Page 34 of Misadventures with a Professor
Possessive.
The way he says you might as well be mine.
“Me?” I ask, and it’s ridiculous, but I think I’ve been waiting to hear that word my entire life.
You.
“You,” he repeats, and then his mouth slants over mine, hot and greedy, just like I’ve come to crave, and within an instant, I’m against the car, my legs around his waist and his arms crushing me tight to him. I have so much more to ask him, so much more to wonder about, but it’s like everything shrinks to the points of contact between us: his mouth so searingly thorough and his lean hips between my thighs and his wide hands splayed over my ass. And where his erection pushes, thick and heavy, between my legs.
“Professor,” I whimper into his mouth, and he shudders underneath my touch.
“You don’t…you don’t have to,” he says. “I want you any way you’ll let me have you. Even without the games.”
“I’ll call you whatever I like,” I shoot back stubbornly, biting at his lip. “It’s my game too. My fun too, whether I want you as Oliver or as my professor.”
And again he shudders, but this time it’s not only with lust. The wonder is back in his eyes, the awe. “How are you real?” he says, biting at my neck. “How can you possibly be real?”
Suddenly, I’m being carried, and I think it’s inside, I think it’s to his bed, but we end up tumbling over right in the lush grass below a cottage window, blown summer flowers bobbing all around us. His strong arms and hands protect me as we collapse onto the lawn, and above me is only the shape of a beautiful man outlined by stars.
“I want you,” he manages in between searing kisses. “Now.”
“Yes,” I say eagerly, tugging at his clothes. “You won’t hear any reds from me.”
And it’s the first time I hear a laugh from him that’s real and open, not bleak at all.
“And please tell me you have a condom,” I say, biting at his earlobe. “I can’t wait a moment longer.”
“You won’t,” he vows, pulling up. “You’re mine now.”
There are no houses around, and even if there were, we’d be completely surrounded by flowers and shrubs, but it’s still insanely exhilarating to be like this, tumbled and tousled onto the lawn with my skirt bunched up around my thighs and Oliver on his knees between my legs, rolling on a condom. The feeling of being exposed, of being filthy, is enough to have me ready before Oliver even touches me.
“Oh, good girl,” he murmurs when he tests my pussy to see if I’m wet and finds out exactly how wet I am. “Such a good girl.”
I squirm under his touch. “Oliver…”
“I know, girl. Hold still.” With a thick, urgent stretch, he fills me, and together we fuck under the stars until I cry out and he joins me in long, jerking pulses, and we roll giggling and grass-stained off the lawn and into the house.
Chapter Ten
Oliver
I’m insatiable again, but I don’t care. Maybe I’m making up for lost time, or maybe it’s the heady pleasure of finding a woman who loves the way I am in bed.
Or maybe it’s her.
Maybe it’s this enthusiastic and boldly vulnerable girl who disarms me at every turn. This girl who warms my chest just with her smiles and with the way she holds her pen and her fucking adorable watch, who approaches dusty books with a zeal usually reserved for sex and religion. She gets under my skin, and I hate it and I love it all at once. And for a man who makes his living from words—studying them, analyzing them, writing them—I can’t find the right words now to explain all this to her. That I want her, that she’s mine, and that if she wanted, she could pluck out what’s left of my heart and eat it, and I’d let her.
So I settle for telling her with my body. With my face between her legs, with my lips running along her thighs and stomach, with my mouth on her sweet tits. She begs to be spanked again, and this time I do it with her on all fours and my cock in her mouth, arranging her so that I can easily swat her ass from the side as she pleasures me.
Then we fuck again.
And again.
The early hours of the morning find us showered and sated, with her in my arms as I toy idly with her hair. I don’t pretend it’s only the oxytocin this time, and she doesn’t ask, but I ask myself anyway.
What are you doing with her, Oliver?
What exactly are you doing?
