by Layla Frost
There was a storm brewing in his midnight skies.
And I was in the epicenter.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growled.
“Don’t you remember?” I was pleased to hear my wobbling voice contained even trace amounts of the coquettishness I was aiming for. I sat on the edge of his desk and put one of my feet on the chair, parting my legs. “You’re the one who said I should spread on your desk and show you exactly how I… luck myself.”
His wide shoulders and chest rose and fell with his heavy breathing as he grabbed his bulge through his pants.
I could almost see his control snapping and couldn’t help but taunt. “I’m a very good listener.”
Damien tore at his belt and pants, not seeming to notice or care when he ripped the zipper in his haste. He freed himself, and I waited. Ready to taste him. Ready to fuck him.
Just ready.
But he did neither.
He fisted himself, and a cocky smirk pulled at his lips. “You’re a horrible fucking listener, my depraved angel, but you’ll get there. If you want to come, you’ll get there.”
A pit formed in my stomach as I realized I’d pushed him too far, but not in the direction I needed. I hadn’t made his control break, I’d strengthened it.
“Go ahead and show me,” he grunted hoarsely as he roughly stroked himself. “Show me how you’d make yourself come if you could.”
Even if I wanted to stop out of spite, I couldn’t have. Seeing Damien jack-off in the shower—all glistening muscle and erotic taboo—was nothing compared to the up-close view. I watched each twitch. Each throb. Each pace change and stroke variation.
I wanted to memorize them all, storing them away for long nights and hot showers.
My own arousal seemed to have reached levels beyond anything imaginable. I rubbed. I tweaked. I stroked my clit until I was worried it would burst into flames from the friction.
But nothing worked. I couldn’t come.
My ego may have been holding me back until that point, but it wasn’t going to get me off.
Damien was.
Which meant my ego and I lost.
“Please,” I begged.
There was just a twinge of a smirk, but his focus remained between my legs where I worked at myself despite the lack of result. “No.”
“Dam—” I started before catching myself. “Professor Caine, please. I’ll do anything.”
His body convulsed at my plea. “No.”
I pulled my hand from my bra and reached for him, but he caught my wrist at the last second. He held it aloft between us, not letting me touch him or myself.
My hips undiluted wildly, using my fingers, palm, and the desk to try to come. “I give, I fucking give. I’ll use my panties to make a white flag of surrender and parade through the hallway if you want.”
His grip tightened before releasing to fist my hair. “No one sees your panties but me, Eden.” His words were accented by another tug of my hair and an even rougher tug of his cock as he bit out, “Only me.”
“Please,” I begged again, tilting my head away from his grasp so I’d get more pull. I didn’t think I’d like it, and I was right.
I loved it.
“Say it.”
“Only you, Professor Caine,” I vowed mindlessly, a whisper accompanied by a hurricane of emotion. “Only ever you.”
Dropping his head back, he groaned so deeply, I worried he’d shake the whole building. When he opened his eyes, I lost my rhythm and my breath. I’d thought his eyes were a storm before, but they were nothing compared to then. So much swirled in their inky depths, I couldn’t have deciphered it all if I had a lifetime.
Ignoring the metaphorical knot that was tangling around me—around something even more vulnerable than the darkness in my head—I whimpered, “Please, make me come, Professor Caine.”
He stopped stroking and released my hair. I thought he was going to move away again, but instead, he shoved his hand down my pants, covering my own. I could hear the delicate threading on my panties tear, but I didn’t care. The angle was awkward in the tight confines of our embrace, but neither of us seemed willing to move away from the other.
His middle finger covered my own, curling it so the tips of both teased my entrance. He ground his palm into mine and put pressure on my clit.
Holy shit, I’m finally gonna come.
It’s going to shatter me into stardust, but it’ll be worth it.
Damien’s movements stopped, halting mine. “I’ll make you come once you start listening to me, Eden. Give in and I’ll make you come until you can’t see straight. Until you can’t walk. Until you’re—” His words cut off abruptly as he removed his hand from my pants.
I’d never been a crier. Ever. From what I’d been told, I’d hardly even cried as a baby. But right then, tears of frustration pooled in my eyes.
Slowly, one dripped down my cheek.
Then another down the other cheek.
My crying didn’t scare Damien away or soften his black heart. His cock jerked and throbbed as he watched each tear fall before tenderly following their marked path with his fingertip.
A fingertip that was coated in my arousal.
Stepping away, he began stroking himself, but his rhythm was gone, something base and primal taking over.
“Until I’m what?” I asked.
“Until you’re ready to listen.”
“I will,” I rasped, my eyes greedily taking in the show that my body was desperate to join.
“No, you won’t. Not yet.” He grunted harshly, “Lift your shirt.”
“I promise, I’ll listen.”
Manic eyes bore into mine. “Then listen now. Lift your shirt so I can come on the prettiest fucking tits I’ve ever seen, otherwise I’ll come all over the prettiest face I’ve ever seen. Either way, I’m coming on you, so decide and make it fast.”
I yanked my shirt up just in time for the hot stickiness to hit my breasts, bra, and belly. Some fell to my pants between us, but the leggings were already ruined with my own wetness.
When he finished, Damien slumped forward to grip the edge of desk on either side of my legs, his head hanging. The etched muscles in his shoulders were visible through his shirt as they flexed with his heavy breathing.
We stayed like that for long moments, neither of us moving or speaking. I didn’t even try to lower my shirt or shift away. My emotions were so tangled, I couldn’t feel them all, and instead was left numb. Tears leaked down my cheeks, slow but there.
When he finally stood and began righting his clothes, his focus was on my breasts and the mess he’d created there.
My mind raced with jumbled thoughts of premeditated—though justifiable—murder, the scorching hotness of what’d just happened, and the ravenous desire pulsing through me that I’d give anything to satiate. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say first, but when I opened my mouth, I blurted, “I’m the prettiest face you’ve ever seen?”
His eyes widened slightly, though I wasn’t sure if the surprise was from my timing or the question itself. Either way, he stopped what he was doing to curl his hand around my throat, his thumb under my chin tilting my face up. “My depraved angel, you’re so damn beautiful, it hurts. Physically hurts. But it’s the best kind of pain.” His gaze dropped to study the smile I hadn’t even realized I’d given. More to himself than me, he muttered, “Fucking hurts.”
I hadn’t been fishing for a compliment, but the one he gave was the sweetest I’d ever received.
Dismissively, he said, “You have a class and so do I.” He gestured to his broken zipper. “And before that I need to change my pants. I’ll see you when I get home.”
The reality of the situation crashed down on me, burying me in anger. “You really aren’t going to make me come?”
He skewered me with an exasperated glare. “We already discussed this.”
“But—”
“Class.”
Glaring, I bent down and g
rabbed a fistful of tissues from the box Damien had knocked to the floor. I was about to wipe my breasts when he caught my hand.
“Don’t. My day will go better knowing you’ll be waiting for me at home with my come on you.”
“I’m not going to your place,” I said, though his expression told me he didn’t believe me. Hell, I wasn’t sure if I believed me. “Plus, it’ll get on my shirt.”
“Not all of it.” As if to prove his point, his rough fingertips skimmed along the spots that’d already begun to dry.
I shifted away and tugged my shirt down, ignoring his knowing chuckle. He knew the effect he had on me. I was the mouse to his cat, and he liked playing with me. As the stickiness that made my shirt cling to my skin proved, he got off on it.
Determined not to give him any more of a reaction, I schooled my features to look uninterested and uncaring as I gathered my things. I ignored how he sat and leaned back in his chair, his legs stretched out like I was his stripper again.
Or still.
Or whatever.
Once I had everything, my cold shoulder and I moved to unlock the door.
I’d just opened it when he called, “Angel.”
Automatically, I looked over my shoulder and, in an instant, I knew I’d lost. Because I hadn’t shuttered the hope that’d bloomed in me at his one word. The hope that he was calling me back to finish what we’d started.
It’d been clear as day on my face, and we both knew it.
I’d been willing to do anything for a release.
I’d have handed him my strings and danced like a good marionette.
Like his good girl.
My stubborn independence—the deep-seated need I had to be free—had carried me through all the shit in my life.
And in a blink, I’d given it up.
No, that wasn’t true. Damien had seized it, along with my sanity and, apparently, my ability to orgasm.
Trying to hide his smirk, he tilted his head. “You forgot your coffee.”
I backtracked and grabbed it off the undisturbed corner of his desk because I was pissed, but not insane. Petulantly stomping toward the door, his sudden movement grabbed my attention.
Eyes on me, his tongue swirled obscenely around his middle finger. The one that’d been in my panties. Practically in me.
The fire he stoked burned hotter, but so did my temper.
“You’re an asshole,” I hissed.
“And you get off on it.” He smirked. “Or not.”
“Fuck you.”
“Maybe if you learn to listen. See you at home,” he called to my retreating back.
I flipped him off and kept going.
Chapter Twenty-one
* * *
Leap into Fuck-Upped-Ness
Eden
A car door slammed, and I jumped, knocking the book from my lap.
It was fine, I hadn’t been reading it. When Damien had texted that he was on his way, I’d reread the same paragraph close to twenty times before giving up to watch the clock.
My body went rigid at the lock turning, but I didn’t look up. Picking up my book, I stared at it unseeing, pretending like it wasn’t a big deal I was there.
The door opened and closed, keys rattled as they were set on a side table, and something lightly rustled. As he approached, his sock-clad feet were visible in my periphery, and I realized the noise had been him removing his shoes. The intimacy squeezed my heart, but I wasn’t sure whether it was from panic or yearning.
This isn’t real.
Just a means to an end.
Closure.
I still didn’t lift my head until his fingers stretched along my jaw, the tips digging in as he tilted my face to kiss me until we were both breathless.
Tearing his mouth away, he pressed his forehead to mine. “I like coming home to you.”
“I can tell.”
Straightening, he tilted his head toward the book that’d fallen to the floor again. “One of mine?”
“Not unless you have a romance book with lots of alpha male goodness.”
He looked thoughtful, stroking his stubbled jaw. “No, I don’t think I’ve branched out into romance, alpha male or otherwise.”
“You should. I bet they’re better than some of the pretentious books on your shelves.”
“You’d be right.” He walked into the kitchen, and I stood, putting my stuff back in my bag.
“We need to talk,” I called.
“After dinner.”
As if on cue, my stomach growled loudly but I spoke over it. “No, now.”
“Dinner.” He moved into the entryway. “What’re you in the mood for?”
“Talking.” When he didn’t respond with more than an exasperated sigh and narrowed eyes, I shrugged. “I’m not picky.”
“What do you usually get?”
Instant ramen packets, scrambled eggs, and cafeteria sludge.
I kept my voice even and light when I said, “I don’t do takeout or delivery.”
Despite my attempt to be nonchalant, Damien’s eyes warmed and softened with understanding, though his jaw clenched. “Sit.”
He turned and walked back into the kitchen as I sat in the comfy chair.
But only for about seven-point-seven seconds.
Then I was up and pacing, as though my veins had been filled with Diet Coke.
Just talking.
No kissing.
Don’t give in.
Repeating the mantra to myself, I put my hands on my hips and waited for Damien to come back.
And waited.
And waited.
After several minutes, I decided to take the fight to him. Shoulders back, I marched into the kitchen to demand we talk but found Damien still on the phone.
He tried to look stern, but a smile pulled at his lips. Using his shoulder to hold his cell to his ear, he gripped my hips and lifted me, setting me on the island. His palms slid down my thighs to my knees, pushing them apart and moving between.
“Mmhmm,” he said into the phone, bending to press light kisses to my collarbone. “Right.” He stood, his eyes moving from my chest to linger on my mouth before going to my eyes. “Sorry, I have to run. I’ll be in touch between classes tomorrow.” Clicking off, he tossed his cell to the side and cupped my cheek, his mouth about to crash down on mine when I turned my head at the last second.
“Unless you’ve got an odd friendship with a restaurant and you call them during the day to chat, that wasn’t you ordering dinner,” I surmised.
He chuckled. “No, it was Peters.”
“You were talking to your boss while I’m here?” My hand flew to my collarbone. “You kissed me!”
“It wasn’t a FaceTime call. He couldn’t see us.”
“Still!” I gestured between us. “Your… My… They’re close.”
“And they’re gonna be a hell of a lot closer,” he growled, gripping my hips and slamming me against his hardness.
I melted slightly, getting distracted before I remembered my panic. “I shouldn’t be here while you talk to your boss.” I gasped. “What if I would’ve said something?”
“Unless you yelled, ‘Hey, it’s me, Eden Wilder, your student!’ I don’t think a woman’s voice would raise red flags.”
Jealousy clenched my stomach. A question I did not want to know the answer to was burning on the tip of my tongue.
Damien smirked, though it quickly grew into a grin. “About fifty percent of the population is female, so hearing one in the background isn’t unrealistic.”
“You’re at home,” I pointed out. “Are you saying that, based on the population and your square footage, it’s expected to have a certain number of random women milling about?”
“Wow, that would be impressive, if not cramped. Is there a system in place or just an open, rotating door policy?”
“I’m assuming they’d have a schedule so as to never accidentally run into you.”
Unfazed by my insult, he nipped my jaw. “First
of all, Peters had no clue I was at home. Had you spoken, and had he heard, and had he miraculously recognized your voice, he’d have likely assumed I was still on campus. More likely, however, he’d have thought nothing of hearing a muffled voice because people have friends and family and acquaintances and, for some, even rotating doors of lovers. Second, it’s worth pointing out that you didn’t speak, so all this is a moot point. And third,” he paused to nip harder at my jaw, making me hiss out of breath before he whispered, “I like your jealousy.” Shifting forward, his hard cock pressed between my legs. “A lot.”
“I’m not jealous,” I protested, though it came out feebly.
“So you wouldn’t mind if I had women milling about?”
“No, not at all. It’d be fine.” Even to my own ears, the word was snippy, so I gestured around me. “You’re free to fill your home with your allotted number of women. In fact, have mine. I’m low on space.”
“As generous as that offer is, I only have one allotted woman.” He ground into me again. “You.”
Mentos were added to the Diet Coke in my veins, leaving my heart pounding and effervescent giddiness racing through me.
He kissed me again, as if he couldn’t help himself. As if he couldn’t get enough. It wasn’t fast and hard or intense and bruising. It was slow. Teasing. Savoring.
Like he was memorizing my taste but was in no hurry because we had all the time in the world.
Catching my bottom lip between his teeth, he slowly pulled away. I was about to yank him back to me when he muttered, “You’re cute when you’re jealous.”
I glared up at him, reminding myself I didn’t want more slow, tender kisses because I hated him. “No, I’m not.”
Damien chuckled, and since we were pressed close, I got the sensory experience of being able to hear and feel it. My resolve and I almost melted again, but were saved by the doorbell.
“Dinner,” he whispered, pressing his lips to the top of my head before stepping away to gesture to another entryway. “We’ll eat in the dining room. Grab plates and drinks.”
“Right.” When he went to the door, I hopped down and scanned the foreign room with its copious amounts of cupboards and drawers. “Plates and drinks, no biggie.”
