Page 23 of Slick & Spooky

When he pulls away, saliva trails between us. His hand returns to my ass, and then I feel his middle finger breaching me. My breath hitches, the intrusion sharp. He pumps a few times before adding a second, scissoring them as he works me open.

It burns and I love it. The sting tethers me to the moment and him and everything I’ve wanted. Driven by need, I lurch forward, swallowing him again, deeper this time. His hiss is immediate

“Okay,” he grits out. “That’s enough. I need this ass.”

He pulls free from both my mouth and my ass in one swift motion, leaving me empty and aching as he stalks toward the nightstand.

The drawer yanks open with a screech.

He tosses a small bottle of poppers onto the bed, but he keeps digging, pawing through receipts and cords and whatever else he’s shoved in there over the semester.

His brow furrows, and then he slams it shut with a grunt and crosses to the closet.

“What’re you looking for?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer as he tears through the shelves like a man possessed. T-shirts, jeans, a pair of shoes are all flying to the floor as he mutters to himself. Finally, he turns, and I’m momentarily distracted. His cock is fully hard, flushed and glistening, pointed right at me like a weapon.

It looks almost angry. Definitely urgent.

“You have lube on you?” he asks, tone clipped.

My eyebrows shoot up. “No? Who carries that around?”

He growls, hands going to his hips. Every muscle in his torso standing at attention. “I can’t find it.”

A slow, rising panic creeps in. This can’t be how it ends. Months of tension, all this heat, and we’re about to get sidelined by poor drawer organization?

“You’re out?” I ask.

“I’m not out,” he snaps. “I don’t know where the hell it is.”

I sit back on my heels, staring at him, stunned and still rock hard. “You mean to tell me you’ve been edging both of us for months and didn’t stock up?”

His nostrils flare. “Do you want to go another round with the paddle while I look or are you trying to get mouthy and ruin this?”

Fair question.

“Spit?” he asks, voice all gravel and desperation.

My eyes flick down to his dick, and… nah. I’ve used spit before. We’ve all used spit before. But that’s not gonna cut it here.

Knox isn’t the biggest I’ve ever seen, but he’s packing enough to make saliva feel like a prayer and not a plan. Not if I want to enjoy this. Not if I want to walk tomorrow without limping like a rodeo clown after a bad toss.

“I’m sure you’ve got something,” I say, hopeful.

He sighs, glancing around the room like something’s gonna magically appear. “You’d think that,” he mutters, “but…”

His gaze settles back on me, and I see that he’s close to giving up.

Nope. Not on my watch.

I’ve waited this long and I’ll be damned if we don’t finish the job.

I hop off the bed and do my own visual sweep. He’s right. There’s nothing obvious. Until my eyes catch on my shorts crumpled on the floor.

Bingo.

I bend down, fish through the pockets, and pull out the little tube of glow-in-the-dark makeup I brought for touchups.