Page 45 of Fundamentals of Being a Good Girl
She hesitates, like she knows what I’m going to say. “Well, it’s just—iftwopeople did this, maybe that means I wasn’t clear about the assignment. Or the due date. Or something.”
I brace a hand on the edge of the desk so I’m leaning forward. I want to see her face. “Madelyn,” I say. “They didn’t do the assignment. By any metric. You have to mark their work appropriately.”
I watch as her teeth dig briefly into her lower lip, her sharp brain trying to find a way to justify this. “But—I don’t know. They turned in something, you know? And maybe they had good reasons for not—”
“Stop doubting yourself,” I advise. “You know these dinguses didn’t do what you asked, and if they had real reasons why they couldn’t do the assignment, then they would have come to you. They sent in this shit because they couldn’t be bothered to try harder, and you can’t reward that attitude. Plus, it’s not fair to the students who at least gestured to the bare minimum.”
She taps on the desk next to her keyboard with her fingers, lightly, indecisively. “My gut says that this isfind outtime. But my gut always assumes the worst—that everyone has an ulterior motive. Shouldn’t I make an effort at assuming the best of human nature?”
“In a class that satisfies a gen ed requirement? Maddie.”
A deep inhale that lifts her shoulders. And then a few taps and two clicks. The assignments are marked with one point each.
“Good,” I murmur approvingly, and her next breath catches like a flag snapping in the wind.
Pleasure rolls through me, something not entirely good, not entirely healthy, and I force myself to straighten up and step back. I’m too close, I want to be closer, and...
Maddie turns and, with her eyes locked on mine, finds my hips with her hands. I freeze, every nerve ending flashing with contradictory signals. My body wants more anda lot more, but my brain knows I should stop this, pull away, make space,and before I can do anything, react in any measure except horny turmoil, Maddie leans closer and presses her open mouth to my dick. I can feel the shape of her lips through the thin fabric of my joggers; I can feel herbreath. I was already half hard, but now having this brilliant, newly ruthless little thing with her hands on me, with her clever lips tracing over my shaft and head, I’ve got blood pumping to my groin so fast that syncope is a real concern.
She makes a satisfied purr as my cock kicks to life underneath her kisses, and that purr could be taxonomically categorized as carnivorous because it’s eating me alive, Jesus fucking Christ, and her hands curl even harder around my hips, like she is a predatory animal in truth, and I’ve just been pounced on. I want to let her pounce. I want to let her sharpen her claws on me, nip at me, and then I want to have her curl up in my arms when she’s done, exhausted but happy.
I want to set her loose on the world and then have her sit on my lap while she licks the blood from her metaphorical paws.
But—fuck. No. She’s only got her mouth on me because she’s sitting inmychair inmyoffice. Because she lives here, because she’s young and broke and watching my kids.
I stagger back, and Maddie’s hands are still in the air, still holding invisible hips, and her expression should be one of confusion or shock or even rejection, but instead, she’s beaming up at me, like she findsmeadorable.
“Bram,” she says.
“Madelyn.” But it comes out too breathless to sound stern, and her cheeks are bunched into high, rosy apples right now. Her eyes are sparkling.
“I know you’re going to have some reason why we shouldn’t—”
“Reasons, plural—”
“—and I think we should just skip over that part and get to the part where we see how much of you can fit in my mouth.”
Fuck my life, I can’t—I need her to understand that I am actually going to pass out if she keeps saying things like this. No one has ever talked to me with such blunt, filthy honesty, and no one has ever acted likenothaving me fuck their face would ruin their night, and I’m uniquely ill-equipped to process any of it, because this part of Bram Loe has never been needed or required by anyone. Not even my ex-wife, who treated sex like she treated eating—necessary and occasionally done with gusto, but usually as only a pragmatic concession to biology.
And oh god, I don’t even want to think it, but I can’t help it, I am abad fucking person, but having my nanny talk to me like this...
No, not my nanny! Mychildcare provider. What is happening to me???
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Madelyn, we can’t. It would be inappropriate.”
“I like it when you use your exasperated professor voice on me,” she says in a low hum. “Do it again.”
Oh, I’ll do it again. I’ll do it again right now. I stride over to the glass board I have mounted to the wall, uncap a marker, and start writing. An impressive feat, given that my penis is currently starving my brain of blood.
I finish, cap my marker again, and then face the person responsible for my penile-focused blood flow. She’s sitting primly in the chair, back straight, looking for all the world like a straight-A student. Looking like someone who knew even before she graduated college that she was going to be a politician’s wife.
“Pay attention, Ms. Kowalczk, because there is going to be a test later. There are three exceedingly salient reasons why we should not have sex. Well, have sex again. Number one.” I emphatically tap the board with the cap of the marker near the top item. “You live with me.”
Maddie raises her hand and then speaks after I nod at her. “Professor Loe, if I may—isn’t that an excellent reason to have sex?”
“It is not. I don’t want your living here to feel like it’s conditional. Zero impression of a quid pro quo. Now, number two,” I say, before she can initiate a rebuttal of my point, “you work for me. It’s against the agency’s policy. It’s also unethical, since I employ you, and would introduce complications for everyone if things go south.”
She raises her hand again, her posture perfect, her eyes bright. This shouldn’t be hot.It’s not hot. I’ve never even considered any kind of classroom role-play because classrooms aren’t sexy. They are made of linoleum and projectors that refuse to work at least once a month and they’re haunted by all the unanswered emails in my inbox, wailing just under the threshold of sound.
