Page 22 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth (The Blackridge Reapers #4)

I couldn’t stop my hands from reaching under my pants and rubbing my clit, trying to replicate his touch, his intensity, his tempo…

I even imagined his rough voice teasing me, his heat, his infuriatingly delicious woody and spicy scent.

It disgusted me that I was doing this, using his image as I did this, but the need that burned in me consumed all rational thought.

I just needed to come.

When I did, it was desperate, needy and dirty.

I bit into my pillow to smother the whimpers that poured out of me as I convulsed, pure electricity racing through my veins.

Everything tightened and released so quickly that I was worried, the white bliss fading into something warm and wonderful.

The release came in waves, but instead of satisfaction, a hollow ache lingered.

My limbs felt heavy, my mind clouded, and a sense of dread crept in as I lay there, staring at the ceiling.

There had been something almost desperate in that release—like I’d been trying to exorcise him from my mind, to shake off the hold he had over me with each touch, each calculated word. But even in that vulnerable, private moment, he’d haunted every second of it.

Each time, it was the same: a fleeting release that left me feeling emptier than before.

I’d tried again and again throughout the night, hoping that, somehow, I could find the satisfaction I craved—a satisfaction that could blot him out, if only temporarily.

But it always eluded me, leaving me tangled in my sheets, breathless and frustrated.

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was there, lingering in the dark spaces of my mind, an insatiable presence that wouldn’t let me rest. Each attempt to satisfy the ache only brought his face to mind more clearly, his voice, his touch, the way he’d looked at me with a possessiveness that both terrified and thrilled me.

It was ridiculous. Borderline obsessive. I knew it. But still, here I was, exhausted and sleep deprived, the memory alone enough to fuel the restless energy that had kept me up all night.

I shake my head, forcing myself to focus as I stare into my coffee, trying to calm my racing mind before class starts.

I need to pull my shit together.

Cassidy’s voice snaps me back to the present as she reclaims her seat beside me, eyeing me with a mixture of concern and curiosity. She had stepped out for a second to grab a donut from the cafe, leaving me to wallow in my thoughts.

“Late night?” she asks, and I see her gaze flick down to my half empty coffee cup, brow furrowing. She’s always been able to read me a little too well.

My eyes glance down to the sugary pastry she holds, my stomach growling in response. That looks good.

“Yeah, just couldn’t sleep,” I mutter, taking a long sip of my coffee, letting the bitter liquid try to fill my stomach. But even as I try to settle myself, flashes of last night keep intruding, my thoughts like static I can’t tune out.

She raises an eyebrow. “Must’ve been something pretty intense keeping you up.

” There’s a playful glint in her eyes, but I don’t have the energy to play along.

She leans forward, resting her chin in her hand, studying me closely.

“Eat. You look like you need it more than I do,” she says, her voice soft.

I hesitate but take it, grateful for the distraction as I nibble on the donut. The sweetness does nothing to settle the unrest churning inside me, but at least it’s something.

I finish the donut and down the rest of my coffee, feeling infinitely better than before.

Students swarm in, hurrying to their seats as the minutes tick by.

Professor Jennings said he was going to be a bit late this morning, so I took the time to look over my notes from the previous classes, my attention only straying when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Hey.”

I glance up and find familiar hazel eyes smiling down at me.

I smile in response. “Hey, Connor.”

He hikes up his backpack, shifting slightly as he scratches the back of his neck. “How did it go yesterday? You left so quick I didn’t get a chance to say bye.”

I try to ignore Cassidy’s curious gaze and reply, swallowing down the unease swirling up in my chest. “It went as well as I could hope, but I’m fine, no need to worry.”

Connor narrows his eyes slightly, as if he can sense the lie behind my shaky assurance but he doesn’t push, gratefully. He just nods and cracks another small smile, his voice low that only I could hear. “Well, with Thatcher, that’s the best outcome.”

I can feel my heart rate quicken at the mention of Thatcher’s name, a rush of heat flooding my cheeks. “Yeah, I guess you could say that,” I reply, trying to keep my tone casual, but my voice betrays me, tinged with an edge of uncertainty.

Connor’s smile falters for just a moment as he assesses my reaction but he decides not to ask about it and instead asks, a sheepish smile on his face.

“So, um…I was wondering if you’re free for lunch.

We could grab some tacos and talk about you tutoring me,” he finishes, his expression a mix of hope and hesitation.

I can’t help but feel a flicker of relief at the distraction. “Sure, I can do that,” I reply, forcing my smile to seem genuine despite the tumultuous thoughts swirling in my head.

“Great! Let’s meet at El Camino’s then,” he suggests, glancing at the clock before shifting back to me. “Just let me know when you’re free.”

“Sounds good,” I say, feeling a strange mix of excitement and anxiety at the prospect. He smiles again before looping away, waving to me as he exits to the aisle and starts climbing to his seat.

“Well, that was unexpected,” Cassidy teases.

I shake my head at her, a smile tugging at my lips as I turn back to my notes. That really was unexpected but not unwelcome. Connor’s cute and he seems nice. Cassidy was right when she said I needed to get over Wesley and start dating again.

But an uneasy feeling in my stomach starts to grow.

What does this mean for Thatcher’s proposal?

The memory of his intense gaze and that electric kiss floods my mind, and I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the memories. I should focus on the present.

The door creaks open and I’m watching it, waiting for Professor Jennings.

It’s not.

Thatcher strides in, his gaze sweeping the room until it lands directly on me, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. My heart lurches, my stomach dropping to my knees.

What is he doing here?

I swallow as I take him in. He is wearing a soft looking, obviously expensive, white and gray striped sweater, a plain white shirt underneath, jeans that seem to cling to his long limbs and white sneakers that add an effortless charm to his ensemble.

He looks like he stepped right out of a fashion magazine, and for a moment, it makes my heart race in a way I don’t want to acknowledge.

I watch in horror as he starts climbing the aisle, moving with a confidence that makes it hard to look away, each step purposeful as he approaches my desk. The room seems to fade around us, the chatter of students and the shuffle of papers becoming a distant hum.

He slides into the other empty seat beside me, his presence overwhelming as he settles in, scooting his chair closer to mine, so much that our knees are touching. He casually drapes an arm over the back of my chair and glances at me, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Right on time,” he murmurs, his voice low, meant for only me to hear.

Professor Jennings walks in, a clipboard in hand, straight to the podium. His gaze sweeping over the entire class.

I swallow, trying to regain my composure, but my voice quivers as I ask, “What are you doing here?”

Thatcher tilts his head slightly, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Just keeping you company,” he says smoothly, his tone laced with an unmistakable smugness. His fingers drum lightly on the back of my chair, sending a ripple of awareness down my spine.

I’m acutely aware of Cassidy watching us with wide eyes, a mix of surprise and intrigue etched on her face. I can feel the weight of everyone else in the room, the whispers and curious glances starting to build around us.

Professor Jennings starts addressing the class, but I can barely focus. I shift in my seat, painfully aware of Thatcher’s knee pressed against mine and the lazy confidence radiating from him, as if he has every right to be here—right next to me.

“Company?” I manage, barely above a whisper. “Pretty sure I didn’t ask for it.”

Thatcher leans in, his breath warm against my ear. “You don’t need to ask for it.”

I feel my face heat up, torn between the impulse to scoot away and the undeniable pull to stay exactly where I am. “You can’t just—”

“Shh,” he cuts me off, a finger to his lips, nodding toward the front of the room where Professor Jennings has started discussing today’s lecture topic––social cognition. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk later.”

The promise in his words sends my heart racing, and despite myself, I find it hard to imagine focusing on anything else.

Damn him.