Page 119 of Shattered Stars
“You really want to know all the gory details?” she asks.
She has no fucking idea. “I want to know what he did to you. I want to know if you liked it. I want to know how it felt.”
“You’re not … you’re not mad at me.”
“Oh I’m going to punish you, Miss Blackwaters,” any fucking excuse, “because I have a feeling you’re going to enjoy me slapping that plump ass of yours, but I’m not mad.”
“Really?” she says earnestly.
“We already had this conversation, Rhianna,” I say, lifting my gaze back to her anxious eyes.
“Yes, but talking and doing are two different things.”
“He’s your fated mate. No matter how much you may protest this, no matter how much you may try and resist it, it’s darn near impossible.” Don’t I know all about that!
She smiles like she’s the one reading my thoughts. “And you really want to know?”
“Miss Blackwaters, it’s hot. Don’t dissect it. You already know I’m a deranged pervert.” I squeeze her tit.
“I do,” she says with a grin and I squeeze her ass even harder.
“So what happened?”
“He … he made me come … in class.”
“No, Miss Blackwaters, I want the details. All the details. You invited him to come sit next to you in class?”
“No, he made himself invisible and came and sidled up to me. He was asking me stuff in my ear.”
“And?” I say. Her heart is beating that little bit faster remembering this, and it makes my own do the same.
“He put his hand on my bare thigh.”
“Where exactly?”
“Between my skirt and those stupid socks.”
“Here? Like this?” I ask, laying my own palm on her supple thigh.
“Yes.”
“Go on,” I urge her, brushing the pad of my thumb over her nipple and making her shudder.
“Then he slid his hand up the inside of my thigh, all the way up to my panties.”
“And you didn’t stop him?”
She shakes her head.
I stroke my own hand up the inside of her thigh, but she’s wearing pants and it isn’t the same. With a grunt of frustrationI reach the waistband and motion for her to lift her butt, sliding them over her ass and off her legs.
“Better,” I murmur, gliding my hand back up her warm skin. “What happened next, sweetheart?”
“He wanted to know if I was wet so he slid his fingers inside my panties.”
“You’re always fucking wet.” I chuckle, reconstructing what he’d done and making her moan as I brush against her pussy lips. “Wet and sensitive. And noisy.” I kiss her throat. “How the hell did you stay quiet for him? Or is Tristan Kennedy all talk and no orgasm? Was he no good with his fingers?” I ask, nudging her legs open further for me and ringing her clit with my touch and my magic.
Her hands jerk from the inside of my shirt and she grasps the edge of my desk, her head falling backwards.
