Page 50 of Clinically Awkward

He laughed against my neck, then bit down gently on the sensitive skin there, and I gasped.

“Bedroom,” I managed. “We should—bedroom⁠—”

“Right. Bedroom. Good idea.”

He pushed off the wall and carried me down the hallway, weaving slightly, and kicked open a door. We had made it three steps into the room before he tripped over something, a shoe, maybe, and we went down. We landed on the bed in a tangle of limbs, bouncing slightly, and immediately dissolved into laughter. “Are you okay?” he asked, hovering over me.

“I’m perfect.”

“You are,” he said, suddenly serious. “You really are.”

Then he was kissing me again, and I forgot about the stumbling, forgot about everything except the weight of him on top of me, the heat of his skin, the taste of his mouth.

His hands went to the button of my jeans, and he fumbled with it. “Fucking—” he muttered. “Why are jeans so complicated?”

I giggled. Actually giggled. “Here, let me.” I reached down and helped him, and together we managed to get the button undone and the zipper down. He hooked his fingers in the waistband and pulled, and I lifted my hips to help. The jeans stuck halfway down my thighs.

“Seriously?” I said.

“Hold on.” He yanked harder, and they finally came free, taking my underwear with them. And then I was naked. Completely naked. On Quinton Wesley’s bed. He stood at the edge of the bed, swaying slightly, just looking at me.

“You’re staring again,” I said.

“Can’t help it.” His voice was rough, thick with want. “You’re fucking perfect.”

“I’m really not.”

“Shut up,” he growled, and then he was on me, his mouth on mine, his hands everywhere.

I reached for his sweatpants, shoving them down his hips. He wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

And oh.

Oh.

His cock sprang free, thick and hard and already leaking at the tip. I wrapped my hand around him, and he hissed, his whole body going rigid. “Fuck—Viv⁠—”

I stroked him once, twice, feeling the hot, silky skin, the thick vein running along the underside, the way he pulsed in my hand.

“If you keep doing that,” he said, voice strained, “this is going to be over embarrassingly fast.”

I grinned up at him. “We can’t have that.”

“Definitely not.”

He pushed me back onto the bed and settled between my thighs, and I could feel the heat of him, the weight of his cock resting against my pussy, and I was already so wet, so ready.

“Quinton.”

“I know. I know. Just let me,” he said as his hand slid down my stomach, between my legs, and then his fingers found my clit, and I gasped.

“Jesus,” he breathed. “You’re so fucking wet.”

“Your fault.”

He circled my clit once, twice, and I arched into his hand. “More,” I demanded.

He slid one finger inside me, then another, and curled them, finding that spot that made me see stars.