Page 46 of Misadventures with a Professor
Doesn’t she feel it? How good and right we are? Doesn’t she understand how huge this is for me, how fucking rare and perfect?
“Then why are you crying?” I ask, searching her face. “I don’t understand.”
She just shakes her head, crying even harder now, and she curls into the tiniest possible ball in my arms, until she’s completely nestled into me and the scent of her hair fills my nose. Her legs are pulled up to her chest, which hikes her skirt past her ass, and even though my mind is mostly on soothing her, my body reacts to the rounded flesh now sitting bare on my leg.
And then her lips are on my neck, open and imploring, working their way up to my jaw and my earlobe, her tear-wet face slicking against mine, but I don’t deny her. I can’t deny her anything, I think, least of all the comfort I’m the most qualified to give.
I meet her mouth with an ardent kiss, tugging her against me so she has no choice but to straddle me, so her hard nipples press through her shirt and drag against my chest, so I can cup her backside in my hands and grind her against my cock for the friction we both crave. Her tongue, when I find it, is eager and needy, chasing mine with a desperation that’s underscored by her hands flying everywhere—at my shirt buttons, at the bunched muscles of my arms, at the tensed lines of my neck.
“Oh, Oliver,” she mumbles. “Please, please, please.”
“Anything, darling,” I say, the endearment slipping out of me faster than I can catch it back. But why would I want to catch it back? I love her. She deserves for me to be more than a tight-lipped miser about it.
She’s already fumbling with my pants, her small, slender fingers on my cock, and before I can even register how good it feels to have her stroking the hot, thin skin, she’s wedging me at her most private place and pushing herself down in wild, frantic thrusts.
It’s messy and rough, her skirt bunched around her waist and tears still dripping from her face, but her eyes are completely open and raw on mine and something between us tightens closer than ever, like a knot being cinched shut. I should stop her. I should wipe her tears away. But how can I when the first edge of a smile pulls at her lips and she’s chanting, “Yes, Oliver, oh God, yes”?
When she feels like pure fucking ecstasy on my cock, wet and slick and soft, like a tight heaven? It’s never felt this good, ever. It’s never been me clenching every muscle in my belly and ass and thighs so I don’t blow too early. It’s never been—
I’ve never been bare with her.
Holy shit.
Holy shit, I’m raw and naked inside her. I’m naked inside her, and it feels better than anything I’ve ever felt in my entire life. Ever. If I come like this, I don’t even know how I’ll survive, because I’m barely holding on as it is, and…
But I can’t come like this. I can’t. I’ve fucked that up before, and I refuse to fuck it up with Zandy. My bold little librarian with her entire life ahead of her; she’s far too precious for me to make this mistake a second time.
My hands find her hips, and I try to still the frenzied roll of her body over mine. “Let me get a condom,” I say to her. “This isn’t safe.”
She peers down at me, and for a moment, I treasure just how beautiful she is like this, even with tear tracks shining on her face. Her hair is like the silkiest, sweetest curtain around us, her cheeks are flushed and pink, and her mouth is a study in feminine glory.
“Oliver,” she says. Just that. Just my name, and there’s an undercurrent of pain in it, like it’s the last time she’ll ever say it like this, which is ridiculous, of course. If I have it my way, she can say it every day for the rest of her life.
I try to ease her off me. “Let me get prepared, Zandy. It will only take a second, and then you can ride me as long as you want.”
She doesn’t move yet, her lower lip trembling a little. “It feels so good,” she says. “I didn’t know it would feel different for me too, but it feels so good.”
I give a taut, rough laugh. “Yes, it feels good. Too good, and if we don’t fix it, I’m going to be coming inside you.”
Her lower lip trembles even more. “What if it didn’t matter?”
I stare up at her, my mind spinning even as my cock flexes in happiness at the thought. “But it does matter,” I point out. My chest tightens in irritated confusion, because how can she even joke about it not mattering? With her future? With my past?
She closes her eyes. “It doesn’t have to. Not now.”
“Because we’ve said I love you?” There’s a spiked cynicism to my tone that I don’t like, but I can’t help it. “I’ve said those words before, Zandy. They have nothing to do with what will happen if I come inside you.”
Her eyes flutter open, and suddenly I know I’ve said something wrong, something deeply wrong. “Right,” she says faintly. “Of course.” She tries to climb off my lap, but despite it being what I wanted, it feels wrong now, like if I let her un-join us, something else, something more crucial, will come un-joined as well. I hold her tight to me, catching her eye.
“Zandy?”
“No, it’s fine,” she says, still trying to move off me, and I have a flash where I realize I’m forcing her to stay on my lap. I let go of her as if I’ve been burned, horrified at the thought of forcing a woman, but I’m just as horrified at the look on her face when she gets to her feet in front of me. She looks like I’ve slapped her, and I don’t know if it’s because I let her go or because of what I said.
She pulls down her skirt, and I have the distinct impression that she’s trying to make herself look more dignified, more adult, as if that matters when my cock is still naked and wet between us.
“Do you mean that? What you said about love having nothing to do with fucking bare?”
She’s twisted my words, but as much as I work with words for a living, I can’t figure out how. It’s in the tone, in her giant blue eyes so wounded and the way she wraps her arms around herself, as if to shield her body from me.
