Page 29 of Misadventures with a Professor
I move my lips from the underside to her nipple, tugging gently at the straining tip with my teeth and then drawing it into my mouth for a long, swirling suck. She arches underneath me, a movement that matches us together down below, and before I can do anything about it, she’s rubbing her empty pussy against me, lifting her hips and grinding against my hardness.
The feel of her wet and soft against my bare cock is like a nightmare and dream wrapped into one, and for the first time in years, I find I want to fuck a woman bare. I want to push into Zandy with nothing between us, and I want her to see how raw she makes me, how vulnerable. I want her to feel every inch of what she does to me. I want her to feel it when I come in her, marking her.
Mine.
And then I duck my head down to kiss along her stomach, terrified of my own thoughts, terrified she’ll see them. Terrified she’ll see them and she won’t be scared and I won’t be scared either and we’ll do something regrettable.
There’s a good reason I fuck with condoms every time. There’s a good reason I fuck with condoms always.
I work my way down the gentle curves of her stomach and then over the rise of her pubic bone, kissing and licking all the way.
“Stop,” she gasps. “I’m sweaty, and I should clean myself if you’re going to do that again and—”
“Is this a red stop, or is this you trying to hide yourself from me?”
“It’s not a red stop,” she clarifies. She has no idea how tantalizing she looks like this, her head propped on a pillow, near-black waves of hair everywhere, her nipples standing to attention and her wet cunt spread before me. “But I have been sweaty all day—”
“I make the rules,” I inform her in a clipped voice. “In this bed, I’m the professor and you’re my student, and I’m going to taste you. And then I’m going to fuck you.”
She wiggles a little, color in her cheeks. “But…”
“Those are the rules, Miss Lynch. You want to follow my rules, don’t you? Be a good girl for me?”
God, how she responds to me when I talk to her like this. Like she was made to fit me. Her mouth parts, and her tongue licks out at her lower lip. Her eyes are huge, dark pools of needy blue when she answers, “Yes, Professor.”
I make a noise of satisfaction and resume my kissing, using my hands to spread her wide so she’s completely on display for me. That night in London, I’d been too impatient, too fast—years of celibacy chasing me down and making me weak, and when she broke open my control, she broke open all of it. The restraint. The time I normally took with a woman in bed.
Not now. N
ot tonight.
Tonight, I’m in full control, and I take my time staring at her, using my thumbs to make it so she hides nothing. There’s no wet secret of hers that I don’t want to taste and learn. There’s no hollow of her body that I don’t want to know my touch.
Mine.
I trace every fold with my tongue, I suckle on the firm berry of her clit until she’s moaning, and then right before she comes, I sheathe my cock in latex and drive home, kissing her aggressive and deep with a mouth still wet from her pussy.
“Zandy,” I grind out, my hips changing from slow rolls to heavy, fast thrusts. “Fuck, Zandy, you feel so fucking good.”
She is lost to the drive of me between her legs, her head tossing. “It’s too much, Oliver,” she mumbles, her eyes closed. “I can’t—it’s too—”
She comes so hard she screams, and I feel it all around my cock, a grip so tight that it almost feels like she’s trying to push me out. It’s work to fuck through all that—the most delicious kind of work—and when I come, it feels like something rips open inside me. Something that’s been held back for far too long. The throbs are so sudden and strong that I find myself slumping over her, unable to keep my own body upright as I fill the condom and something rearranges itself deep in my chest.
After I clean us up, she looks like she thinks she should leave, and I climb into bed and anchor her to me with one arm around her stomach, pulling her back to my chest and her perfect rump into my hips. My knees tuck behind her knees, and her long hair is everywhere like a sea of floral-smelling shadows.
“Oliver?” she asks after a moment.
“It’s the oxytocin,” I mumble against her neck, and that seems to settle her.
But it takes a long time for me to fall asleep, and the reason why is that I know something she doesn’t.
It’s not the oxytocin.
It’s because I’m not ready to let her go.
Chapter Nine
Zandy
