Page 41 of Misadventures with a Professor
Those soft lips are creased in a teasing smile, and I realize she’s poking fun at me. I crawl over her body and pin her to the blanket.
“I believe,” I whisper against her lips, “that you’re being very impertinent at the moment, Miss Lynch.”
She wriggles happily underneath me, her dark-blue eyes glowing with her smug little smile. “And I suppose impertinent girls have to be punished, Professor?”
“How right you are,” I growl before sealing my mouth over hers in a fierce kiss, licking against her tongue until she moans up into me. But I decide I can’t wait, and I start shoving up the skirt of her dress right then and there.
“Do you have a condom?” she asks breathlessly, her hands already at work to shimmy out of her panties.
I’ve been obsessive about having one—or three—with me at all times, but I’d genuinely thought I’d be able to control myself this afternoon. “Fuck, darling,” I say, giving her a quick kiss. “I’ll run in and get one.”
“Hurry.” She pouts as I get off the blanket, and it’s a true test of my strength to leave her like this, with her gleaming hair in a dark halo around her head and her bare pussy already wet and waiting for me.
“I will,” I vow, and I stride quickly inside. When I get to my bed table, I realize we’ve already gone through Zandy’s condoms and the new package she bought at the store last week. With a sigh, I dig out the old box at the back of my drawer—the one I’ve had for an embarrassingly long time—and grab a condom, briefly checking the expiry date as I do. With a sigh of relief that we’re still, only just, inside the date, I am downstairs and behind the house as quickly as my legs will carry me. I fall over Zandy like a hungry wolf, eating up her giggles and sighs as if they’ll feed me through the winter.
And before long, I’m sheathed and pushing between her legs, relishing the velvet, tight grip of her as I pierce her deep. Fuck, she feels so good. She always feels so good. She’s always so soft and tight, always pure heaven to fuck into.
I angle my hips the way I know she likes, pumping into her with strokes that drag along her most sensitive spots, and she’s a wild thing beneath me, being both a very good and a very bad girl at the same time, as only she can. I steal another aggressive kiss, wishing I could steal everything of hers and keep it forever—not just her beauty and her extravagant body but her laugh and her intellect and her fearlessness. All the things that make her so perfectly Zandy are the same things that flay me open and make me want to be a better Oliver, a man kind and smart and brave enough to deserve her.
“Oliver,” she whispers against my lips, and I feel the telltale flutters in her belly and inner thighs and around my cock—she’s going to come. I add my thumb to her clit as I brace myself on a forearm over her, but right as she goes over the edge, I feel something I can’t recall feeling before. It feels like a pop, a tiny pop, and then all of a sudden there’s a new feeling of warmth and wet.
“Shit,” I gasp, pulling out as fast as I can.
“What?” the girl under me says dazedly, still coming down from her climax. “What is it?”
“I think the condom broke.”
That’s sufficient information to alarm her, and she props herself up on her arms as I peel off the condom and examine it. “But it’s okay, right?” she asks worriedly. “Since you haven’t come yet?”
“I think so,” I say, still peering at the condom in the afternoon sun. It’s definitely broken. “It’s probably because it’s old…”
And then I have a real chill when I remember that old box was the source of my condom in London. Did that condom break without me realizing it? I’m nearly lost to panic at the idea, until something very warm and wet closes over my bare cock, and I look down to see those devilishly soft lips closing around my shaft. Her tongue is everywhere, flickering and soft beyond imagination, and she takes me deep like I prefer, deep enough that her throat squeezes the head of my cock.
I groan.
And as she fucks me with her mouth, I forget all about old condoms and terrifying possibilities and lose myself to Zandy and the warming feeling of coming in the afternoon sun with the river rushing sweetly beside us.
The next day, I propose a work break, and Zandy and I go to Haddon Hall for a lunch of sandwiches and a stroll through the medieval manor.
“Why library school?” I ask as we walk through room after room and she chatters at me about all the architectural details and historical oddities tied to them. “It’s clear that you love history. And,” I say, a little shyly because I’m strangely unused to giving compliments, “you’re damned knowledgeable about it, and you’re a fucking good researcher to boot.”
She has to hide a beaming little smile at my praise, and it does something to my chest. A puffing thing. I have the power to do that—I have the power to make her happy. I want to make her beam all the time; though as soon as I realize that, I remember that I can only make her beam until the summer is through.
“I could never decide on just one thing that fascinated me,” she says, stepping into the long gallery and then spinning in a slow circle to take it in. “Like this building. It’s a medieval manor house with a Tudor-style gallery and Victorian monuments in the chapel. I like the idea of my mind being full of layers and chambers and niches and naves, each one filled with different things. As a historian, you have to pick, but as a librarian…you get to have it all.”
Her speech is rather charming, even if I feel slightly specious in its reasoning, but it’s her I am truly held captive by—the way her eyes glow as she speaks, the way her body animates with enthusiasm. “Fine,” I concede. “But why school in Kansas? You could go anywhere you’d like—why not somewhere more prestigious?” If she wants libraries, she deserves the best libraries in the world. She deserves everything.
“I’ll have you know that there are some very good library schools in Kansas,” she sniffs. And then after a moment, she adds quietly, “And I didn’t want to leave my dad.”
“Why not?” I live less than fifty miles away from my parents, and I still only see them twice a year, and that’s more than fine by me. “He’s not unwell…or anything?”
She rolls her eyes. “He’s perfectly fine, health wise. I just think family is important, don’t you?”
I suppose the time it takes for me to reply is answer enough. She examines me for a moment. “Does this have anything to do with why you’re so weird about money?” she asks.
“I’m not weird about money,” I protest, but even as I protest, I lower my voice so no one around us can hear.
She makes a you’re proving my point face, and I sigh.
