Free Beneath The Skin (A College Obsession Romance) by Daryl Banner Page A

panther-like build is chiseled at every possible turn. It’s endless, the places in which he has definition, how his infinite abs turn into the two, smooth pecs of his chest, which rest under his taut, shapely shoulders, which lead the eyes up a neck and to a face that, even in his nakedness, still shows a striking confidence—as if he dares me to keep challenging him, testing him, pushing him …
    And I will.
    “Wish I could see yours,” he murmurs through a tightened throat. “Shit, it’s cold in here.” He glances behind him, then looks off to the side for a second. “Is there a showcase tonight or something?”
    “It doesn’t start for another thirty minutes,” I assure him.
    “Oh. That’s pretty soon, isn’t it? Won’t people start showing up?” Then he grins, his face lighting up. “On second thought, that’s plenty of time. So, tell me. Do you—”
    I bring my face up to the side of his, which shuts him up right away. My lips trace—without kissing—the smooth, silky skin of his cheek as I slide ever so slowly to his ear. It’s there that my teeth find purchase, raking in his earlobe as I take a little taste.
    He groans, his breath blasting the nape of my neck. “ Oh my god … ”
    I run a finger up his body, starting just above the rim of his briefs—which are black, skintight, and leave very little to the imagination—and I trace up the insane hills of his abs, one by one. He bucks ever so slightly at the touch of my cold fingertip, then braces himself as I let my wandering finger slide up his core, stopping at his hardened nipple. I give it a pinch.
    “ Fuck … ” he hisses into my neck.
    My teeth let go of his earlobe just long enough to ask, “Feeling objectified yet?”
    He doesn’t answer, lost in the ecstasy of what my finger’s doing to his poor nipple. Taking his silence for an answer, I reach down and grip the waistband of his briefs, then slowly start to slide them down.
    That’s when he shakes from his trance and grabs my hands, stopping me. “Wait, wait, wait.”
    “Yeah?”
    “Not here. Someone could see,” he whispers, turning to look over his shoulder, then staring out at the empty gallery once again.
    “No one’s seeing but me.”
    “But someone else could just … People might come early and … One of the other artists might—”
    “No one’s coming in. The student exhibit doesn’t open for another thirty minutes.” I meet his face with mine, reeling his bright, blue, worried eyes in. “Plenty of time, you said. Didn’t you?”
    The worry seems to ease out of him, replaced quickly with that all-too-familiar cockiness. “Yeah, right. Y’know, two nipples are fun, sure. But four are more fun.” He gives my breasts a quirk of his eyebrows.
    I give his nipple one last pinch, earning a moan from him, then release the tortured thing. Turning my back to him, I bend down to the art project next to which we’re having so much fun and release the handcuffs one by one. Brant stands there in all his sexy, slender, muscled glory, his nipples hard and his cock harder, bulging in those tight black briefs of his. When I glance back at him, his blue eyes watch me under his tuft of messy brown hair, hungry and waiting.
    I remove the naked lady from the platform—it’s just wire and paper and weighs next to nothing—then gently pat the vacant display. “Giddy up, camera boy.”
    Brant, ever slow to process my meaning, simply looks at the empty platform, confused. Then he squints at me and asks, “You want me … to get onto that?”
    I lift the four handcuffs. They rattle in my clutch as they tap against one another, creating their tinny dissonant song of metal and restraint.
    That’s when the message hits him. “Oh, fuck! You’re a kinky minx, aren’t you?” He laughs, his face lighting up. Then, just as quickly, he turns worried again. “W-Wait, are you serious?”
    My lips curl. “Yep.”
    He rubs his hands together quickly—whether out of nervousness