Page 26 of Misadventures with a Professor
“Listening to you come on your own hand, night after night.”
I suck in a guilty breath, grateful he can’t see my face. “I—that’s not—I mean—”
“Don’t lie to me, Miss Lynch.”
Not Zandy.
Not even Amanda.
Miss Lynch, like I’m a misbehaving student of his. The thought turns me on beyond all belief, and I squirm in his lap. “I didn’t mean to—”
“You’re lying,” he accuses. “You think I don’t know what you do at night, dirty girl? You think I don’t know how you slip your fingers between your legs and wish it were my fingers? My mouth? My cock?”
I’m so far gone with lust at this point that all I can do is moan.
“Did you do it to drive me mad? Hmm?” Another spank. “Did you do it hoping I would break down the door and fuck you like your fingers couldn’t?”
“Yes,” I whisper as another spank lands hard. “Yes, I wanted that.”
“Naughty girl,” he admonishes. “Very naughty girl.” Several more rain down on my backside, and I am past struggling now, past anything but the need for friction against my clit, the need to be filled deep inside.
“Please,” I beg wildly. My hair is tumbling down around my face, and my nose is starting to run, and it feels like I’ve been spanked within an inch of my life, and I need something, something only he can give me. “Please, Oliver.”
He gives me an almighty spank. “Try again.”
“Please, Professor.”
“Much better,” he rumbles, and then his fingers are right where I need him, pressing against the fabric covering my pussy. He tugs the panties aside, studying his prize for a long moment before fingering me in rough exploration. He makes a noise of approval at what he finds.
“So wet,” he says with crude pleasure. “So wet for me.”
His hand grips my hair and turns my head so I can look at him—his other hand keeps working at my sopping-wet pussy, teasing my entrance and working inside my channel so slowly that my toes curl.
“What do you want, Miss Lynch?” he asks, and he’s as scornfully proud as ever, but there’s something in the way he asks and in the way his hand pauses inside me…
He’s waiting for me to carry this kinky game of his further. He’s waiting for me to choose. And it’s not even a choice. It hasn’t been a choice since I clung to him in the London rain.
I will never choose red.
“I want to be your good girl, Professor Graeme. Please let me be your good girl again.”
Chapter Eight
Oliver
I knew this morning that I was near my breaking point.
All week it’s been building, stoked by every fire imaginable. Her adorable and distracting habit of running the top of her pen over her lip as she worked. The thoughtful feeding and bringing of fresh mugs of tea, once she figured out the kettle. The unknowing way she flashed me her panties as she crawled on all fours around my office, shifting through stacks of research.
And at night…fuck.
It was purely an accident the first time. I was passing down the hallway to get a glass of water when I heard her. It was only a quiet mmm of feminine relief, but it went through me like an electric shock. I froze to the spot, instantly picking up on the rustle of sheets and the quickening of breath and—God have mercy on my soul—a sound that could be nothing other than a slender finger moving through a wet pussy.
I listened, hard and throbbing, until the very end with her sweet gasp of pleasure, and then I stole back to my room to toss off fast and vicious, coming so quickly that I could barely catch my breath.
I’ve repeated the voyeurism every night since.
How could I not?
