peck a kiss to his lips.

“You’re welcome. I’ll take what I need from you when I get home.”

“Fair. When will you be home?” he asks, his hand moving to the doorknob. It’s only as he twists it that we both realize it wasn’t locked. Anyone could have come in and seen me on my knees for him.

“Late. I have a late shift.”

“Hm, well, I won’t wait up then,” he says and then his eyes darken. “But feel free to fuck me awake.”

Oh, I so fucking will.

“And Everly,” he says as he pulls the door open. I crane my neck toward him, and he lowers his voice. “Next time, lock the fucking door.”

Chapter Eighteen

Silas

I’ve been roped into a beach cleanup, one of the worst places on Earth—with all the sand and the wind and the people.

But I said yes to attending because Everly looked so damn cute when he asked me, peering down at me as his cock softened inside of my ass. I was basically coerced into saying yes to this. I would have probably died if I said no.

“Come on, look alive,” Everly says, nudging me softly.

I really need to not reach out and hold his hand. Students are here and so is the department chair. I need to behave and keep my hands to myself.

It’s hard though when your boyfriend looks delicious.

And so does his ass. I kind of want to eat it behind that big beach umbrella over there. Not that I would. This is not a picnic. We’re here to work.

As someone gives instructions, I fold my arms across my chest, trying to look less like a scowling mongrel and more like a happy professor who loves his job.

Fact. I do love my job.

I do not love this.

I stare down the long shoreline and see a bit of driftwood perched in the sand, a woman’s gardening hat sitting on top. Hm, why’s the wood wearing a hat? What does it mean? Is this symbolic?

I don’t know. I don’t know if I want to know.

“The seagulls are going to poop on me,” I grumble, and Everly turns to look at me.

“Aw, I bet they won’t. I come to the beach a lot and have never been pooped on.”

He spoke too soon though because a moment later, a bird lands a fat one right on his shirt. He opens his mouth in shock and then laughs.

“Well, fuck.”

“Yes, they’re angry air missiles, shitting and stealing food. Combine that with the sand and the wind, this is basically hell.”

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