Page 27 of Misadventures with a Professor
I burned with wanting her, I ached with being so near and yet holding myself back, and by today, I was near mad with it. Her lewd curves and even lewder mouth, both combined with those still-innocent eyes. And then she had to go and put her hair up, with only a few damp tendrils escaping, as if to taunt me by caressing all the places along her neck and shoulders that I could not.
I didn’t care that she knocked over a stack of books. I cared that she made me a madman. A wild thing, a beast, a hunter.
A monster.
I cared that I wanted her beyond all sense and propriety, and I cared that she was too fucking smart and helpful for me to find any fault with.
I cared, in other words, that she was perfect, and that by being perfect, she made me the most imperfect version of myself.
So as I hold her over my lap, one hand twisted in that luscious hair and the other still wet from her cunt, I ask her one last time. “Are you sure you want to be my good girl? It will take a lot of work.”
She pulls her plump lower lip between her teeth. “Red means stop, right? So I say red when I need a time-out?”
“That’s correct, Miss Lynch.”
She blinks up at me. “Then that’s all I need to know. Do what you like with me, Professor.”
Christ, but she’s dangerous. Some kind of siren sent to lure me off my path. I push her to her knees in front of me, spreading my legs on either side of her, enjoying the view of her big blue eyes all sultry as she looks up at me. I enjoy it almost as much as I enjoyed the glowing skin of her ass. Almost as much as examining the tight entrance to her body, all pink and wet, and remembering how unthinkably tight she’d been around my penis that night. How I had to wedge my way in.
Hell, I enjoy it all. I drink it all in like a man who hasn’t tasted a drop of water in years.
“You’ve made me hard, like a bad girl,” I drawl, loving how her eyes widen at the word hard. “And a good girl would fix it.”
“Fix…” she asks, and then her cheeks go very pink. “Oh.”
“Yes. Take it out, Miss Lynch. I’m getting impatient.”
Her hands are nervous and unpracticed as she works my belt open. “I’ve never…” Her voice comes out in a faltering murmur that’s unlike her usual confident alto. She clears her throat. “I’ve never done this.”
“Then just do as I say,” I inform her.
She nods, squaring her shoulders a bit, and sets her attention to the task, like any good student would. There’s something deeply erotic about her inexperience, something that makes it more than the playacting this kind of roleplay usually is.
A part of this is real—so real that it might be wrong—and I can’t bring myself to stop it. I let the wrongness of it wash over me, opening to it, letting it inside a cold, sleeping heart that’s been dead to real pleasure for far too long.
I hiss as her hands seek me out, drawing my naked and ruddy flesh into the air.
She stares at it with just as much awe and panic and excitement as she did that night in London—as if she can’t wait to have me inside her even as she knows I’ll be too big—and that makes me want to pound my chest like a caveman. Makes me want to pull her up onto the chair and thrust into her wet opening. I want her impaled on me. I want her writhing from the stretch of me. I want her coming so hard her body tries to curl into a ball because she can’t stand it, she just can’t stand it.
But for now, I se
ttle for this: “Put your mouth there, Miss Lynch.”
Her eyelashes flutter as she looks up at me. “But what if I’m not any good at it?”
Frankly, it’s a miracle I haven’t erupted all over her already, but I don’t break character to tell her that. “Then you’ll have to practice. Best to start now.”
The lower lip gets bitten, and one eyebrow arches slightly in a movement I know means she’s deep in thought. And then she leans forward and presses a chaste kiss to the underside of my cock.
“Like that?” she asks, peering up at me. Her mouth is still close enough to my flesh that I feel the sweet puffs of her breath.
My belly clenches. “Almost, Miss Lynch. Use your tongue. Lick me.”
“Lick,” she murmurs to herself. “I can do that.” And she does, setting that plush mouth to me once again, this time parting her lips, allowing her tongue to slip out.
The second it touches me, I let out a ragged breath; it’s heaven, pure heaven, and the look she gives me is nothing short of vixenish—which, despite everything, despite how lurid and depraved this moment is, almost makes me smile with a grudging kind of respect. I can say many things about Zandy Lynch, and most of them are grievances—that she’s too bold, too eager, too happy—but those are also the same things I can’t ever imagine changing about her. They are the same things that reassure me that, while I might be a monster, I’m still a monster with a conscience, because the girl between my legs knows exactly what she’s doing. She’ll survive this.
Even if I don’t.
