GirlMostLikelyTo (4 page)

The thought heralded a burst of pre-cum. Silky liquid seeped
onto his hand to be washed away by trickles of water. He wrapped his fingers
around his balls and pulled down to stop himself coming while he twisted and
squeezed his shaft with his other hand. As tension invaded every part of his
body to wage a war of attrition against his nerves, the water seemed to grow
warmer. For the last year, this ride, this solitary race toward orgasm, had
been dominated by visions of Ally and Caspar, singly and together—but always
with him.

Now he saw Tomas in his mind…his dark eyes…his lips…his
tongue.

Memories of the way he felt, tasted and smelled filled
Adam’s head. He was torn between going slow or coming fast and hard. He almost
smiled at the notion of choice. Pinching tighter around the tip of his cock, he
made short, quick jerks so that his palm struck his crest on the downstroke. At
the same time, he firmed his grip on his balls. The need to come grew. A biting
ache in his head and another in his gut galloped through discomfort toward
pleasure and he braced for the connection to flash between them.

His gasps grew louder and louder as his heart pounded hard
against his ribs.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Cum boiled in his balls and the moment he released his grip,
orgasm took control of his body. He erupted in long, creamy jets onto the
tiles. White lights flashed behind his eyes and Adam leaned to rest his
forehead against his arm as he shuddered.

Three weeks were going to seem like three months.

Tomas heard Adam’s shower start up on the other side of his
wall and failed to swallow the lump in his throat. He could have had Adam in
here with him but he’d done the right thing and pushed him away. It was the
sensible thing to do. The safe thing to do. A really difficult thing to do.

Hell knew what the guy thought of him. Tomas had been so
close to following and finishing what they’d started. Now he suspected Adam was
managing that on his own. He stripped, tossed his clothes aside and stepped
into the shower stall. Before his conscience stopped him, he put his ear to the
wall and listened. Faint grunts sounded above the noise of the water, there was
a muttered expletive and he twisted the dial to stop himself listening to more.

It made no difference to the way he felt. His cock was hard
enough to hurt, his balls primed for detonation.

Ah damn.
When had Tomas ever done the decent thing?
It wasn’t because of his job he’d pushed Adam away. He wanted him and he’d
chickened out. He couldn’t change the way he was but it was about time he
stopped messing around and decided for good which way he swung, what he
preferred, dick or pussy.

No one he knew was aware he had any interest in men, which
was the way Tomas liked it. Except he didn’t like it anymore, this vacillation
between sexes. It made sense to go for the easy life and find women to fuck and
he needed to stick to that. Maybe he’d forget Adam had made him harder than
he’d ever remembered.

Tomas soaped up his hands, wrapped one around his cock and
slid the other down the crease of his butt. He leaned his forehead against the
wall and imagined Adam’s head inches away from his.
Oh shit.
He fought
to replace that image with a woman,
any
woman, but it was Adam’s
features that kept re-forming. Tomas wanted to come too much to persist in
trying to blank his mind. He pressed a fingertip against his anus, circling and
massaging the tight pucker until the ring of muscle began to relax. His finger
slipped just inside, and a moment later he groaned as it glided up to the
webbing.

How would Adam’s cock have felt, filling him, fucking him?
Unusually for Tomas, he’d considered being fucked and maybe that was the honest
reason he’d backed off. He’d only ever let a guy fuck him in the ass once, a
long while ago, and swore he’d never let it happen again.

Let. Yeah, a real interesting word. I’m a fucking idiot.

Tomas chomped his lip, slid in another digit and sucked in a
breath.

He stood trembling under the water, one hand wrapped around
his cock, two fingers of his other hand shoved up his ass, with the words
I’m
an idiot
echoing in his head. He could have had Adam in here with him, Adam
on his knees sucking him off, Adam against the wall while he tucked up behind
and fucked him. Then they could have swapped.
Maybe.
The image of the
two of them joined flooded Tomas’ brain and he worked himself harder and
faster, grunting with pleasure, twisting his fingers in his ass.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he groaned.

His hands worked in unison, shoving, tightening, pumping.
His breath quickened, his heart pounded and orgasm roared down his spine in a
lightning burst of electricity to trigger the tightening in his balls. Tomas’
cries echoed in the bathroom as he jetted thick ropes of cum onto the tiles. As
the last spasm died away, he leaned his head against the tiles.

This was going to be a long and frustrating few weeks.

Chapter Four

Wren groaned as the bus lurched to a halt yet again. She
stared at her watch, willing the hands to go backward, but this morning,
stopping time wasn’t one of her superpowers. Since being late for a staff
meeting at Ezispeke could result in decapitation, she jumped off and ran.

Well, not quite decapitation, but getting on the wrong side
of Olive Speke—who always lectured her as if she were a small child—made Wren
want to tear off a head. Hers or Olive’s. She ran faster. She was already on
Olive’s naughty list and couldn’t afford to lose this job. Much as she hated
the idea, she needed to ask for more hours to boost her pay packet.

Brought to a halt by a busy road, she twitched with
impatience, waiting for the lights to change, and her bus rolled past.
Damn.
Sometimes she felt the world was out to get her, particularly traffic and men,
though it was her own fault she’d rebounded from bastard Leo to thieving
Brendan, who’d appeared in her life at the right time for him and the wrong
time for her.

Heartsick women were easy pickings for cunning scum like
Brendan McCoy. It irked Wren that having been so careful to stay out of debt,
she’d be years paying off what he’d stolen. Working more hours at Ezispeke
wouldn’t make a substantial difference. She needed to look for an evening job.
Better still, a different day job that paid well and had prospects, because
while Olive was in charge, Wren was going nowhere. In truth, she was going
backward.

Once Wren crossed the road, she began to run again, weaving
her way through hoards of commuters. She glanced at her watch and winced. Olive
didn’t accept any excuse, particularly not from her. She’d been given the worst
timetable and the worst students, the ones who only attended Ezispeke because
someone had twisted their arms. Hard. That her rotten bastard colleague Leo
always seemed to have perfect students and an easy timetable just made matters
worse. Wren had hoped for a couple of weeks’ peace while he and Belinda went on
honeymoon but in the worst case of sucking up ever, they’d delayed their
vacation until next summer to please Olive.

A sharp stitch in Wren’s side forced her to slow and she
groaned.

Though the school catered largely to foreign students aged
sixteen and upward, she rarely seemed to be given the opportunity to teach
adults. She usually ended up with hormonal Spanish or Italian teenage boys
desperate to practice their seduction techniques nowhere near their parents.
But after this morning’s staff meeting, she had a class of adults for the first
time in over a year. This term, she’d been given three adult courses to run.
Either Olive had made a mistake or was finally warming to her. If the latter,
then it was particularly important not to let her cool down by being late.

Wren charged forward again, dodging a homicidal cyclist who
not only ignored a red light but had the nerve to release a string of
expletives as she ran on. She took a shortcut through an alley at the back of Leeds
City Museum, keeping an eye out for reversing vehicles, but when her breathing
became labored, she had to slow once more.

The motion-sensitive doors of Ezispeke finally came into
view, sliding open to allow in a tall, dark-haired guy in a black leather
jacket. She put on an extra burst of speed only to trip and smack into the
closing glass. Bouncing off with a yelp, Wren caught a glimpse of a shocked,
handsome face staring at her through the now opening doors as she staggered
backward. Somehow she managed to trip over her feet and her dangling bag and
frantically waved her arms trying to get her balance, only to end up sprawled
on the concrete. Wren closed her eyes and groaned.
Ouch—my butt, my head, my
elbows, my dignity. I should be noted the idiot most likely to run into a glass
door. Please don’t let anyone come to see if I’m—

“You okay, little bird?”

The voice was deep, the accent foreign. Wren opened her eyes
to see the man wearing the leather jacket. She took in the untidy black hair,
dark eyes, long dark lashes and a face so mind-blowingly exquisite she wanted
to lie there and stare at him forever.

Unless she was dead and he was the devil.

Maybe even then.

“Broke wing?” he asked.

Her butt possibly, but best not to share that. He might
offer to kiss it better and she might say yes and offer to kiss his. Her cheeks
flamed. An attempt to scramble to her feet left her on her back, flapping like
a stranded turtle. That was okay. She was fine lying there, gazing up into her
nighttime fantasies for weeks to come. Maybe months.
Please let him be a new
teacher and not a student.
Students were off-limits. Decapitation plus
disembowelment for that infringement.

His brow wrinkled. “Hit your head? Call ambulance? Talk.”

She’d forgotten how to speak. Or could it be he took her
breath away? She’d never misuse that cliché again. Air flooded her lungs as she
gasped.

He crouched at her side and the citrus tang of his soap or
aftershave, or some yummy male scent, dragged a whimper from her.

“Where hurts?” he asked.

Ooh, his eyelashes are longer and thicker than mine.

“What your name, little bird?”

Oh God, how corny is this going to sound?
“Wren.”

His sultry lips quirked in a smile and her heart zinged.
“Good name. You fly into glass like bird. Feathers broke?”

She couldn’t place his accent.

“You have parts need rubbing better?”

Bloody hell.
Wren envisaged his hands on her butt and
bit back the moan surging up her throat.

As he stared down at her and she continued to gaze up at
him, she remembered why she was lying there. The staff meeting.
Shit.
She rolled to her feet and plastered a half-smile on her face.

“Sorry about that.” She bent to gather her purse and bag and
winced before bolting through the now fully open doors to the stairs.

No limbs appeared to be broken though her knees shook, but
Wren felt so embarrassed she was pretty sure a broken leg wouldn’t have stopped
her making a run for it. She pulled her ID from her purse and looped it over
her head as she reached the door of the conference room. She hoped to sidle in
unnoticed but the door gave a loud, prolonged screech when she pushed it. Olive
stopped speaking and everyone turned Wren’s way.

“Sorry,” Wren said.

In her hurry to find a seat, she tipped over a chair and her
cheeks heated as she righted it.

“Sorry,” she repeated to a stony Olive, only to let out a
muffled yelp as her backside hit the cushion.

“Have you quite finished?” Olive pinned her with a fierce
glare. “Any more noises to distract us? Going to do farmyard impressions?”

She cringed. Her friend Sylvie quietly mooed in her ear and
Wren had to bite her lip so she didn’t laugh.

While Olive blathered on, Wren surreptitiously checked for
damage. No rips in her pants. Nothing appeared to be bleeding. She ached, so
she was probably bruised but—

“Don’t you think so, Wren?” Olive snapped.

She opted for a nod and a swift smile, hoping she wasn’t
committing herself to more hours of extracurricular unpaid slavery. Olive’s
gaze shifted from her to Mike, who had his hand up, and Wren sighed with
relief. Once she’d tuned back in, she realized Olive was talking about taking
students on extended field trips. Olive made it sound as if it were
her
initiative but it was Wren who’d given her the idea.

Wren glowered. She’d pushed and pushed a couple of months
ago until Olive had said yes to her escorting a group to the museum. Wren
hadn’t told Olive everything they’d done there. Who’d have guessed there were
that
many penises on statues and in paintings? But it had kept all the French girls
riveted, awarding points for size and attractiveness as Wren led them round.
Not something that appeared on her lesson plan. Never let it be said she didn’t
know the way to keep teenagers interested. It was just guys her age she had a
problem with.

“I want a proposal from every member of staff,” Olive said.
“Leo’s already given me a wonderful one.” She beamed at treacherous swine
bastard Leo. “Include health and safety issues and detailed costs. Think big.
Think appealing. Think expensive.”

A few groans followed. A large proportion of those who
taught here wanted to coast, and keeping foreign teenagers under control was
fraught with difficulty. Bad enough inside the classroom let alone outside. The
moment these youngsters reached the UK, they were determined to do as much as
they could get away with outside the classroom and as little work as they could
inside.

“Hot-house tomato,” Sylvie said in Wren’s ear.

Wren swallowed her snigger. She and Sylvie took turns coming
up with ways to describe Olive in terms of fruit and vegetables. It somehow made
Wren less nervous of her. It wasn’t that Olive was an imposing figure. She was
five feet tall and round as a ball. Nor was it her clothes. Today she wore a
revolting red muumuu and a green turban.

“Heirloom tomato topped by brussels sprout,” Wren whispered.

Sylvie snorted.

Olive had the kind of features that would have appeared
natural on a heavyweight wrestler; a large flat nose, deep-set eyes and a
killer glare. Plus she had a temper like an electric storm.

“And someone still hasn’t signed off their registers for
last term.” Olive looked straight at Wren, who immediately found the floor
fascinating.

She made a mental note to call by the office. Since a term
only lasted three or four weeks, not signing off the registers didn’t seem a
big deal, but Olive liked to run “a tight ship” as she insisted on calling it.

After a round of applause and congratulations for the newly
married couple—and Wren clapped much too loudly and smiled too broadly—Olive
and the admin staff left to do an introductory talk to the new students, and
Martin Grieves, the senior lecturer, started his spiel. If there had been an
Olympic medal for being a boring fart, Moaning Martin would win gold. He was
really tall, really thin and really hairy. Wisps of ginger curls sprung from
the collars and cuffs of his shirts and when Martin talked to her, Wren’s gaze
was always drawn to them, imagining under his clothes he must be like an
orangutan.

He’d asked her out on a date after she and Leo had finished
and she’d been so stunned she’d not spoken for a moment, which led Martin to
think she’d say yes and he’d started to waffle on about where they could go.
There wasn’t one aspect of the guy that appealed, and she’d blurted she didn’t
feel comfortable getting involved with a work colleague. Since she’d had a
relationship with Leo before Belinda snagged him, Martin hadn’t taken it well
and since then had seized every opportunity to make snide comments about her
and her work.

Wren was the first out of the door once Martin finished. She
made straight for her class on the next floor and stood just inside the room,
ready to welcome each student. This adult group had signed up for a term of
intensive English, and part of the course was two hours of conversation
practice with her, five days a week. Class numbers were limited to four so she
could get to know the students’ individual needs and direct her lessons
accordingly.

“Good morn…ing,” died on her lips as the first student
strolled in.

“Morning, little bird.” He flashed her a devastating smile
and took a seat in the middle of the front row, his long legs stretched out in
front of him under the desk.

Wren’s heart bounced up and down in her chest before
settling uncomfortably in her stomach. Maybe the no-fraternizing-with-students
rule didn’t count if they were tall, dark, handsome and adult, though she’d no
idea why she was even thinking along those lines. The chances of her making a
move were zero. She’d rather ask out a grizzly bear. At least she wouldn’t get
turned down.

Wren checked her list. Was he Benoit or Georg? Two women and
two guys bustled past her and she frowned. Five students, not four. Had Mr.
Gorgeous come to the wrong room? Did she want to tell him? Or was he an
inspector on a surprise visit? She blanched. Her lessons tended to take unusual
directions, twisting to suit the moment, often veering so far away from her
written plan it might seem she hadn’t made one.

“I extra one,” he said and smiled at her again.

Oh God, don’t smile at me.
Parts of her body were
already reacting in inappropriate ways. She pulled herself together, ignored
the dampness between her thighs, dragged her heart out of her stomach and
inflated her lungs. “Good morning, everyone.”

If she didn’t look at him, she’d be fine.

Oh God, how could she not look at him?

Try hard!

“Welcome to my conversation class.” She spoke carefully with
pauses between words. “Let’s introduce ourselves. My name is Wren Monroe. I
live in Leeds.”

She started with the young guy sitting on her far left, who
was frantically scribbling in a notebook. “What’s your name? Where do you
live?”

“My name is Benoit Dubarre,” he told his desk. “I live at 43
Richmond Street in Headingley.” He gave Wren a nervous glance revealing
beautiful green eyes, but he was trying to hide terrible acne under floppy
blond hair.

“Excellent, Benoit.”

Wren moved on to the elegant baguette next to him who had
long, sleek, fair hair and perfect skin. A designer purse sat on the table in
front of her, right next to a pristine red leather folder and sharpened pencil.

“What’s your name? Where do you live?” Wren asked.

“I am Monique Rotellini. I live in Hardston Hall in Leeds.”

“
Near
Hardston Hall,” Wren corrected.

“No,
in
Hardston Hall.”

She clenched her teeth. Sometimes teaching was like walking
up an icy hill. One step forward and five slithery steps back. “No,
near
.
Lord and Lady Kitson live
in
Hardston Hall. So you live
near
the
Hall.”