Page 8 of Misadventures with a Professor
Grateful for the easy, knowledgeable way his hands work my body, pinning me between his leanly muscled frame and the wall of the elevator.
Grateful for the expert way he matches our bodies together, sliding me so that my lace-covered pussy grinds over the thick part of him that throbs for me.
Grateful for the smooth way he deepens our kiss, exploring my mouth, biting at my lips and my jaw, and leaving me a wriggling, wet mess.
“Which floor?” he growls into my mouth.
“Wh-What?”
“We’re doing this in your room,” he says, and it was always my plan to bring someone to my room for safety reasons, so I tell him.
“Nine.”
He slams a fist against the wall of buttons, and then he’s back to plundering my mouth, not so much coaxing me open as taking what he wants, and God, it’s like nothing I ever could have dreamed. I’ve known lust myself. I’ve known what it feels like to have my body aching with the need for friction and fullness, but I’ve never, ever imagined this. The rush of power and pure biological frenzy of feeling someone else’s lust. The way it threads through my own desire like a hot copper wire. The way it makes me want more, more, more.
And more.
I have almost no control over myself in this moment, grinding my needy core against him, rubbing my breasts against his chest, yanking everywhere at his sweater and his firm arms and shoulders and at the wet lengths of his hair—too short to be long but too long to be anything other than unkempt.
He lets me pluck and paw at him, and it seems to drive him madder and madder—his kisses growing more savage, his grip more merciless, until the elevator doors open and he drops me to my feet, yanking me into the hallway before I can find my balance.
“Nine thirteen,” I manage, fumbling with my purse for my phone as I’m pulled down the hallway and then surfacing with it right before I’m crushed against my door and kissed within an inch of my life.
“Take a picture of me,” he says breathlessly against my lips.
“I— What?”
He pulls back just enough so I can see he’s serious. Those blue-green-brown eyes swirl with something stormy and pain
ed. “Take a picture of me and send it to someone you trust.” And then he rattles off a string of numbers. His birthday.
“Why?” I ask again, even though I suspect why.
“Surely,” he says, raising one warm hand to grip my jaw and hold me close for another hard kiss, “with all your research, you know why.”
“So someone knows I’m with you.”
“So you’ll be safe,” he corrects gently, nipping at my neck and then meeting my gaze. “I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for being so careless with yourself.”
I laugh—half from his bossy words and half from the new flicker of his tongue along the shell of my ear. “My body is my own to be careless with.”
“Not tonight, it isn’t,” he whispers. “Tonight it’s mine.”
I text his picture to a friend of mine, along with his birthday and name—Oliver Markham—and then I use the hotel app on my phone to unlock the door.
“What’s your name?” he asks as we kiss our way into the room. I left a light on when I went out earlier, so I reach to turn it off because sex happens in the dark, I know that much, but he catches my wrist before I can do it. “Lights stay on,” he rasps. “And I want your name. I told you mine.”
That he did, and hell if Oliver Markham doesn’t sound so fancy and English-y that I can hardly stand it. Suddenly I’m embarrassed of my own name, which seems to make me all the younger than the ten years I now know separate us.
“Amanda,” I say, telling him my real name. No one calls me that—I’ve been Zandy since basically the moment I was born—but I file taxes as Amanda, and it does sound a lot more grown-up. Like the kind of name an Oliver would be paired with.
Oliver and Amanda sounds perfect.
Oliver and Zandy sounds like a joke.
“Amanda,” he murmurs as his hands cup my face, his thumbs tracing soft lines along the rises of my cheekbones. “What do you want tonight?”
“I want you to have sex with me.”
