Page 40 of Misadventures with a Professor
Luckily, Oliver is close, and with something between a growl and a roar, he surges off his chair with me in his arms and lays me out across his desk. Papers go everywhere, the inkwell smashes over and spatters us with dark ink, and he’s so mindless with his lust that he doesn’t care. I watch a drop of ink trace down his neck like onyx-colored blood as he fucks me with a clenched jaw and powerful hips, and that line of ink is all that anchors me to reality as I come for an explosive, final time, too tired and wrung out to do anything other than whimper my way through it, my hands curling weakly around his straining biceps.
“You make me come so good,” he grunts, his eyes closing as his body goes rigid over mine. “Fuck…Zandy…oh my fucking God.”
He fills the condom with a series of hard, jerking throbs, slumping over my body as he drains inside me. Our hearts pound together, ink and sweat smears between us, and I’m pretty sure everyone from Bakewell to Berlin heard me screaming and grunting, but I don’t even care. I don’t ever want to move. I don’t ever want to get clean. I don’t ever want Oliver’s body anywhere but right here, inside mine and pressed against mine and dripping ink everywhere.
And I look into his eyes where they peer down at me in their dappled blue-brown-green, and I can almost imagine he feels the same way.
I can almost imagine that we’re falling in love.
Chapter Twelve
Oliver
Ten Days Later…
“I still don’t understand what it is about slippers that you associate with advanced age.”
Zandy and I are down by the river behind the house, and I’m meant to still be working, but I’ve given up. I thought by moving us out of the office that I wouldn’t be tempted to fuck her, but as it turns out, I want to fuck her everywhere, and I very nearly have.
In the past two weeks, I’ve fucked her uncountable times over my desk, on my study floor, in my bed, in my shower, and on my kitchen table. I’ve spanked her until she’s been a wet, whimpering mess. I’ve made her write essays naked at her desk. I’ve had her service me with her mouth under my desk while I finished taking notes on a Victorian pamphlet about marriage proposals. We’ve spent nearly every hour together, working and talking and fucking and sometimes just with her curled in my lap kissing me until we’re both breathless and beyond speech. Every meal, every shower, every mug of passable tea in the last two weeks has happened with her by my side.
And I haven’t hated it.
I haven’t hated it at all.
Somehow, someway, Zandy has made my life sweeter, and a callous, terrible part of me wants to dismiss it as a natural result of all the fucking, but the rest of me knows better. This thing I have with Zandy is remarkably different than whatever I had with Rosie—better and more honest and more real—but there’s enough of the same for me to recognize what’s happening.
I care for Zandy.
Although as I watch her pick her way around the riverbank, looking for stones and ignoring my comment about slippers, I know I can do better than I care for her.
I’m falling in love with her.
And it makes me angry and terrified and excited, and I’m not sure what to do about it. I’m not sure I should do anything about it. After all, she’s young and vibrant and has an entire life waiting for her at the end of the summer. The last thing she wants is some surly bastard making claims to her life.
It stings though, thinking that these days of splashing in the river and wandering up to town after a long day of work are numbered. Listening to the quiet rustle of her writing on the other side of the room, looking forward to tangling my limbs around hers at night.
But it would be ridiculous to want more than the summer. In fact, I can’t believe I’m even thinking about it. Of course she needs to leave—her life is in the States and my life is here, and my life doesn’t include another person, no matter how sexy or warm or open she is. Never mind how much she looks at me like I matter, like my needs matter, like I’m not a deviant but someone she adores.
She won’t adore you for long. Rosie couldn’t.
r /> With that depressing reminder, I look up to see Zandy climbing the riverbank toward me, green blades of wet grass sticking to her feet. She flops onto the blanket next to my pile of books with a sigh.
“I won’t apologize for the slippers,” she says, finally addressing my comment from earlier. “Only old people wear them.”
“Objectively not true, as I wear them.”
She wrinkles her nose at me. “But why?”
“The floors get cold,” I say defensively. “I have cold floors.”
“And then there’s the old man pen.”
“It has character.”
“And the old landscape paintings.”
I bristle a little. “Those are tasteful.”
