Claiming My College Roommate's Dad (Chapter Three)

One minute he was explaining the difference between an IPA and a Kölsch, the next he was fucking me against my desk while my roommate was in the library.

Hi! This is the chapter three of my newest erotica book. I’ll post one chapter per day over the next few days, with the spiciest bits reserved for upgraded subscribers.

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xx
Lila

Catch up on this story:
Chapter One … Chapter Two

My phone buzzed on the table, a sharp vibration against the dark wood. I glanced down. It was Sarah.

'OMG this is a disaster. It's all gone. We're gonna be here for at least another hour, maybe more. Don't wait up! So sorry again!!'

I slid the phone back onto the table, screen down. An hour. An hour was an eternity. It was a lock clicking open. I looked up at Mark. He was watching me, his expression unreadable as the waitress cleared our flight glasses. He'd seen me look at the phone. He knew.

"Everything okay?" he asked. The question was just a formality. He was really asking, So? What now?

"Yeah," I replied, trying to keep my voice from giving up my nervousness. "Sarah's going to be a while. Her project group is having a meltdown."

"Ah." A single, soft sound. He nodded slowly, his eyes holding mine. The loud chatter of the brewpub, the clinking glasses, it all just faded into a dull background hum. There was only our table, a tiny island in the middle of a noisy sea. He reached for his wallet. "Well," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "Let me get this, and I'll walk you back."

My heart gave a hard thump against my ribs. I'll walk you back. The game was still on.

After he paid, we stood and I shrugged on my thin jacket. As we moved toward the exit, my arm brushed against his, and that familiar jolt of heat shot right through me, sharper and more insistent this time. I was so charged that I was worried I might come just from the friction of my clothes. We walked out into the cool, misty Eugene night.

The ten-minute walk was some of the most loaded silence I'd experienced to that point in my life. The damp air smelled like wet earth and pavement. We walked shoulder-to-shoulder, not touching but close enough that I could feel the heat coming off his body. Every step on the slick sidewalk was like a drumbeat, counting down. I was hyper-aware of everything: the way the hazy streetlights reflected in his dark hair, the tension in his shoulders, the quiet sound of his breathing. I pictured the look on his face back at the restaurant when he talked about beer, the passion that lit him up.

That's what I wanted. I wanted to be the thing that made him look like that.

We walked through the dorm lobby, past the dozing RA, and into the humming fluorescent box of the elevator. The silence in there was even heavier. I could see our reflections in the scratched metal doors. Me, looking straight ahead, trying to keep my face a mask of casual indifference. Him, his jaw clenched, staring at his own reflection like he didn't recognize the guy looking back.

The elevator dinged. The second-floor hallway was empty, a long, quiet tunnel of closed doors. We stopped in front of mine. 21B. The black plastic numbers seemed to scream at me. Sarah's room.

This was the moment. The point of no return.