Tenure

50. Kiernan

50

Kiernan

I do come home eventually, for clothes and my laptop and other personal shit. But my bed doesn’t smell like him, and I can’t sleep.

Are you up?

No

Don’t be a dick

Don’t text me at 2am and expect me to be nice

It’s called do not disturb, asshole

I like your asshole

Goodnight

Are YOU up?

Shut up

Want me to come get you?

It’s 2am

I’m on my way

I squeal with delight when his car pulls into the driveway, throw open the front door, and toss myself at him, loudly smooching his cheeks and mouth. When he finally slides me against his body to put me down, I can feel his cock pressing into my belly. He huffs a little, like he’s restraining himself, but he takes my bag and tosses it in the back seat, nodding at the front door.

“Lock up,” he says.

“You sure you want me to stay over? You aren’t sick of me yet?”

“Kiernan?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not doing this again.”

“Doing what?”

“Coming here at two a.m.”

“I didn’t ask you to—”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m telling you I’m not doing it again.”

“So, you are sick of me.” I cross my arms and pout.

He sighs, rolling his eyes and staring upwards at the sky like he’s begging the lord for understanding, or patience, or something.

“I’m saying just move in.”

My tongue feels like it’s been dipped in cement.

We drive back to his apartment in silence, uncomfortable on my part and amused on his. I want to punch him in the dick, a little, for putting me on the spot like this.

I want to say yes. My immediate, no hesitation reaction was to say yes. But I’m not supposed to move in with my first—brand new—boyfriend (?) when I’m still in high school. Right?

He taps his bandaged fingers on the railing in the elevator as we head up to his apartment, and my tongue still feels like stone.

Come on, James. Break the silence first.

He opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of white. Without thinking, I grab two wine glasses and hand him the corkscrew. I’ve spent more time in his apartment the past week than I have anywhere else . . . He has a strange expression on his face, something warm and sweet. He’s clearly enjoying that I know my way around his place. That it feels like a routine. That it feels like something we’ve always done.

“It’s too soon,” I say, sipping the wine nervously.

“Why.”

“Because it’s only been a few weeks?”

He shrugs, like it’s totally normal to ask someone you’ve just met to move into your house with you.

“I’m too young?”

He snorts and raises his glass, taking a large gulp of his wine. “There’s no getting around it, babygirl. That ship has sailed.”

“You’re too old?”

He narrows his eyes, and my thighs clench involuntarily. I swallow and hope he doesn’t notice, but his gaze drifts to my throat, and I see his fingers flex.

He takes a step towards me, and I take a step back.

“Kiernan,” he says, his voice low, as he puts down his glass and starts to unbutton his shirt. “Do you have any legitimate reasons for not moving in?”

The sight of his bare torso is distracting.

“We just shouldn’t?”

“Not a real reason,” he says, dropping his shirt on the floor.

“You will get in trouble at work?”

He waves his hand dismissively, like it’s already been taken care of, and reaches for his belt. I take another step back.

“You haven’t even met my parents?”

He pauses, his belt open, and cocks his head to the side like he’s considering it. “We can go see them in Paris on reading week,” he says, before sliding his belt out of the loops.

I can’t stop staring at the buckle, my heart ratcheting up to something akin to terror, as my back hits the painting I picked out from that shop. He’d hung it that day. Left the old one in the lobby with a sign that said free.

“Kiernan?”

I whimper.

He doesn’t say anything else, just bends his head and kisses me until my brain and body are Jell-O, until I can’t remember his name, my name, words . . .

“Move in with me,” he murmurs.

“No.”

My feet leave the floor as he picks me up and we start moving towards . . . I’m not sure. The couch?

Doesn’t matter, and I don’t care. I grind myself into him, the thin cotton of my pajamas doing nothing but getting wet and getting in the way, and he groans as one of his hands leaves my ass and reaches for something . . .

I hear the sliding door open and feel the cool air on my skin.

Why are we going outside?

But before I can really question anything, he’s propped me up against the wall, deftly wrapped both my wrists in his belt and slung it over the wrought iron light fixture.

“What the fuck are you—”

He clamps his hand over my mouth just as there’s an explosion of laughter from the other side of the privacy screen. I hear the clinking of bottles and the low, slurred speech of late-night drunks, but my arms are stuck above my head and his hand is blocking my airway.

He slowly pulls his hand away from my mouth and puts a finger to his lips.

Shh.

I’m not quite tall enough and have to stand on my tiptoes. I feel stretched out, on display, and completely fucking helpless. The entire high rise in front of us could be watching this for all I know.

Clearly he doesn’t care as he runs his palms up my ribs and then pops the neck of my tank top down so my tits are trussed up and exposed, nipples tightening in the cool air.

He drops his head, pulls one into his mouth, and I stifle a moan, his fingers teasing the waistband of my pajamas, running back and forth as he scrapes my nipple with his teeth.

He kisses his way up my sternum, across my collarbone, up the side of my neck until his lips are in my ear.

“Move in with me,” he whispers.

“No?” I squeak.

He hooks his thumbs into my pajamas and yanks them down leaving me bare and exposed, every inch of my skin tingling, the wetness between my legs starting to drip down my thighs.

Just the way he likes.

He pulls my other nipple into his mouth, and I jump as there’s another burst of laughter from his neighbours.

Oh, god . . . Anyone could just look through the lattice. The only thing keeping them from seeing my soaking wet pussy is a wood screen and a fucking fern.

“Move in with me,” he mumbles against my stomach.

I shake my head no, and he nips my abdomen, before dropping to his knees and running his hands up the insides of my thighs.

“Fuck, Kiernan . . .” he whispers as his fingers slip inside me. “Goddamn.”

I clench around him, desperate for friction, but he takes his sweet-ass time. His fingers are splayed wide inside me, pulling at me in a way that is making my entire body quake. I bite my lip to keep from moaning as he slowly moves his hand in and out, spreading all his fingers open like a flower, my thighs shaking violently, and my feet cramping from being on my tippy toes.

He slides out and then back in, farther, deeper this time.

“Fuck!” I shout.

I hear the pause on the other side, the voices quieting at once.

“You out here, James?” someone calls.

He spreads his fingers open, and I want to scream.

“Yeah, just having a smoke,” he says, voice calm and neutral.

He eases his hand out of me.

“I didn’t know you smoked!” the voice says.

He slides back in, deeper than anything I’ve ever felt, and I want to grab on to something, I want to push him away, I want to shove him out of me because I’m going to fucking break!

“Sometimes,” James says, voice still casual, but his eyes are glued to my pussy, his mouth slack, chest heaving.

He slides his hand out and then looks up at me. Move in with me, he mouths.

But before I can answer he pushes his hand up into me all the way, and I feel myself completely stretch open around his entire fucking fist.

No No NO NO NO NO NO this is too much this is too much this is . . .

Oh, fuck

Fuck

FUCK