Professional sneaky links 4

I didn’t give Pete a yes that night.

I didn’t give him a no either.

I just kissed him…long enough for him to feel something, short enough for me to escape thinking about what it meant.

Because saying yes is easy.

Living inside the yes is the part that scares me.

We slept together afterward.

Not sex. Just sleep.

His arm draped over me.

My leg over his.

Our breaths syncing without permission.

And the annoying part?

It felt… peaceful.

Dangerously peaceful.

The kind of peace that sneaks into your bloodstream and starts unpacking its bags before you notice.

I woke up before him.

His face close.

Eyes soft from sleep.

Mouth relaxed.

And I hated the softness not because it wasn’t beautiful, but because it made something in me breathe too deeply.

I tried to slip out of bed quietly, but he caught my wrist.

“You’re leaving?” he murmured, voice sleep-rough.

“Yeah. I have things to do.”

“Stay a little.”

It wasn’t clingy.

It wasn’t needy.

It was gentle, warm, simple.

Which made it worse.

“I can’t,” I said.

He sat up, rubbing his hand over his face.

“I didn’t want to pressure you last night. About the dating thing.”

“You didn’t,” I said.

He looked at me long, slow, steady.

“You still didn’t answer.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

I swallowed.

“Because I like you,” I whispered. “More than I planned to.”

He didn’t smile.

He didn’t smirk.

He didn’t jump in triumph like some horny college boy who finally got a treat.

He just nodded like he’d known all along.

“Then let’s try,” he said softly.

“Pete…”

“You don’t have to overthink it. It’s just us. Doing what we’re already doing. Just without pretending it’s nothing.”

He held my hand, tracing circles on the back of it with his thumb

“I want you,” he said quietly. “Not in pieces. Not in moments. All of you.”

It hit me so hard I had to look away.

And then he pulled me into his lap, kissing the side of my neck like he was trying to calm a wild animal.

“I’m not asking you to promise anything,” he whispered.

“I’m asking you to let me choose you.”

My breath caught.

It wasn’t the sexiness.

It wasn’t the intensity.

It was the clarity, that rare male clarity that’s harder to resist than desire.

I turned my face toward him, and without thinking, my lips brushed his jaw.

“Pete…” I breathed.

“What?”

“I’m scared of loving you.”

He exhaled, forehead touching mine.

“I know,” he said. “You think I’m not scared?”

He kissed me slow, and his hand slid to the back of my neck like he was anchoring me.

“Let’s be scared together,” he said against my mouth.

I felt something shift in my chest.

Something quieter.

More dangerous.

More honest.

Something like surrender.

I didn’t say yes.

But I didn’t say no.

I wrapped my arms around him and let my body rest against his.

The next day was insane.

We were in class.

I was trying to take notes.

He was supposed to be doing the same.

But every time I lifted my head, his eyes were on me.

The kind of stare that makes you shift in your seat because your body remembers exactly where his hands were the night before.

I ignored him.

Pretended not to notice.

But the third time he did it, I stood up, walked straight to his desk, leaned close and whispered:

“You need to tone it down.”

He blinked once, slowly.

“Tone what down?”

“That look.”

“What look?”

His voice was low, calm, almost amused.

“The one where you’re eye-fucking me in front of everybody.”

He tilted his head like he genuinely didn’t understand.

“I’m just looking.”

“Pete.”

“What?”

He tapped his pen against his notebook.

“I can’t look at you now?”

“That’s not looking.”

He smirked, a soft, dangerous curl of his mouth.

“Then stop giving me something to look at.”

I walked away before I smiled.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

But the worst part?

He wasn’t done.

That same afternoon, he saw me outside talking to someone, someone new, someone who made me laugh.

The guy touched my shoulder lightly when he made a joke.

And Pete froze.

I felt his stare before I even saw him.

He didn’t approach.

He didn’t interrupt.

He didn’t cause a scene.

But his jaw tightened.

His fingers curled into his backpack strap.

His eyes dropped to where that guy’s hand had been on my shoulder.

Later that night, when I went to his place because obviously I did he didn’t kiss me at the door.

He just pulled me in by the wrist and shut it behind me.

“You had fun today,” he said, voice low.

“Fun doing what?”

I played dumb.

I live for the way men unravel when I refuse to give them the reaction they want.

He stepped closer.

“You were laughing… a lot.”

“Was I?”

“And he kept touching you.”

“Who?”

He exhaled sharply, frustrated, but trying not to show it.

“You know who.”

I shrugged, brushing past him toward his desk.

“He’s a friend.”

Pete grabbed my waist from behind, kicked the back of my knee gently so I bent forward over the desk, and whispered:

“Are you fucking him?”

His tone wasn’t insecure.

It was territorial.

Dark.

Honest.

I looked over my shoulder, smirking.

“Why? Are you fucking any of your female friends?”

He didn’t hesistate.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because with them,” he said, sliding my skirt up slowly, deliberately, “I keep my hands to myself. It’s easy.”

“And with me?”

He pushed my panties aside with his thumb, feeling how ready I already was.

“With you,” he breathed against my neck, “I can’t.”

I didn’t answer.

I didn’t need to.

He slid into me from behind deep, slow, intentional and my mouth fell open.

He held my hips still so I couldn’t move against him, teasing me with little thrusts that weren’t enough to satisfy, just enough to torment.

“Who is he?” Pete asked quietly, fucking me deeper but keeping his pace controlled.

I gripped the desk and refused to answer.

He slid out almost fully… paused… then pushed back in so deep my legs trembled.

“Tell me,” he whispered into my ear.

I shook my head. Partly stubborn, partly drunk on the way he was denying me release.

He pulled out again… slow… slow… until my body begged without words.

“Pete…” I breathed.

He smirked.

“Not yet.”

He held me by the throat lightly, just enough to steady me, and thrust again deeper, harder, perfectly angled.

But every time I got close, every time my breath broke, every time my thighs shook, he slowed.

He wasn’t trying to punish me.

He was trying to own the moment.

“You like that?” he murmured.

I didn’t speak.

I just reached back and dug my nails into his forearm.

He smiled against my shoulder.

“You get so quiet when you’re close.”

I hated how true that was.

Then he grabbed my wrists, pinned them above my head, and fucked me so deep I almost cried out.

But right when the climax started to rise, right when I couldn’t breathe, right when I felt it snap through my spine

He stopped.

My whole body shuddered in frustration.

“Answer me,” he whispered, kissing the back of my neck.

I swallowed hard.

“Why do you care?”

He pressed his forehead to my shoulder.

“I care because I want you.”

He thrust again, slow and devastating.

“And I can’t watch you give pieces of yourself to someone else.”

Another deep stroke.

“I can’t do this halfway.”

Another.

“I want you to date me.”

Another.

“Or we can’t keep doing this.”

He stayed inside me, holding me still, letting the words sink into my skin, my spine, my breath.

His voice dropped to something raw.

“If you won’t choose me,” he whispered, “I have to walk away.”

…

zenstateofmindwriter