Page 12 of Misadventures with a Professor
He gives a dark smile and reaches up to run a thumb over my fire-engine red lips and then down over a plump breast. “Like you know everything there is about fucking.”
“I don’t know anything,” I admit. It was never the plan to reveal my virginity to my would-be paramour, and it seems strange to tell Oliver about it now, when he’s already inside me. But a big part of me wants to tell him, wants him to know how much I’m trusting him with, how much I need him to continue being his mixture of safe and dangerous. But then I add, “You have to show me. Have to teach me,” and his eyes go so dark, so feral, that I decide the conversation can wait until later.
I want him ferocious now. I want him looking like this, all possessed and desperate.
“You want me to teach you?” he rasps, moving between my legs again. “You want to be my little student? My little whore?”
Holy shit. I nearly come from his words alone—from this teacher game, this good-girl game. And still he moves, long and sweet strokes that have my toes curling and my back arching.
“Good girls come on the cocks their teachers give them,” Oliver says as he fucks me. “You want to be a good girl, don’t you?”
I nod vehemently. It’s all I want, it’s all I’ll ever want, and I need to be his good girl. I need it like I need air and water and breath.
“Please,” I whimper. “Help me be a good girl, please, please.”
He moves the wide pad of his thumb to my clit between us, rubbing in time to his deep, rolling thrusts, and the orgasm builds like nothing I’ve ever felt. A runaway train bearing down on me, a wall of sweaty, dirty pleasure—it’s so much that I try to move away from it, try to squirm away from under him.
I can’t bear it. I know I can’t. I’ll die if I orgasm, because it’s too strong, too fucking strong, it will shake the bones right out of my body.
“Oh no, you don’t,” Oliver murmurs, his body easily chasing mine, his thumb on my swollen pearl all the while. “You give it to me first. You let me have it.”
And I can’t resist him—not the thick bar of needy male inside me, not his polished accent, not his still-damp hair tousled around his face. Not his savage mouth or his kaleidoscopic eyes. He stills me just enough for the climax to nip at my heels, to tackle me down, and with a panicked moan, I’m felled by it.
I’m slayed by it.
It starts in the deepest pit of my belly, right around the wide tip of him, crushing in and then exploding out like an atom bomb, crumpling through me like I’m nothing but paper in a strong fist. I can feel myself clenching—my belly and my thighs and the inner parts of me—squeezing and clutching at his erection, and he hisses, long and wounded, his hands fisting hard enough in the pillows around my head that I can hear the stress of the fabric. And I can’t speak, I can’t ask if his reaction is good or bad, but there’s something in the rigid tension of his torso, in the strained cords of his neck, that make me think it’s good, that he’s getting pleasure from my pleasure just as I did from his when he spanked me.
“Dammit,” he says through gritted teeth. “Goddammit. I’m going to—you’re making me—Amanda—”
The last comes out as a jagged groan, and then he’s up on his knees, his hands curling hard over my hips as he fucks his way through his own climax. His eyes flutter closed, so I can watch him in my state of limp stupefaction as he uses my body to his own ends. As he uses my happy pussy to send himself over the edge. And then with a grunt and the impossible tightening of all those delicious muscles in his arms and chest and belly, he stills, buried to the hilt, as he pulses in fast, flexing throbs.
“Fuck,” he mumbles, his head dropping down to hang between his shoulders. His eyes are still closed, and I shamelessly drink him in: the tightly carved body and the wide root of his cock just barely visible below the rise of my cunt. The furrowed pull of those dark eyebrows, as if his own pleasure is a problem he’s trying to mentally work out, and the soft part of his lips, as if something about this has rendered him unexpectedly vulnerable. The nearly too-square jaw and the high cheekbones—giving his face a geometric cast normally only seen in marble busts—and the vaguely unkempt hair that waves over his neck and temples.
I’m curious about his hair, which is gorgeous but obviously neglected. I’m curious about his hands, strong but pale, as if they rarely see the sun. And I’m curious about his lean body and his earlier self-denial and his obvious kinky side.
I’m curious about him. I want more of him.
Oh.
Oh no.
I’ve read about this. I’ve researched this. This is the inevitable rush of connection that comes from all the oxytocin Oliver’s stoked in my blood. He’s flooded me with hormones, and now those hormones are insisting that I form a human bond with him, and that’s why people get snuggly and all clingy after sex.
Well, that’s not going to happen with me. That’s not the plan. And given what I know about Oliver, I doubt it’s his plan either.
I’m not going to be curious.
I’m not going to want him.
He solved my problem, and that’s that.
I’m so busy reminding myself that all this affection and vulnerability is hormone-based and therefore not real that I don’t notice he’s opened his eyes and is staring back down at me.
“Amanda,” he says huskily.
I don’t know what to say back because the research didn’t cover this.
Do I say his name back? Do I offer him my shower? Do I tell him I don’t expect him to stay?
