1642734778_punk-57-pdf

and muffled sounds of laughter and talking drift through the wall from the
lunchroom.
He’s close.
Everything heats up under my skin, and his breath falls across my lips.
“This cheerleading outfit is fucking lame,” he says.
I cock my head. “Funny, ‘cause you couldn’t seem to take your eyes off
me in it a minute ago.”
His eyes drop to my lips, and he leans in, both of our breaths turning
shallow, and I can almost taste him.
I lick my lips.
And he loses it.
He reaches down, grabs the backs of my thighs and hauls me up, and I
wrap my arms and legs around him, letting out a small whimper. Yes.
I part my lips, running them over the lip ring and savoring the feel as he
groans and digs his fingers into my thighs. I tighten my legs around him,
needing to feel him.
“Bitch,” he whispers.
“Loser.”
And when I dart out the tip of my tongue to lick the little piece of metal
again, he’s done being patient.
Masen Laurent slams his lips down on mine, moving hard over my
mouth and brushing his tongue with mine, the heat and taste sending my
mind reeling. I stop breathing. I don’t care. I just go in for more and more.
He bites my bottom lip, moving his hands to my ass and squeezing, and
I let out a little cry, the feel of him driving me mad. I don’t want people to
hear us, but right now I don’t care about anything.
My eyes close as his lips and teeth move over my neck, sending shivers
down my spine. Heat gathers low in my belly as I tighten my thighs around