Page 25 of Beyond the Lines (Pine Barren University #1)

As I kiss her, I hook my fingers into the waistband of her panties, pulling them down just enough to expose her.

Then I pull away from the kiss and drop down again.

She’s glistening, swollen with desire, and the sight of her like this—wanting me despite everything—makes my cock throb almost painfully.

Her breath catches audibly. “Declan…”

I’m not sure if it’s a protest or a plea, but when I lean in and drag my tongue along her wetness, her objections dissolve into a moan.

Her thighs tremble as I explore her with my mouth, learning what makes her grip the edge of the sink until her knuckles turn white, what makes her bite her lip to stifle her cries.

She’s writhing against my face like she’s trying to exorcize something painful through physical touch, and I let her use me, willing to be whatever she needs in this moment. When I focus my attention on her clit, sucking gently while slipping two fingers inside her, her whole body tenses.

“Oh god,” she gasps, one hand flying to tangle in my hair, holding me against her as she gets closer, pulsing around my fingers.

I work her through her orgasm over the next few moments, gentling my touch as she becomes oversensitive, feeling an absurd sense of pride at how responsive she is to me.

When I finally pull back, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, she’s looking down at me with an expression I can’t quite read.

“Your drawing was beautiful,” I tell her softly.

Her lips quirk in a half-smile. “I know that now…”

“How?”

“The way you’re looking at me now is the way you looked at my drawing.”

And then we’re kissing again, but she makes it clear she’s running the show. She pops down off the sink and drops to her knees, still urgent and angry, but something else now. It’s like we’re two loose wires that have finally been connected, the danger dealt with and the electricity now flowing.

But connected and electric doesn’t mean stable, and Lea’s frustration is evident in every gesture as she fumbles with my belt, her fingers trembling with what seems like equal parts desire and emotion. The metallic clinking echoes in the small space like a cannon as she yanks at the buckle.

“Let me help,” I murmur, covering her hands with mine.

She pulls back, glaring up at me. “I can do it myself.”

But she can’t—not with how badly her hands are shaking—and after another moment of struggling, she lets out a frustrated sound that’s somewhere between a growl and a whimper. I gently move her hands aside and undo my belt in one smooth motion.

Her eyes lock with mine, challenge blazing in that green-gold gaze, before she yanks the belt through the loops herself and tosses it aside. And then there’s something almost punishing about her movements as she unbuttons my jeans and tugs down the zipper.

Her fingers brush against me through my boxers, and my breath catches at the contact. Even that slight touch sends electricity shooting up my spine. When she slides her hand inside and grips me, the sensation is almost painful in its intensity.

“Jesus, Lea,” I hiss, my hips jerking forward involuntarily.

She gasps as she frees me from my boxers, her eyes widening. “Jesus yourself…”

The expression on her face—surprise mixed with something like appreciation—would be comical under different circumstances. But there’s nothing funny about the way she wraps her hand around me, her grip almost punishing in its firmness.

Her strokes are erratic, matching the chaotic energy between us—sometimes achingly slow, sometimes nearly frantic. It’s like she can’t decide whether she wants to pleasure me or torture me, and honestly, I’m not sure if there’s a difference right now.

“Lea,” I say, my voice strained. “You don’t have to?—”

She stops me from talking by taking my cock in her mouth.

The wet heat of her engulfs me, and I have to brace one hand against the wall to steady myself. My other hand moves to her hair, not guiding or controlling, just needing to touch her, to ground myself in this moment that feels too intense to be real.

Her mouth is relentless, taking me deeper than I expected, her tongue doing things that make coherent thought impossible. My fingers tangle gently in her curls, caressing her scalp, and tracing the curve of her cheek where I can feel myself inside her mouth.

“God, you’re amazing,” I manage to say, my voice barely recognizable.

She responds by taking me deeper, a hand cupping my balls now, a slight bit harder than is comfortable. But the slight pain only heightens everything else, creating a perfect counterpoint to the pleasure she’s delivering with an artist’s precision.

I stroke her face with a tenderness that seems at odds with the desperate energy between us. But I need her to know this isn’t just physical for me, that there’s something more happening here, a lifting of a weight off me that I didn’t really know I was carrying.

“Your art,” I say, the words coming out broken as my tip hits the back of her throat, and she gags slightly. “I love it.”

She falters for a second, her rhythm disrupted, and her eyes glisten with tears again.

I’m not sure if it’s from the effort of taking as much of me in her mouth as possible, or the words I just spoke, but I worry I’ve ruined the moment.

But then she redoubles her efforts, as if trying to silence me with pleasure.

“I mean it,” I continue, needing her to understand. “That night in class—I was angry, jealous. Your work is raw. Like I can see the pain and hope in every stroke.”

Her eyes flick up to meet mine, and the intensity in them nearly undoes me on the spot. My hand cups her face gently, thumb stroking her cheek where it’s hollowed around me.

“I don’t want to fight with you anymore,” I whisper. “I can’t stand knowing I hurt you.”

She makes a sound—halfway between a moan and a whimper—that vibrates through my entire body. Her pace quickens, and I know I’m not going to last much longer. The sight of her on her knees, taking me so deep, is pushing me rapidly toward the edge.

“Lea,” I warn, my voice tight. “I’m close.”

She doesn’t pull away. Instead, her eyes lock with mine as she takes me impossibly deeper, and the sight of her—defiant, beautiful, her makeup streaked by tears, and with my cock buried in her mouth—is too much. I groan, louder than I intend, my fingers tightening in her hair.

“Fuck, Lea,” I say. “I’m going to?—”

She presses her tongue flat against the underside of my cock, and I’m lost. The orgasm tears through me with an intensity that makes my vision blur at the edges. My knees nearly buckle from wave after wave of pleasure, a tsunami-like force that I can’t resist.

Lea stays with me through it all, swallowing everything I give her, her puffy red eyes never leaving mine. It’s the most intimate moment I’ve ever experienced, and it’s happening in a cramped bathroom with a woman who supposedly hates me.

When it’s finally over, the last aftershocks fading, she pulls away slowly. I reach down and help her to her feet, pulling her against me without thinking, needing to hold her. For a moment, she stiffens in my arms, and I think she’s going to push me away.

But then she melts against me, and we stand there in a fragile embrace. But there’s still reservation in her eyes, a guardedness in her posture, that tells me this—whatever this is—isn’t resolved. We’re standing in a minefield, and neither of us knows where it’s safe to step next.

I brush a curl from her face, tuck it behind her ear, then lean in to kiss her forehead. “Where do we go from here?”

Her lips press together, and I can see the conflict playing out behind her eyes. “I don’t know.”

Before I can respond, a knock at the door makes us both jump .

“Excuse me?” An impatient female voice calls through the door. “Some of us actually need to use the bathroom.”

The noise shocks Lea back like someone has slapped her in the face. Her eyes widen with horror, and she pulls away from me so fast she nearly trips. Her cheeks burn scarlet as she looks down at herself, as if only now realizing exactly what we’ve done.

“Oh my god,” she whispers, frantically pulling up her panties and her jeans. “Oh my god .”

Her fingers are trembling so badly she can barely button her jeans, and I find the transformation jarring—one moment ago she was confident, in control, and the next she’s a panicked mess.

“Lea…” I reach out to help her, but she flinches away from my touch.

“Don’t,” she says sharply.

The impatient knocking comes again, more insistent this time. “Hello!”

“Just a minute!” Lea calls out, voice cracking.

Knowing she’s on an express lane out of here, even while I’m trying to slow her down, I adjust myself quickly, tucking everything away and zipping up. My fingers feel clumsy and uncoordinated, the post-orgasm haze making fine motor skills a challenge.

“Lea,” I say again, not sure what I’m going to say, but needing to say something.

She won’t look at me. Instead, she turns to the mirror, recoiling at her reflection. Her makeup is a disaster—mascara streaked down her cheeks from her tears, lipstick smeared beyond her lips, and the hickey I left already darkening on her neck .

“This was a mistake,” she says, voice hollow as her hands grip the edge of the sink.

“It wasn’t?—”

“Look at me!” She gestures at her reflection. “What am I doing? What are we doing?”

The truth is, I don’t know what we’re doing. All I know is that it feels right despite all the reasons it shouldn’t, and that I want more of it, and that I’m willing to fight for it. But it’s clear she doesn’t feel the same.

Or not right now, anyway.

She splashes water on her face, trying to clean up the damage, but it only makes things worse, spreading the black streaks across her cheeks. She grabs a paper towel and frantically dabs at her face.

“Mike would kill you,” she mutters, more to herself than to me. “And he’d never talk to me again…”

“I—”

She keeps going, cutting off any words before I can voice them. “There are reasons I shielded myself off from you after you lied to me… criticized me…”

It’s like she’s recanting a spell of her own making, her mind making all the excuses in the world to ignore something her heart is clearly feeling just as strongly as me. But right now, in this moment, she’s a force of nature.

Undeniable.

Unreasonable.

Another knock, this one so hard the door rattles in its frame.

Lea’s head snaps up, panic written across her features. “I’m coming out!”

She gives up on fixing her appearance and grabs her bag from where it fell to the floor. Her hands are visibly shaking as she fumbles with the strap, and something in my chest twists painfully at the sight.

“Lea, wait—” I reach for her, but she slaps my hand away like it’s on fire.

“No.” Her voice is raw, tears falling freely now. “This never happened.”

Before I can respond, she unlocks the door and yanks it open. A furious senior with a blond bob and an expensive-looking sweater stands there, mouth already open to deliver what I’m sure would be a scathing tirade.

But she stops short when she sees Lea’s tear-streaked face.

Lea pushes past her without a word, leaving me alone with Blonde Bob, who’s now looking at me like I’m something she scraped off the bottom of her shoe, or someone she should call the cops on.

“What the fuck did you do to her?” she demands, her eyes narrowing to slits.

I raise my hands in surrender as I exit the bathroom. “It’s complicated.”

“Men,” she spits in disgust before entering the bathroom.

As the door slams behind her, I stand there, still reeling from the rollercoaster ride of the past twenty minutes. The echo of the slam seems to reverberate through my entire body, a physical manifestation of the abrupt way things ended with Lea.

With the way Lea reacted, I should feel ashamed or guilty. I should be worried about Mike finding out or about what Professor Lucas would say if she knew I’d just had oral sex with my project partner, and the possible impact on my enrollment in the select seminar…

But I don’t feel any of those things.

Instead, there’s a clarity I haven’t felt in months, maybe years. Like puzzle pieces falling into place, revealing a picture I didn’t know I was trying to assemble. It’s a messy one, filled with pain and passion, anger and longing, loss and longing.

And, when I consider it, the picture screams one thing at me.

I want Lea Altman.

Not just her body, though that part was mind-blowing enough. I want her mind, her perspective, and her art. I want the way she sees the world and the way she challenges me to see it differently. I want her anger and vulnerability and every complicated, contradictory part of her.

I want to help heal the pain that’s clearly still festering inside her, and I want her to help me navigate the Royal Rumble taking place in my head. And, more than wanting to do these things, I think we can do these things… need to do these things.

I only got a glimpse of it tonight, but it will fuel me for days.

But as I stand in the middle of the library like a doofus, I realize I’m smiling. Despite the mess, despite her tears and declarations that it was all a mistake, and despite the fact that my best friend—her brother—will probably murder me, I feel better than I have in weeks.

Because now I know .

I know what I want.

And God fucking help anyone who stands in my way.