Misadventures with a Professor

by Sierra Simone

  “Suck it,” I say hoarsely. “Put it in your mouth and suck.”

  She does.

  The flood of heat and soft wet is almost too much, and I’m gritting my teeth against the urge to come. “God, you suck me so good,” I groan, my head falling back against my chair. I keep my hands in her hair, pushing her down just far enough to get that squeeze at the head of my prick. “Fuck.”

  I look down at her, and she’s a vision like this, her dark hair tumbling everywhere around my hands and her perfect mouth wrapped around my cock. Her cheeks are hollowed and her eyes are wet and blue, and I think I could look at this for the rest of my life. Except there’s something I want to see more.

  “On your feet,” I tell her, wincing as her hot mouth leaves my cock to throb wet and alone in the air of the room. I stand as she stands, and then I bend her over the desk, ignoring the papers and notes that go flying as I do.

  “Stay here,” I command, and I go up to my bedroom to find a condom. The box in my end table is depressingly old, and it would be funny to think that I’ve seen more sex in the past week than I have in the past three years if it weren’t so painfully true. I find myself taking the steps back downstairs faster than I should, not only excited to get back down to Zandy and her willing body, but also crawling with this odd fear that I’d return to the study and find her gone. That she’d come to her senses and leave and take her forthright sweetness elsewhere.

  The fear is astonishingly pervasive, and I find myself rubbing at the tight spot in my chest as I push open the study door.

  And find her still stretched over my desk, like the good listener she is.

  The relief at seeing her nearly makes me stumble, nearly makes me drunk, and I’m on her with a fast desperation I don’t care to identify. I bend over her body, covering her with mine. We’re both still fully clothed, still sweaty in the June heat, and it makes it dirtier somehow. Coarser.

  Obscene.

  “Oliver,” she pleads, voice breaking, and I don’t correct her this time. The game is melting away—into what, though, I’m not certain.

  “I know what you need, girl. Hold still.”

  I straighten up and roll on the condom as fast as I’ve ever done it in my life, peeling her panties off her skin and kicking them away. I cup her pussy in my hand with a hard, possessive grip, and she wriggles against it, trying to get the friction against her clit, and she’s so wet, so fucking wet, that my palm comes back slicked with her.

  I use that hand to stroke my swollen cock once, twice, before nudging the shiny latex tip at her small opening. I remind myself that this is only her second time being fucked, to take it easy on her, and it’s with all the unraveling self-control left in me that I refrain from slamming into that tight cunt with one savage thrust.

  I settle for two savage thrusts instead.

  The thick, heavy crown stretches her, and I get to halfway in, holding her hips down as she whimpers and tosses underneath me. And then I shove the rest of the way in, wishing I could listen to her noises forever. Her long, low cry as I fully seat myself inside her. Her pants and mewls as I roll my hips to feel the wet silk of her around my root. And then her eye-rolling moan as I slide my hand around her hip and start massaging the swollen pearl of her clit.

  She is amazing like this, bent over my desk like some kind of academic sacrifice, her sweet ass filling one hand while my other hand works her into a frenzy. Her hair is a tumbled mess, and her eyes, when they flutter back at me, are lost and dazed and adoring. And her body around mine, even through the condom, is everything—soft and hot and tight beyond belief. A spark of wonder kindles in my chest that she’s letting a miserable bastard like me fuck her again. That she’s still happy and willing to play any kind of game with me after how I’ve acted the past week.

  Christ, what a gift.

  The spark kindles into a real fire now, something possessive and primal and as certain as the sun and the wind and the sparkling river glinting behind me as I fuck her.

  She’s mine.

  Maybe it’s just for this moment, as she starts quivering and fluttering around my cock, or maybe it’s only for today. But she’s mine, and I want to roar my pleasure at the knowledge.

  I want more of her. More of this. This raw fucking with my hips plowing into her spank-reddened bottom, this sweet clenching around my cock as she comes. And after my own release tears through me, filling the condom with hot and heavy spurts, I barely give her a minute to breathe. I tear off the condom, scoop her limp and sweaty into my arms, and carry her up to my bedroom.

  I’m ravenous tonight. Insatiable. Because, selfish man that I am, if I’m going to break my rules and break the trust I have with her father, then I may as well do it thoroughly.

  And I am very, very thorough.

  I peel off her clothes and explore every exposed contour of her with my mouth. I feast on those abundant tits like I’ve been fantasizing about, like I’ve been stroking myself to the thought of all week, and I turn her into a wriggling, gasping mess.

  “I forgot,” she breathes out, her eyes glowing in the fading light of my bedroom.

  “You forgot what?”

  “That your mouth could feel so good there,” she whispers as I kiss and lick at the softly curved underside of her breast. “That it would make me want you so much again.”

  “Then let me make it so you remember forever.”

  I move my lips from the underside to her nipple, tugging gently at the straining tip with my teeth and then drawing it into my mouth for a long, swirling suck. She arches underneath me, a movement that matches us together down below, and before I can do anything about it, she’s rubbing her empty pussy against me, lifting her hips and grinding against my hardness.

  The feel of her wet and soft against my bare cock is like a nightmare and dream wrapped into one, and for the first time in years, I find I want to fuck a woman bare. I want to push into Zandy with nothing between us, and I want her to see how raw she makes me, how vulnerable. I want her to feel every inch of what she does to me. I want her to feel it when I come in her, marking her.

  Mine.

  And then I duck my head down to kiss along her stomach, terrified of my own thoughts, terrified she’ll see them. Terrified she’ll see them and she won’t be scared and I won’t be scared either and we’ll do something regrettable.

  There’s a good reason I fuck with condoms every time. There’s a good reason I fuck with condoms always.

  I work my way down the gentle curves of her stomach and then over the rise of her pubic bone, kissing and licking all the way.

  “Stop,” she gasps. “I’m sweaty, and I should clean myself if you’re going to do that again and—”

  “Is this a red stop, or is this you trying to hide yourself from me?”

  “It’s not a red stop,” she clarifies. She has no idea how tantalizing she looks like this, her head propped on a pillow, near-black waves of hair everywhere, her nipples standing to attention and her wet cunt spread before me. “But I have been sweaty all day—”

  “I make the rules,” I inform her in a clipped voice. “In this bed, I’m the professor and you’re my student, and I’m going to taste you. And then I’m going to fuck you.”

  She wiggles a little, color in her cheeks. “But…”

  “Those are the rules, Miss Lynch. You want to follow my rules, don’t you? Be a good girl for me?”

  God, how she responds to me when I talk to her like this. Like she was made to fit me. Her mouth parts, and her tongue licks out at her lower lip. Her eyes are huge, dark pools of needy blue when she answers, “Yes, Professor.”

  I make a noise of satisfaction and resume my kissing, using my hands to spread her wide so she’s completely on display for me. That night in London, I’d been too impatient, too fast—years of celibacy chasing me down and making me weak, and when she broke open my control, she broke open all of it. The restraint. The time I normally took with a woman in bed.

  Not now. N
ot tonight.

  Tonight, I’m in full control, and I take my time staring at her, using my thumbs to make it so she hides nothing. There’s no wet secret of hers that I don’t want to taste and learn. There’s no hollow of her body that I don’t want to know my touch.

  Mine.

  I trace every fold with my tongue, I suckle on the firm berry of her clit until she’s moaning, and then right before she comes, I sheathe my cock in latex and drive home, kissing her aggressive and deep with a mouth still wet from her pussy.

  “Zandy,” I grind out, my hips changing from slow rolls to heavy, fast thrusts. “Fuck, Zandy, you feel so fucking good.”

  She is lost to the drive of me between her legs, her head tossing. “It’s too much, Oliver,” she mumbles, her eyes closed. “I can’t—it’s too—”

  She comes so hard she screams, and I feel it all around my cock, a grip so tight that it almost feels like she’s trying to push me out. It’s work to fuck through all that—the most delicious kind of work—and when I come, it feels like something rips open inside me. Something that’s been held back for far too long. The throbs are so sudden and strong that I find myself slumping over her, unable to keep my own body upright as I fill the condom and something rearranges itself deep in my chest.

  After I clean us up, she looks like she thinks she should leave, and I climb into bed and anchor her to me with one arm around her stomach, pulling her back to my chest and her perfect rump into my hips. My knees tuck behind her knees, and her long hair is everywhere like a sea of floral-smelling shadows.

  “Oliver?” she asks after a moment.

  “It’s the oxytocin,” I mumble against her neck, and that seems to settle her.

  But it takes a long time for me to fall asleep, and the reason why is that I know something she doesn’t.

  It’s not the oxytocin.

  It’s because I’m not ready to let her go.

  Chapter Nine

  Zandy

  I wake up sore between the legs and happy. The kind of happy that has no real reason to it. The kind of happy that suffuses your blood before you even open your eyes. And when I do finally open my eyes to summer sunshine and Oliver’s neatly furnished room, I’m smiling.

  Before I’m even all the way conscious, I know he’s gone. But I’m not upset by it—I’ve noticed that he takes himself on punishingly long runs most mornings; and anyway, I’m glad I get to have this very, very girlish moment to myself. The moment where I roll over and smell the sheets and squeal inwardly to myself.

  Oliver fucked me again.

  And more than that—he’s been wanting me as much as I’ve been wanting him. Every glimpse I stole of his eyes and aristocratic mouth, he was stealing similar glimpses of me. He was wanting me, craving me…listening to me finger myself night after night in vivid torment.

  The thought makes me curl and blush with agony—agonized shame and agonized delight. To be caught doing such things is beyond humiliating, and yet to know that those same things aroused and haunted him fills me with a smug feminine pride. To know that the person you want wants you back?

  It’s like a pure life arrowing right through the middle of me. Like I’m entirely new. An entirely new Zandy—not one who’s too much but one who’s just the right amount.

  Just right for a man like Oliver.

  The thought makes me blush anew with how stupidly juvenile it is, with how many unspoken hopes are woven through it, and I push myself out of bed to get away from it. From the wanting more, from the wanting things that Oliver almost certainly won’t want to give. Sophisticated—I still need to be sophisticated.

  So I have my best sophisticated face on as I go downstairs after I shower and dress. I enter the kitchen looking the perfect mix of cool and sultry, prepared to have a cool and sultry breakfast and…

  Oliver’s not here.

  Probably still on a run, I think, but I deflate a little bit. Which is dumb.

  Why am I acting so dumb?

  Chiding myself, I make a cup of tea with the kettle—see, I’m learning—and then decide to get to work. That will please him, I think, to come back and find me at my desk. Maybe it will please him enough to let me have his cock again…

  But then I go into the study, and he’s there, and his very presence reverberates through my bones like a gong’s been struck. The bent head, still proud, still haughty, even craned over his work. The long, strong fingers and the carved swells of muscle pressing against his shirt as he breathes. Those eyelashes so long on his cheeks and the prismatic eyes themselves.

  Eyes like I’ve never seen before I met him. Eyes as complicated and mysterious as the man they belong to.

  I offer up a shy smile, my heart going a million miles a minute. I’m not sure what to say or what to do; all of this is completely uncharted for me. What do all these sophisticated, sexual women say to their lover-slash-bosses the morning after a tryst? Hello? Or perhaps I’m wet just from looking at you. Can we do it again?

  But I can’t be a sophisticated, sexual woman. I can only be Zandy. So I beam at him. “Hi,” I say, giddily and somewhat lamely.

  His mouth tugs down in a scowl. “Glad to see you’re ready to start your work for the day.”

  “I didn’t have my alarm set. I was…”

  I was sleeping in bed with you, I want to say, but something stops me. His expression maybe, growing colder by the second, or the way his beautiful hands have gone still over his notebook.

  Zandy that I am, I can’t help but try again. “I slept so well, though. Last night was—”

  “Last night was a mistake,” he cuts me off. His voice is glacial, the words sharp enough to cut me with their corners. “And it won’t happen again.”

  It takes too long for his words and their meaning to make sense in my mind, but once they do, I think I’d rather be drawn and quartered. I hate being so expressive, I hate it, and I hate that he can probably see the whip-cut of his words across my face. I duck my head so he can’t see the shame, the hurt, the confusion.

  Keep your dignity, Zandy, because it’s the only comfort you’ll be able to hang on to.

  “Of course,” I mumble, making my way over to my desk while trying not to let my tears fall. Trying not to let my mind race with the inevitable questions. The whys.

  Am I not pretty enough? Thin enough? Cool enough? Was I bad in bed? Was it terrible sex and I had no idea because I’m so inexperienced? Or, oh God, what if I did something embarrassing in my sleep? Clung to him or drooled on him—or worse?

  “You’ll find a credit card on your desk,” Oliver says to the side of my face once I’m seated. “For archival materials. Like I said before, there’s no budget. Use what you need.”

  And those are the last words he says to me all morning.

  My first jobs were as research assistants to my father’s friends and of course to my father himself. Since the age of fourteen, I’ve spent summers and winter breaks running photocopies and flagging promising entries in annotated bibliographies. I’m used to working in rooms with humans so deep in thought that they forget I’m there. I’m used to working in silence.

  This is different.

  Every moment feels amplified, as if it’s under a jeweler’s glass, and every noise seems to quake through the room with geologic force. Even the burble of the river outside the open window is deafening. When I set down a handful of books and one drops on the floor, it’s as if I’ve knocked the house over.

  The air between us thrums with unhappy electricity, and it takes all morning for me to get to a point where I think I might not cry. How can he be so cold? How can he be so cruel?

  And how—how—after all that I’ve scolded myself, could I have still gotten attached? Gotten all happy and hopeful and…I don’t know…oxytocin-y?

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  I make him lunch as usual, and he eats it blindly as usual, and I hate how I still crave something from him in this moment—a compliment or a grunt of approval or anything. I hate
how I still want to be his good girl. His teacher’s pet.

  It’s after lunch that I find the note.

  It’s in a pile of books under an ottoman, and despite the entire terrible morning, I can’t help but give a cluck of librarian censure when I find them. The books have been shoved under the ottoman so haphazardly that a few pages are bent up, and one of the leather-bound volumes has a permanent dent in the spine. With a sigh, I gather the neglected babies to my chest and carry them over to my desk, where I’ll catalog them for the database.

  Which is when the note slips out.

  I set the books on my desk and go back to retrieve it, painfully aware of how Oliver’s eyes are not on me, aware of how studiously he ignores me. It burns, that rebuffing, burns like I’m being dipped in scalding water, and I know I have the red cheeks and swollen, tender heart to prove it. I try to ignore him back, pretend I don’t care that the only man I’ve ever had sex with seems to hate me, and I scan over the piece of paper as I walk back to my desk.

  Usually these loose bits of paper are receipts, if not from Oliver’s purchase, then a previous owner’s purchase from years back. Other times, it might be one of Oliver’s own notes—a quick scrawl about why he bought the book or a more detailed write-up outlining the contents.

  But instead of Oliver’s messy, spiky hand, I see words in pretty and symmetrical loops, written in the kind of pen that leaves little flourishes at the end of every word.

  Oliver,

  You hardly ever remember the things you say in bed, but I do. I hope this is proof.

  Your girl,

  Rosie

  My stomach twists, hiking itself up into my chest.

  There’s no mistaking the subtext to that note. There’s no miscategorization. No shelving this on the wrong shelf. This Rosie, whoever she was, was Oliver’s lover.

  Or is still his lover, a quiet voice warns me. How would you know?