All Chapters of Miss Goody Two Shoes : Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

Cole didn't exactly fancy slinking back to the party covered in come. And her throat was in a bad way. She probably sounded like Johnny Cash. Besides, the best thing about the party - the only reason she was at the party - had just made extensive use of her mouth and gone home.As she hobbled back to her room, Cole catalogued her aches (mostly superficial) and sorted through her feelings (probably the same). It wasn't the first time and - assuming she lived the life she fully intended to live - it hopefully wouldn't be the last that she indulged in some no-strings, no-holds-barred entirely casual sex. It just happened to be the only time she'd been left so raw by it, physically and emotionally.On the other hand, it had also been... impossibly hot. Maybe the best sex she'd ever had. And, in some strange way, the truest. The closest to what she ached and dreamed of but didn't entirely know how to get. Which wasn't to say she hadn't messed around, online and off, let the occasional o

Cole shoved through the front door of Hart & Associates — which didn't go as well as she might have hoped because it was revolving, and she had a hard enough time getting through those things when she was completely compos mentis — and then went plunging across the foyer. Everything was a haze of glass and steel and marble. Beautiful in a way, a godless cathedral, full of echoes and refracted light, but it was also the kind of space designed to make one feel shabby and small. Which, if you asked her, was an architectural dick move.She kept catching glimpses of herself in too many gleaming surfaces. Wildly out of place in Hart's Temple of Mammon in scruffy jeans and a T-shirt, and her favorite jacket — the velvet one she'd worn to the dinner, with holes in the elbows and all the nap worn away, her rainbow pride bracelets disappearing under the fraying sleeve. She hadn't even taken the time to engineer her hair so it was multidirectional and ridiculous. Basically, she looked

Cole had always been kind of take it or leave it on kissing. She enjoyed it, of course, but in the way one enjoys canapés at a posh party. Very nice and everything, artful even, but wouldn’t some real food be better? It was hot on the dance floor—kissing, not canapés—tongues grinding like bodies, somebody’s fingers tangled in her hair, before they stumbled to their place, or hers, to finish things off. But mainly it was prelude to the good stuff. Not with Aiden Crux though. It was a no-mercy kiss. A brutal claiming, full of teeth and desperate hunger, forcing her surrender to his will and his passion.She strained toward him, opened to him, as if they were at the end of the journey, not the beginning. More than that, he made her forget there was a journey. There was only his mouth on hers, his hands holding her, his body pinning her. And just like that, everything she’d felt—listening to his voice on the phone, seeing those icy predator eyes of hi

Cole suddenly couldn’t breathe. She scrambled over her bed and threw open the window. It was right on the turn: that moment between evening and night, suspended in a golden haze. The air moved sluggishly. Tasted sticky. She rested her head against the edge of the casement. Too hot. Too cold. Too fucked. People were moving to and fro across the quad like incidentals in a T. S. Eliot poem. Friends and lovers scattered under the trees in the fading light. And she’d never felt so fucking alone. Rationally she could just about locate a non-panic-saturated part of her brain that believed she would definitely maybe sort of be okay. Yes, the next few weeks weren’t going to be very pleasant, and she wasn’t likely to do brilliantly, but it probably wasn’t going to be a complete disaster either. She was relatively clever, though not half as clever as she’d thought she was before she’d come to Oxford. She’d read quite a lot of books. And she’d been dashing off

“You are, oh you are.” Cole clenched her hands in her sheets to stop them acting without his direction. She could feel traces of drying moisture as sharply as if they were grains of sand. A deep, helpless shiver rolled through her. “Please touch me again.” “Yes. Softly though. Tease.” Maybe Cole should have been more aware of just how fucking weird it was, tormenting herself for a voice on the phone, but self-consciousness was dissolving, leaving only this dazed and desperate arousal. The same desire to please she’d felt kneeling at his feet. She had never really paid much attention to her own nipples. Well, who did? Her overs had sometimes. Sort of in the fashion you swing into a motorway service station: very much a waypoint on a journey. But, right then, they were tight and aching, magically transformed beneath the lightest caresses of her own fingers and wired directly to her pussy, all the places she wanted to feel him and be possessed by him.