Page 11 of Misadventures with a Professor
My back bows off the bed as I cry out and grab for him, my fingers threading through his hair as I quiver and shake against his mouth, as my first ever non-solo orgasm tears through me with tidal, elemental power. I feel it everywhere—to the roots of my hair and in the balls of my feet—and as I’m racked with the gorgeous agony of it, he still pleasures me, still kisses and feasts on me like he can’t bear to stop.
And when I finally, finally still against his lips, going from wire-tight to limp and happy, he gives my pussy a final kiss and rises up to his knees, tugging off his sweater and kicking off his shoes and trousers. He should look clumsy, pulling off damp clothes, but in that mysterious Oliver way, it all looks graceful. Powerful. And inch by inch, his body appears. His handsomely squared shoulders and deceptively wide chest and a torso ridged with lean muscle and marked with a single line of dark hair trailing down from his navel.
And then those hips, trim and narrow, the spread of dark hair low, low on his belly, the tops of firm thighs, and then—
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
His cock.
It flexes as I trace it with my gaze, the veined thickness, the blunt swell of the head, and the proud jut of its hardness. There’s something so potent and arresting about this part of him; it’s so very male and handsome, and even just looking at it makes my belly churn low with new longing.
“You want it,” Oliver says, drawing my gaze up to his. It’s not a question, but I answer anyway.
“Yes.”
He looks down at my pussy, spread and wet, and then up to my face. I can’t read his expression, but there’s something twisting the sharp corners of his lips, and I realize it’s excitement. I realize it’s glazed fervor.
He wants me as much as I want him.
And God, how that punches me in the gut.
“I wear condoms,” he informs me, reaching for his wallet.
“Okay.”
“Every time.”
“Okay.”
He tears the wrapper open with long fingers, nimble and dexterous in the way that brings to mind writing or piano playing, and then rolls the latex sheath over himself with an ease that both fascinates and frustrates me.
“And I’m on top this time.”
“Okay by me.” And it really is because I’d have no idea what the hell to do if I were on top. And being so exposed—not just with my braless breasts and my soft thighs but with my inexperience, with my unpracticed movements… I don’t think I’m ready for that yet. Especially not with someone as wickedly sophisticated as Oliver.
“Any other rules?” I tease, even though I like the rules. I’ve always liked rules, and from him, there’s nothing sexier.
“Yes,” he says, crawling back between my legs. “Red still means stop.”
And then he lays his body over mine, matches the wide crest of himself to my cunt’s opening, and begins to push inside.
I arch in a slow writhe, the pressure too much, the bite of pain too real, and for a substantial moment, I think about pushing him away. I think about saying red. It’s one thing to read about the discomfort some women face in their inaugural encounters with penetration, but it’s an entirely different thing to feel it. It’s so unfamiliar, this discomfort. It’s so intimate, right at the heart of me, as if I’m being split open by the coolly vicious man above me.
Except not vicious.
Not really.
Even as he spanked me, he soothed me and played with my pussy, and even as he wedges inside me now, he strokes the hair from my face and sucks at my neck. And the noises he makes as he grits his teeth and pushes in—guttural noises, animal noises, words uttered in the most filthy tone possible: tight, Jesus, tight and goddammit, you feel so good and so fucking much, so fucking much.
“Going to fuck you,” he whispers into my neck as his head drops to the pillow next to mine. He’s still only halfway in. “Going to fuck you until you’re a good girl again.”
All of it, all of it, but especially those last words, take the pinch of pain and turn it into something new. Something as good as the good girl I want to be for him, and instead of pushing him away, my hands wander down to the tight clench of his ass and coax him in farther. Deeper. Until he’s seated as deep as a man can go in a woman.
“Oliver,” I gasp, because he’s filling me where I’ve never been filled, heating me and stretching me and stroking me, and the tip of him is kissing against a part of me I never even knew was there. “Oh, Oliver. It feels— I can’t believe how it feels.”
He pulls up and stares down at me, that sharp-tipped mouth pressed into a line and his eyebrows furrowed. “I can’t believe how you feel,” he corrects. And then he shakes his head slightly, his mouth twisting in some conversation with himself. “You’re not at all what I expected,” he says. “You’re not at all how you look.”
“How do I look?” I whisper.
