Page 9 of Misadventures with a Professor
And that’s all he needs.
His hands drop to my skirt, and they ruck up the wet fabric easily, hitching it all to my waist, and then he cups my pussy with one elegant hand. “You need to be fucked here? Hmm?”
“Yes,” I sigh, trying to press into his hand. It feels so good, so fucking good, and I’ve never gotten this far…never had only a scrap of lace between my aching emptiness and a man’s possessive touch.
But then his touch leaves my pussy, and I whimper. He reaches for the zipper of my dress and, with a practiced move, tugs it down. Before I can fully process what’s happening, I’m bared to the waist, with only the thin silk of my bra between my body’s secrets and his hungry eyes.
“But these need me too, don’t they?” he says, his hands smoothing over the rounds of my breasts, shaping to their weight and ample size. Despite the cold and sharp cast of his mouth and the equally cold and aristocratic cut of his features, there’s something almost boyish in his gaze as he cups and fondles me. Something awed and greedy. He slides the straps of my bra over my shoulders and then peels the damp silk cups from my skin.
“Christ,” he mutters to himself as my nipples peek free and my breasts spill over the rest of the cups. “Jesus Christ.”
And before I can say anything or even cover myself, like my instincts demand, his mouth is closing warm and wet over the needy tip of one breast, and I let out a noise that’s nearly embarrassing in its shocked honesty. It’s not the rehearsed coo of a woman in a porn video—it’s a noise that comes straight from my belly, a low moan of unfiltered need.
I had no idea it could feel so good.
No idea.
His mouth is slick and warm, sucking every secret dirty wish of mine right to the surface of my skin as he works me and worries my nipple with rough nips and pulls.
I feel the wet response between my legs like nothing I’ve ever felt before. I mean, wet after a few minutes with battery power, sure, but wet from a stranger’s mouth moving hungrily over my breasts? Wet from the flashing multicolored gaze of a man I don’t know as he tears my dress down my hips and then scowls at my exposed form?
“You’re so much,” he says accusingly. “You’re so fucking much.”
I’ve always known that. I’ve always been so much. I’m the girl who raises her hand at the end of class because she can’t bear for it to end. The girl who does every extra-credit assignment and then asks for more because she wants the teacher to like her. I’m curvy and eager and relentlessly energetic, and I’ve been those things ever since I can remember.
And yet never has being too much sounded like he’s making it sound right now.
As if I’m a treasure and a curse all at once. As if he both loves and hates me.
As if I’m killing him simply by being myself and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Oliver circles me now, like a predator, like a wolf, and when I move to shift and put my arms over myself in a surge of self-consciousness, his hands are on me again, folding my wrists at the small of my back and locking them there with strong fingers.
“Bad girl,” he murmurs into my ear, standing behind me so that all I have of him is that deliciously refined English voice and the warm grip of his hand. “Very bad girl.”
“I’m not a bad girl,” I protest, because his words are hooking somewhere deep inside me, somewhere deep inside the eager teacher’s pet that is Zandy Lynch. Too late I remember I’m supposed to be Amanda, someone older and more sophisticated, someone who’s been around the block and isn’t as eager to please.
But it doesn’t seem to matter. My eagerness to be a good girl for him seems to gratify, because he bites at my shoulder with a pleased noise.
“You want to be a good girl for me?” he asks. “You want to make me happy?”
“I do,” I breathe. “I do, I do.”
An approving growl at my ear.
I’m bent over the bed without so much as a warning; the only concession to my comfort is the pause he gives me to turn my head so I can breathe easily. And then my panties are ripped to my ankles and done away with.
“Red means stop,” he says and kicks my legs apart.
I hold my breath, waiting for it…for something…for fingers or spanking or for him just to shove his cock right inside me. And oh shit, if he’s going to do that, he needs a condom. But just as I’m about to tell him that, something utterly unexpected and utterly magical happens.
He runs his tongue soft and slick through the split between my legs, and I nearly jump up from the bed. A stinging slap to my ass makes me freeze.
“Good girls hold still,” Oliver warns from behind me. I can feel the warm breath of his words against my pussy, a lurid reminder that he’s able to see and smell and taste a part of me that no one has ever seen or smelled or tasted before, and I can’t handle it. I can’t even pretend to handle it. I squirm against the bed.
“Oliver,” I moan, and it happens again. His tongue. His tongue and his lips and the intimate press of his nose into me, and I could peel apart with embarrassment, but he puts a hand on the small of my back and keeps me bent over the bed as he samples me.
I’m trapped. Trapped between his hands, which hold me down or spread me open depending on his whim. Trapped between the bed and his hungry mouth. Trapped between my embarrassment and just how insanely delicious it feels. Delicious because he thinks I’m delicious. Delicious because it’s intimate and wet and hot.
