He delves between the slick folds of my pussy, laps at me. One hand slides from my ass, skates over my hips to the front, where he brushes my bellybutton, still licking as his fingers trickle down, down, down. His tongue slides out of me and I gasp again, this time from want.
I’m not left wanting long. I groan through gritted teeth as he slides one finger into me. It glides in easy. I’m soaked.
“God, you’re so tight.”
His tongue circles my clit again, sending bullets of pleasure shooting through my nerves while he thrusts in a second finger, then a third.
I rock against him, my legs shaking so hard it’s difficult to stay standing. He holds me in place with his other hand, gripping so hard it’ll leave marks. His fingers fucking me slow at first, then faster, harder, while his tongue lashes my clit.
Before I know it my head falls back and I’m moaning out loud, desperate, hanging on the edge of release.
He curls his fingers inside me, brushing against my walls at the same time that his tongue spears my clit.
The orgasm sparks through me and I cry out, my knees finally losing all control over keeping me upright. My head buzzes, my vision going red at the edges, and all I can think about is if he can do that with just his tongue . . .
Luckily, he’s a faster thinker than I am at the moment. He catches me, yanks my underwear up and my skirt down fast as possible. I grab at his shirt in protest—we haven’t even done him yet, it’s my turn. But he spins me away from him, and I land on his knee facing the confessional door just as it bursts open.
Bright light floods my probably red-hot face, blinding me. I hold up a hand against it while my eyes struggle to adjust after what feels like hours spent inside this totally dark booth.
Through a squint, I can see at least a dozen people peering in at us, wearing various expressions of surprise and amusement. The guy who opened the door has on a full bishop outfit, complete with giant scarlet hat.
“Well you guys definitely win ballsiest move of the night,” he says in an American accent, his eyes drifting to the broken wooden stall beside us. “What have you done to the confessional?” With a shock I recognize him. It’s the guy Mary Kate went up to the roof with, the one from my exchange group.
No one else behind him looks familiar, but I haven’t exactly memorized the whole campus yet.
What have I done?
“I’ve got to go,” I call over my shoulder without turning around. I can’t let him see my face, and I don’t want to see his. If I do, if I look at him . . . This will all get way too real, way too fast.
“Wait,” he says, but I’m already flinging myself out of the booth, letting my now-very-mussed hair hide my burning face as best it can. The group who found us laugh and cheer as I race past, but I don’t stop for high fives. I make a beeline through the karaoke-filled living room, straight into the hallway. My coat swings on a hook there—I yank it free, throw it around my shoulders, and text Mary Kate from the hallway.
I’m going home. Sorry I can’t stay.
I know it’s a dick move, skipping out without a goodbye. But this is MK’s party. These are her friends. She’ll be fine.
I’m the one who needs the chaperone.
“You don’t even know his name?” MK exclaims as we meander toward our first class, the one I really ought to be conscious for. Twentieth-Century English Poetry, the subject I specifically came here to study, with the professor I idolize. Now, I’m going to look like a total wreck on day one. Great first impression.