Beneath The Skin (A College Obsession Romance) (71 page)

“Dessie,” I repeat, coming up to her and grasping her shoulders with my hands.

She looks away and clenches shut her eyes, her jaw tightened.

She’s angry.

“Dessie.” I try to get her to look at me, bending my neck and rubbing her shoulders calmingly.
Fuck, her skin feels so smooth
. “Dessie, talk.”

“I am talking!”
she shouts, her furious, tear-filled eyes meeting mine. I see the shout in her neck pulling taut, her nostrils flaring, her whole body contracting in the effort.
“It’s all I ever do!”

I’m so fucking confused. “I’m sorry,” I tell her, all the guilt from this weekend that I thought we had gotten past rushing back into my stomach. “I should not have blown you off. I was scared. I was a fucking idiot. You deserve a guy so much better than me.”

“No.”
Her eyes widen.
“You deserve better than
me,” she says, slapping her own chest. She waves a palm in front of her face once, then throws a thumb past her ear—
Better
. She pokes a finger at her chest—
Me.

Is she fucking crazy? “I’m the one who doesn’t deserve you, Dessie. Don’t mistake that for a second. You’re too fucking good for me.”

She takes a deep breath, shutting her eyes, and then her lips move.

And this time, I catch the words.

Every word.

I knew what she was going to say because it’s exactly the conclusion I had come to earlier when we ate lunch together at the UC. Her father got her into this school. Her father is a famous lighting designer. She knew Kellen. She’s the reason he’s here, designing the lights for the main stage show.

And she’s the reason I’m not.

“My being here … has ruined … everything,”
she says.

But all I see is strength in her. Those tears, she won’t even allow them the courtesy of falling. She isn’t trying to earn my sympathy; she’s owning all of this. If she’d ask me, she’s owning too much of it.

She didn’t ask for Kellen Douchebag Wright.

She didn’t ask to get all intimate with me and put herself between me and my dreams. She just fucking met me a couple weeks ago. She owes me nothing.

And here I am, standing in front of this strong, incredible woman who has so much passion in her that she’s bursting at every carefully-stitched seam, singing on stages and earning artistic respect from all these beer-guzzling morons. That’s respect her father did
not
buy for her, respect she got all on her own.

And here I am with this incessant raging hard-on in my pants that’s been distracting me for the past hour, and I don’t deserve a single fucking tear of hers.

The truth is, her being here saved me.

“Your dad can give you a school,” I tell her, pushing through the vacuum in my ears as my teeth and throat and chest vibrate with my speech, “your dad can give you a whole play,” and I see her trying to protest, so I speak even louder, praying my words are reaching her, “but your dad can’t give you what you did on that little stage an hour ago. Did you see their eyes? Did you see all those people in that room, the way they listened to you when you … when you sang?”

Her eyes shift, the tears threatening to spill as she speaks to me through her clenched teeth.
“The one person … who I want … to hear that song,”
she mouths, her whole body trembling, “
can’t … hear … anything.
”

“I
hear
you.”

Her eyes flash at those words. Her brows flinch as she stares at me uncertainly, the emotion frozen on her pained, broken face.

“I hear you,” I repeat to Dessie, every nerve in my body pulling tight. “You aren’t the only one who’s had parents try to ruin you. You aren’t the only one who’s fought the destiny that everyone keeps trying to push down onto you. I
hear
you.” I even feel my voice cracking. Today might set a new record for how many words I’ve let myself speak out loud. It’s all Dessie; she’s pulling me out of myself. “You aren’t alone in this battle to find your voice. To find where you belong. To break free.”

The emotion hanging between her eyes and mine is practically tangible. I worry there’s even tears in my own eyes now, tears I also refuse to spill for that stupid fucking world out there.

“I’m sick of people thinking they know who I am,” I whisper, feeling the breath thrust its way out with each word. I take her face, a hand on either cheek, then pour into her eyes. “People trying to tell me what kind of man I am.”

“What kind of woman I am,”
she echoes back.

“Telling me I’m just Texas trash.”

“
Telling me I’m just a New York snob.
”

“Dessie, I
hear
you.”

The anger has drained from her face, replaced with something else entirely.

“
Clayton
…” she mouths.

“I hear you.”

Our lips collide. Dessie’s breath washes over my face in uneven torrents as our hands clasp to each other’s bodies.

Her hands grab the base of my shirt. A tremor of anticipation lances up my side as her fingers move.

There goes my shirt.

I pin her to the wall, our mouths still locked as we mutually try to consume the other’s face. The warmth between us is a fire I’m helpless to try putting out.

My hands brush up her sexy hips.

She bucks against my body, our lips unlocking so I can free her from that sexy red top she’s wearing.

To the floor it goes.

She finds her lips a new meal at my earlobe. Then her teeth are invited to the party.

I moan against her, needles of pleasure racing up my neck and exploding where her teeth dig into me. Doesn’t she know how dangerous that is? I could claw the wall until there’s nine doorways into my room with the way she’s making work of my ear.

I can’t hold back any longer.
Goddamn, Dessie …

I pick her up under her knees, her arms throwing themselves around me as I push us into my bedroom. The mattress gives as we land on it with a bounce, and she’s slammed onto her back. Her eyes flash up at me with alarm.

I hope she can handle me.

I play rough.

Like the beast I am, I crawl over her, then launch at her lips with mine. She reciprocates, just as hungry. We don’t let each other utter another pointless word; our fingers and locked lips do all the talking.

I thrust my hands under Dessie, startling her as I aggressively work the back of her bra. I unhook it with blind finesse.

Then her breasts are free and my face is buried in them like an animal. I feel the vibrations in her chest.
“Oh, fuck … Clayton, fuck!”
I’ll imagine she’s saying up there, crying the words out for her own benefit.

Then I bite her left nipple for
my
benefit.

I slap a hand over her face, feeding her my fingers as she gasps onto them—I feel her jaw open wide and hot breath push from her gaping mouth. She sucks in a finger of mine while her devilish nails draw down my back, which inspires a deep, beastly growl from my own body.

Her clawing of my back only strengthens the hold of my teeth on her helpless nipple. I bet it’s almost too much for her to bear, judging from how her breath against my hand just sped up.

There’s something about her surrendering of her body to me, even in pain, that’s so fucking erotic.

I release her nipple and reach down, working the buttons of her jeans. Yet again, her eyes gleam as she watches what I do.
These jeans are in my way
, my eyes tell her.
And they’re about to not be.

They slip off her body like butter and find a place to perch on the dresser, or wall, or wherever the fuck I carelessly pitch them.

I yank down her panties and cast them to the side too. She’s all mine tonight, and I’ll make sure every inch of her knows it.

From the glint in her eyes that looks both excited and scared, I’d say she’s learning fast.

With my hardened eyes on her stunned ones, I pull a condom wrapper out of my pocket and bite the end, letting it hang from my teeth as I pull open my pants with force, working the buttons.

She watches, breathing heavy, unblinking.

The corner of my lips curve into a smile as I drop the pants to my ankles, the underwear going with them, and step out of them. I won’t be needing those. I watch her zero in on my cock, her eyes widening.

She wants it. I can see the wetness from where I’m looking down at her. I know she’s ready for it.

And I’m ready to give it.

I give the wrapper in my teeth a deft tug, freeing the condom, then spitting the wrapper to the side. Watching her with hungry intent, I roll it on.

Her gaze on me is unwavering.

I grip under her thighs and pull her up to my hips, firmly pressed against me.

Her breathing is heavy. She wants this as much as I do. No other words need to be said.

Except perhaps this: “Hold on to something.”

Her legs lock behind my back and her fingers claw into the bed, bracing herself.
Smart woman.

My cock slides right inside.

She gasps sharply, her lips parting and her chest rising, those gorgeous breasts rising with them.

I pump her slow at first, making sure my eyes never leave hers. I want to see every little thing I do to her as the pain and pleasure break across her face in little earthquakes. I want to feel her body as she fuses with mine, her legs locked, her fingers digging into the sheets as she pushes her hips into me, taking my cock deeper.

Entering her didn’t sate my hunger.

It strengthened it.

I clasp her shoulders and pull her down hard, forcing her hips to meet my every thrust. I can’t get deep enough inside her. It’s driving me crazy.

She squirms against my body, bouncing with my fevered, frustrated movements. I don’t know what sounds I’m making, but I feel a chorus of grunting in my chest, vibrations working their way up and down my arms as I cling to Dessie and keep her right where I need her.
She is so fucking tight
.

I’m already so close. I’ve been desperate for this release. No couch-bound fantasy or hallway daydream can possibly match the fire that’s ignited between me and her in this stifling room.

I grip her breasts, my thumbs grinding over her nipples, which causes her to throw her head back, our eye contact broken.

And that won’t do. “Look at me.”

She reels, twisting out of her bliss and focusing her astonished gaze onto me.

“Look at me,” I repeat, fucking her into the mattress, my legs flexed taut with every shove, my arms bulging as I brace myself to bear down into her. The impatient look in her eyes emboldens me.

I slide my right hand between our sweat-drenched bodies to skillfully rub her swollen clit. The imminent orgasm becomes evident in her eyes too.

We’re both so close.

Her lips part as she spills her breath at me, beads of sweat dressing her forehead and chest, giving the most beautiful sheen to her body. My face reaches for hers, desperate to taste her.

“Look at me,” I whisper. “I want you looking at me when you come.”

“
Clayton…
” she mouths back.

I feel her contract, and her eyes see heaven as the anguish of release spills across her face. I fuck her through that orgasm, determined to squeeze every last drop of pleasure out of her. I won’t let her miss a single breath of it.

“I want to taste you,” I breathe at her when her eyes come back.
I’m so close.
“I want—”

And then our mouths connect right on time. I can’t hold back. My load empties into her just as a moan erupts from my chest, vibrating through our twisting lips. I shoot over and over again, groaning against her mouth as a cocktail of desire and agony floods every nerve in my body.

Then, all I know is an ocean of calm.

I collapse onto her, gasping for my life. Her breath chases mine, hot against my ear. I feel her tongue there as she kisses the side of my face.

I lift my head. “Dessie,” I moan.

She lifts her head for a kiss. I give it to her sweetly, the beast sated for now. Then, she pulls away to say one little word to me.

Amused, I grin and whisper, “You’re welcome.”