Page 48 of Misadventures with a Professor
My blood pounds hot again, for reasons I don’t entirely understand. Anger, hurt, confusion—all of those—but there’s something else, something dangerous.
Possession.
“You have no idea what I want,” I say, getting to my feet. She takes a step back and then another as I step forward. “You weren’t even going to talk to me about this? Before you just up and left?”
Her heel hits the wall behind her and she’s trapped, but she refuses to cower. “I won’t ask you for anything you’re not willing to give,” she says proudly. “I didn’t do this to trap you. I didn’t do this to hurt you.”
I know. It’s what I should say, what I should tell her, but I’m still thrumming with this need, with this fear, that she’s leaving me and I can’t hold on to her, and all I want to do is hold on to her. Her and this baby.
“We can end this healthily, like adults,” she says as my arms go to her waist, effectively pinning her against the wall, and her body ripples with response—goose bumps, hard nipples, parted lips.
“No,” I say.
“It ended the night we met,” she continues but more weakly this time.
“No,” I say again, my hands dropping to her pert bottom and lifting her against me. Her legs go to my waist automatically, and she can’t help the way she rubs herself against my renewed erection, just as I can’t help the way I rub against her still wet and swollen pussy.
“Oliver,” she tries, but my mouth is already on hers, kissing her as if I can brand my soul onto her soul, as if I can force her to stay with the heat of my lips alone.
“Red means stop,” I say, and when I meet her eyes, I know the word will never leave her lips. And when I reach beneath us to aim my cock at her opening, I’m rewarded with a deep moan. This time, as I thrust into her completely naked, I savor every fucking second of it. Every tight, wet second, every inch of nothing between us.
“You were going to leave me,” I grunt, pumping into her. “You were going to leave.”
“It’s for the best,” she gasps, her arms wrapping as tight around my neck as her legs are around my waist.
I don’t answer her with words, letting my mouth’s actions speak for me instead, blazing hot nips and kisses down her jaw and to her neck, where I keep my face buried as I fuck her. She’s so impossibly soft like this, pinned hard against a wall, not just her soft cunt but her breasts pillowing against my chest, her round bottom in my hands, and her velvet thighs around my hips. The orgasm is like a fist at the base of my spine, angry and hot, and I can feel its claws everywhere in my body, tightening in my belly and drawing up my balls and clenching the breath in my chest—but she has to go first, dammit. She’s got to come first.
I drop her weight just enough so the friction catches against her clit. I feel it the moment it takes hold in her—the straining, squirming tension of her building climax—and I work it desperately, fan it into flames until she’s falling into the fire of her pleasure, fluttering over the edge into release.
“Professor,” she gasps, and I freeze, but she doesn’t notice. She’s still riding out the waves of her orgasm on my cock, and then it doesn’t matter how much the word affects me. There’s no way any man can hold back now, and I am no exception. With this curvy, dark-haired goddess wet and whimpering and impaled on me, I come like a rubber band snapping, sharp and sudden and nearly painful, grunting into it like a beast.
Spurt after spurt of heat erupts into her, and it’s like I can feel it everywhere, from my scalp to my toes, and I never want it to end—the feeling of pouring into her, the feeling of her still coming around me and on me and against me. And she is so perfect.
So perfect.
She deserves better than a twisted man like me.
The world slowly unwinds, slowly brings us back to normal. Normal breath, normal pulse, normal heartbeat—although my heart is still slamming wildly against my chest because I haven’t just fucked Zandy the innocent little temptress. I’ve fucked the moth
er of my child.
And the responsibility of that is uncomfortably acute.
I carefully set her down and tilt her chin up to meet my face. “How are you?” I ask, abruptly worried that I fucked her too rough, that I was too much and that I’ve hurt her.
“I’m good,” she says, a bit dazed, and then she offers me the first real smile I’ve seen all day. “Professor.”
I flinch, just as I did when she said it a moment ago.
“What?” she asks, her forehead creasing. “What is it?”
“You can’t call me that. Not—not anymore.”
She keeps her eyes on me as she covers herself. “Why not?”
I’m not as brave as her, not as strong. I look away, using the fastening of my pants and shirt buttons as an excuse not to meet her eyes. “We can’t play that game now.”
“But I like that game.” Her voice is so honest, so clear, and how does she do that? How can she make it all seem so simple? “Not just like it, Oliver, but I think I have to play it too. I need it.”
