He kissed her again and she felt better for having asked her silly question, maybe because she was sure she knew this man. Sloan Williams was the funny, sometimes ridiculous, high school captain that all the lads liked. A new song played through the walls, a remix of ‘Summertime Sadness’ and as Lana Del Rey sang, Sloan Williams’ fingers slid into her shorts. Just like the kissing, he didn’t rush. His fingertips parted her with gentle purpose, trailing down her lips and avoiding her swollen clit. She trembled. “Please?”

“Soon, Eden Jade.”

He said her name like it tasted good, his fingers continuing their slow drag down her pussy. She clenched, wetness surging between her legs. She’d wanted a man who took his time, but this was torture. It was too vulnerable to be here, so horny for this stranger.

“Can you please just touch me?”

He paused. “Here?”

A fingertip circled her clit and stars burst in Eden’s belly. “Yes.”

But instead of stroking her again, his fingers dipped, circling her cunt. “What about inside?”

The backs of Eden’s knees turned to water and she was glad to be pressed against the wall. “Yes. Either. Both.”

A low chuckle, and his broad fingertip pressed inside her. Eden closed her eyes, her hands on his shoulders as he eased her open. She’d always loved this, the thrill of invasion. Pleasure and a little lick of fear.

“You like that?” he muttered.

“Yes. More.”

He pushed deeper then withdrew with shallow pulses that matched the beat of the song. Eden screwed up her nose, resisting the urge to ask for more.

I won’t rush. I’ll wait. I can handle it.

The song melted into a track she didn’t know, Russian hardbass, maybe. Her breathing grew tight. His body was warm and hard with muscle and his sweat smelled deliciously clean. She clutched the iron swell of his biceps and squeezed.

Faster.

But despite her unspoken plea, his pace stayed slow. Eden wasn’t a size queen, but he was penetrating with a single fingertip, and she needed more. She needed to be stretched. Infiltrated. Fucked.

But no matter how loud she sobbed, he kept up the gentle strokes, painting her as though she were a canvas. As the minutes stretched on and she gasped, sweat beading her forehead, it was clear he could do this all night. In desperation, she gripped the back of his neck, hard muscles and tendons contracting under her fingers.

“Yeah, grab onto me,” he muttered.

She’d forgotten his voice. The low rasp of it. With a moan, she pressed her face into his neck, tasting salt. It burned the cracks in her lips.

Her inner muscles locked up as glowing heat spilled through her. She froze, scared it wouldn’t happen. But as his fingers pulsed, Sloan Williams gave a low growl of triumph. He knew before she did. She was coming.