Misadventures with a Professor
Page 11
I make an assenting noise around his shaft, and he grunts his approval.
“Enough.” He pulls me off his cock with a faint popping sound and then rolls on a condom he grabs from a drawer. He spreads his legs, using his thumb to press his erection away from his belly. The message is clear.
“Come fix your grade, Miss Lynch,” he says huskily, and I crawl up into his lap as quickly as humanly possible, aching for that thick part of him to fill me up and ease the ache that’s been there ever since we fell asleep last night.
“I’ve never…” I trail off as I pause over him, catching his gaze. I’m suddenly apprehensive about this, about being on top. Everything else we’ve done, he’s taken total control of, he’s guided me and taught me, but if we do it like this…my inexperience will be on display. All of my clumsy attempts will be right there for him to see.
“I like that you’ve never,” he says in a low voice. “But you’re a smart girl, aren’t you? You’ll figure it out.”
Determination settles through me. I want to show him what a smart and good girl I am, even if I look foolish doing it. I lower myself until I feel the wide latex kiss of his tip at my opening, having to squirm and circle to get him worked inside.
“You feel bigger like this,” I say as he stretches me. “Fuck.”
“Language, Amanda,” he chides. Other than holding himself up straight at the base, he makes no move to help me as I pant and shiver my way down his cock, impaling myself inch by thick inch, until I’m fully seated against him, so filled up with him that I can barely breathe.
My head drops to his shoulder, and he lets me sit there for a moment, quivering and misted with sweat. “Oh God,” I mumble into his neck. “Oh my God.”
His hands run appreciatively over the round swell of my bottom, up to my hips, and back down to my ass again. “Let’s see you fix that grade, girl,” he murmurs into my ear. “Get to work.”
With my arms wrapped around his neck and my face still in his shoulder, I start to move, moaning as I do. I’m stretched so wide, crammed full of him, and every movement I make sends agonies of sensation all over me. Good agonies, bad agonies, I don’t even know which anymore—just that this colossal erection is going to split me open and also that I’m about to come from the pressure of it alone.
It only takes the tiniest of movements—a rocking forward so that my weight grinds the bead of my clit against him—and then I shudder out a deep, soul-shaking climax, clinging to him and crying my pleasure into his neck. He holds completely still underneath me, allowing me to quiver my way through and use his hard body how I need, and then he cups my bottom again with his hands as I collapse against his chest, utterly exhausted.
“That was very nice,” he says crisply, as if I’ve just finished a violin solo and not wrung out a delicious orgasm on his perfect cock. “But I’m afraid it’s not enough to fix your grade.”
“Do you need to come, Professor?” I ask, sitting up and letting my hands fall to his chest. Even through the fabric of his button-down, I can feel the tattoo of his heart beating against my palm.
“Yes,” he says, and he can use that precisely clipped voice all he wants, because his need is stamped all over his face. It burns inside his eyes and carves itself around the sharp lines of his sculpted mouth. “I need to come now.”
It’s both easier and harder to move along him—easier because of how wet and slippery I am and harder because the orgasm has made me exquisitely sensitive—and Oliver is riveted by my face as I begin to rock against him. His fingertips trace the fleeting furrows in my brow, the little pouts of pleasure and quick smiles I make. There’s feeling everywhere, everywhere, chasing all over my skin; my nipples are so taut they ache, and my thighs are warm with his hips between them, and even the soles of my feet are tickled by the gentle breeze coming through the open window. I’m going to come again, and I don’t think I’ll live through it when I do.
Luckily, Oliver is close, and with something between a growl and a roar, he surges off his chair with me in his arms and lays me out across his desk. Papers go everywhere, the inkwell smashes over and spatters us with dark ink, and he’s so mindless with his lust that he doesn’t care. I watch a drop of ink trace down his neck like onyx-colored blood as he fucks me with a clenched jaw and powerful hips, and that line of ink is all that anchors me to reality as I come for an explosive, final time, too tired and wrung out to do anything other than whimper my way through it, my hands curling weakly around his straining biceps.
“You make me come so good,” he grunts, his eyes closing as his body goes rigid over mine. “Fuck…Zandy…oh my fucking God.”
He fills the condom with a series of hard, jerking throbs, slumping over my body as he drains inside me. Our hearts pound together, ink and sweat smears between us, and I’m pretty sure everyone from Bakewell to Berlin heard me screaming and grunting, but I don’t even care. I don’t ever want to move. I don’t ever want to get clean. I don’t ever want Oliver’s body anywhere but right here, inside mine and pressed against mine and dripping ink everywhere.
And I look into his eyes where they peer down at me in their dappled blue-brown-green, and I can almost imagine he feels the same way.
I can almost imagine that we’re falling in love.
Chapter Twelve
Oliver
Ten Days Later…
“I still don’t understand what it is about slippers that you associate with advanced age.”
Zandy and I are down by the river behind the house, and I’m meant to still be working, but I’ve given up. I thought by moving us out of the office that I wouldn’t be tempted to fuck her, but as it turns out, I want to fuck her everywhere, and I very nearly have.
In the past two weeks, I’ve fucked her uncountable times over my desk, on my study floor, in my bed, in my shower, and on my kitchen table. I’ve spanked her until she’s been a wet, whimpering mess. I’ve made her write essays naked at her desk. I’ve had her service me with her mouth under my desk while I finished taking notes on a Victorian pamphlet about marriage proposals. We’ve spent nearly every hour together, working and talking and fucking and sometimes just with her curled in my lap kissing me until we’re both breathless and beyond speech. Every meal, every shower, every mug of passable tea in the last two weeks has happened with her by my side.
And I haven’t hated it.
I haven’t hated it at all.
Somehow, someway, Zandy has made my life sweeter, and a callous, terrible part of me wants to dismiss it as a natural result of all the fucking, but the rest of me knows better. This thing I have with Zandy is remarkably different than whatever I had with Rosie—better and more honest and more real—but there’s enough of the same for me to recognize what’s happening.
I care for Zandy.
Although as I watch her pick her way around the riverbank, looking for stones and ignoring my comment about slippers, I know I can do better than I care for her.
I’m falling in love with her.
And it makes me angry and terrified and excited, and I’m not sure what to do about it. I’m not sure I should do anything about it. After all, she’s young and vibrant and has an entire life waiting for her at the end of the summer. The last thing she wants is some surly bastard making claims to her life.
It stings though, thinking that these days of splashing in the river and wandering up to town after a long day of work are numbered. Listening to the quiet rustle of her writing on the other side of the room, looking forward to tangling my limbs around hers at night.
But it would be ridiculous to want more than the summer. In fact, I can’t believe I’m even thinking about it. Of course she needs to leave—her life is in the States and my life is here, and my life doesn’t include another person, no matter how sexy or warm or open she is. Never mind how much she looks at me like I matter, like my needs matter, like I’m not a deviant but someone she adores.
She won’t adore you for long. Rosie couldn’t.
“I won’t apologize for the slippers,” she says, finally addressing my comment from earlier. “Only old people wear them.”
“Objectively not true, as I wear them.”
She wrinkles her nose at me. “But why?”
“The floors get cold,” I say defensively. “I have cold floors.”
“And then there’s the old man pen.”
“It has character.”
“And the old landscape paintings.”
I bristle a little. “Those are tasteful.”
Those soft lips are creased in a teasing smile, and I realize she’s poking fun at me. I crawl over her body and pin her to the blanket.
“I believe,” I whisper against her lips, “that you’re being very impertinent at the moment, Miss Lynch.”
She wriggles happily underneath me, her dark-blue eyes glowing with her smug little smile. “And I suppose impertinent girls have to be punished, Professor?”
“How right you are,” I growl before sealing my mouth over hers in a fierce kiss, licking against her tongue until she moans up into me. But I decide I can’t wait, and I start shoving up the skirt of her dress right then and there.
“Do you have a condom?” she asks breathlessly, her hands already at work to shimmy out of her panties.
I’ve been obsessive about having one—or three—with me at all times, but I’d genuinely thought I’d be able to control myself this afternoon. “Fuck, darling,” I say, giving her a quick kiss. “I’ll run in and get one.”
“Hurry.” She pouts as I get off the blanket, and it’s a true test of my strength to leave her like this, with her gleaming hair in a dark halo around her head and her bare pussy already wet and waiting for me.
“I will,” I vow, and I stride quickly inside. When I get to my bed table, I realize we’ve already gone through Zandy’s condoms and the new package she bought at the store last week. With a sigh, I dig out the old box at the back of my drawer—the one I’ve had for an embarrassingly long time—and grab a condom, briefly checking the expiry date as I do. With a sigh of relief that we’re still, only just, inside the date, I am downstairs and behind the house as quickly as my legs will carry me. I fall over Zandy like a hungry wolf, eating up her giggles and sighs as if they’ll feed me through the winter.
And before long, I’m sheathed and pushing between her legs, relishing the velvet, tight grip of her as I pierce her deep. Fuck, she feels so good. She always feels so good. She’s always so soft and tight, always pure heaven to fuck into.
I angle my hips the way I know she likes, pumping into her with strokes that drag along her most sensitive spots, and she’s a wild thing beneath me, being both a very good and a very bad girl at the same time, as only she can. I steal another aggressive kiss, wishing I could steal everything of hers and keep it forever—not just her beauty and her extravagant body but her laugh and her intellect and her fearlessness. All the things that make her so perfectly Zandy are the same things that flay me open and make me want to be a better Oliver, a man kind and smart and brave enough to deserve her.
“Oliver,” she whispers against my lips, and I feel the telltale flutters in her belly and inner thighs and around my cock—she’s going to come. I add my thumb to her clit as I brace myself on a forearm over her, but right as she goes over the edge, I feel something I can’t recall feeling before. It feels like a pop, a tiny pop, and then all of a sudden there’s a new feeling of warmth and wet.
“Shit,” I gasp, pulling out as fast as I can.
“What?” the girl under me says dazedly, still coming down from her climax. “What is it?”
“I think the condom broke.”
That’s sufficient information to alarm her, and she props herself up on her arms as I peel off the condom and examine it. “But it’s okay, right?” she asks worriedly. “Since you haven’t come yet?”
“I think so,” I say, still peering at the condom in the afternoon sun. It’s definitely broken. “It’s probably because it’s old…”
And then I have a real chill when I remember that old box was the source of my condom in London. Did that condom break without me realizing it? I’m nearly lost to panic at the idea, until something very warm and wet closes over my bare cock, and I look down to see those devilishly soft lips closing around my shaft. Her tongue is everywhere, flickering and soft beyond imagination, and she takes me deep like I prefer, deep enough that her throat squeezes the head of my cock.
I groan.
And as she fucks me with her mouth, I forget all about old condoms and terrifying possibilities and lose myself to Zandy and the warming feeling of coming in the afternoon sun with the river rushing sweetly beside us.
The next day, I propose a work break, and Zandy and I go to Haddon Hall for a lunch of sandwiches and a stroll through the medieval manor.
“Why library school?” I ask as we walk through room after room and she chatters at me about all the architectural details and historical oddities tied to them. “It’s clear that you love history. And,” I say, a little shyly because I’m strangely unused to giving compliments, “you’re damned knowledgeable about it, and you’re a fucking good researcher to boot.”
She has to hide a beaming little smile at my praise, and it does something to my chest. A puffing thing. I have the power to do that—I have the power to make her happy. I want to make her beam all the time; though as soon as I realize that, I remember that I can only make her beam until the summer is through.
“I could never decide on just one thing that fascinated me,” she says, stepping into the long gallery and then spinning in a slow circle to take it in. “Like this building. It’s a medieval manor house with a Tudor-style gallery and Victorian monuments in the chapel. I like the idea of my mind being full of layers and chambers and niches and naves, each one filled with different things. As a historian, you have to pick, but as a librarian…you get to have it all.”
Her speech is rather charming, even if I feel slightly specious in its reasoning, but it’s her I am truly held captive by—the way her eyes glow as she speaks, the way her body animates with enthusiasm. “Fine,” I concede. “But why school in Kansas? You could go anywhere you’d like—why not somewhere more prestigious?” If she wants libraries, she deserves the best libraries in the world. She deserves everything.
“I’ll have you know that there are some very good library schools in Kansas,” she sniffs. And then after a moment, she adds quietly, “And I didn’t want to leave my dad.”
“Why not?” I live less than fifty miles away from my parents, and I still only see them twice a year, and that’s more than fine by me. “He’s not unwell…or anything?”
She rolls her eyes. “He’s perfectly fine, health wise. I just think family is important, don’t you?”
I suppose the time it takes for me to reply is answer enough. She examines me for a moment. “Does this have anything to do with why you’re so weird about money?” she asks.
“I’m not weird about money,” I protest, but even as I protest, I lower my voice so no one around us can hear.
She makes a you’re proving my point face, and I sigh.
“Okay, yes, my family has some money.” Even that vague admission feels unclean. “And there’s no trauma, no division, but the way they are about what they have is very old-fashioned to me. I try to avoid it and I think they try to avoid me.”
And then I let out a breath. It didn’t kill me to say it out loud, and it actually felt nice, a little bit, telling someone about how unpleasant my family can be.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” she asks, taking my hand and pulling me to a cove of mullioned windows to admire the green expanse outside. “Maybe you just need the right family, you know? One that fits you.”
And the strange thing i
s that I’m looking at her as she says that, as she gazes through the diamond patterns of glass out onto the verdant expanse of grass and hills, and I’m thinking of her. I’m thinking of her as my family.
It tempts me more than I can bear.
But I force myself to remember the ticking clock of summer. Force myself to remember Rosie’s cruel words all those years ago.
Degenerate.
Deviant.
Even if we didn’t have that date in August demarcating our time, how could I ever expect someone as full of promise and innocence to want to tie herself to a monstrous recluse like me? Zandy might think these kinds of games are fun for a summer, but how could she ever want someone like me for longer? Someone as contorted and sexually corrupt as me?
At the end of the day, Zandy will be the same as Rosie, and she’ll be sick of me. It’s better to prepare myself for that now and plan for a clean break, no matter how much it burns to think of it.
No matter how much it hurts.
Chapter Thirteen
Zandy
It occurs to me the next day.
I’m at the kitchen table making a shopping list, and then I have to double check the date on my phone. I run upstairs and riffle through my things and see that I’ve only got a handful of travel-worn tampons to call my own, and my period is due to start any day now. I trot back downstairs and add tampons to the list, along with the various foodstuffs and household supplies Oliver needs. If I didn’t shop for him, I think he’d probably survive on canned soup and tea. It’s a little charming in a bachelor kind of way, if it isn’t also a little stupefying.
The day proceeds as normal—I work, Oliver fucks me, I shop, Oliver fucks me again—and it’s as I’m snuggling to sleep in Oliver’s arms that I wonder how we’ll navigate my period. I’ve never done this before, the whole lover thing, and I’m not sure what the protocol is. Do I give him a warning that it’s coming, or do I just wait until it’s arrived and apologize? Will he still be okay fooling around on my period?