Teach Me

by Olivia Dade

  She tilted her head to the side with a moan. “I was keeping them warm in the oven. But they taste good at room temperature too.”

  Clever beyond belief. “Then let’s go.”

  She led him by the hand down her hall and into her bedroom, where an enormous slab of a mattress waited for them, lit only by a dim bedside lamp. A dark-wood headboard curved above the expanse, arching back in a way that sparked a new fantasy.

  But he had a few things he needed to say first.

  By the bedside, he let go of her hand to cup her face and turn her molten eyes to his. “I brought condoms, but if you want to use your own, no problem. Anytime you want me to stop, I will. Anything that doesn’t feel good, tell me.” Despite his nervousness, he had to grin. “Anything that does feel good, tell me. I may be too preoccupied with not coming to notice.”

  Her swollen lips curved. “Same goes. Tell me what works for you and what doesn’t, so I can make this good for both of us.”

  He almost laughed.

  “Unless you somehow transform into a different person, there’s no way this won’t be good for me.” One more question, and then he could kiss her again. “Is there anything you want me to know ahead of time?”

  She thought for a moment. “My breasts aren’t particularly sensitive. Play with them if it gives you pleasure, but maybe not for too long. After a while, I get bored or uncomfortable.” Turning her head, she kissed his palm. “What about you?”

  Oh, God. Was he really going to tell her? When he hadn’t told his wife of twenty years?

  “I, uh…” His face flushed with heat. “I like a little bit of pain. Not much. Not like a whip or paddle or anything. Just a little pinch, or—”

  Her eyes flared. “A bite?”

  He nodded.

  She traced his lower lip, her finger rubbing over the mark of her teeth. “I got that feeling earlier, against the counter. I’m the same way. Do you enjoy hair-pulling and nail scratches too?”

  “I think so.” The admission would reveal entirely too much about his marital sex life, but he had to tell the truth. “I don’t know for sure.”

  Her slow smile poured over him like heated syrup. “Then let’s find out.”

  Martin didn’t remember how her clothes had come off, or his.

  He didn’t remember climbing up onto that enormous bed, or when exactly he’d maneuvered up against the headboard and coaxed her onto his lap, her back against his chest.

  His few available brain cells were entirely preoccupied by the tremble of her thighs as he urged them open, draped them on either side of his own legs. The smooth curve of her shoulder and her gooseflesh as he sank his teeth into that muscle. The way she squirmed against him, her ass providing welcome friction against his cock. The silky fall of her hair. The heady smell of her arousal when he raised his knees and opened his own legs inch by inch, stretching her wider and wider, until she was spread before him.

  There. That’s what he’d pictured when he’d seen the arch of that headboard. Her back arched the same way, her head on his shoulder, her neck bare, her thighs wide.

  His hands slid down the outsides of those soft, dimpled thighs. Slowly, slowly, spread over her inner thighs and inched upward. Then all that wetness and heat lay under his fingertips, and her breath caught as he petted her there. Smoothed her hair aside. Traced the furrow of her sex, each delicate fold entirely new. Entirely fascinating.

  She was so slick, so sweet as she pressed into his touch, gasped at the edge of his teeth on her neck. Her fingernails bit into his thighs, and he gave a helpless rock of his hips, grinding himself against all that softness.

  A stroke down her center made her sigh, but a slow circle of her clitoris elicited little gasping whimpers. When he spread two fingers, rubbing softly on either side of that peak, she raised her arms and gripped his hair with both hands. Tugged sharply, until the throb of his cock nearly blinded him.

  Fuck. She needed to come first.

  But God, she was straining now, her back in that lovely bow, her neck exposed.

  With his tongue, his teeth, his lips, he worked the flesh there, but kept his fingers slow, slow, slow. Steady. Stroking until her clitoris had swelled, slick and sensitive, and her pussy pulsed in occasional little clenches. Not orgasms, but not far away either.

  Her little puffs of breath came faster, and her sounds became harsh. Guttural.

  She fisted his hair, pulled, and gasped that she needed harder. More.

  He rubbed harder, pressed deeper, in little circles, until her head was tossing on his shoulder, and he couldn’t keep his mouth on her neck.

  With another, louder gasp, she stiffened, and then her sex began pulsing beneath his fingertips, her slickness coating his hand, as she ground against his touch and moaned and came and came and came.

  As she rode his hand, her nails dug into his scalp, the grip of her fingers in his hair tight enough to make his eyes water.

  God, it felt amazing.

  When she finally collapsed back against his chest, sweaty and still, he whispered into her ear. “Do you think you can come a second time? With me inside you?”

  With that murmur into her sensitive ear, she twitched against his fingers again.

  “We can try,” she said, her voice hoarse. “But if I don’t, I won’t feel deprived. Believe me.”

  She got up on shaky knees, her round ass jiggling in a way that made him bite off a groan, and he rolled on the condom. Then she was sinking down onto his cock, her sex gripping him tight as he pressed deeper and deeper.

  She wriggled a little, adjusting her position, and took more of him. All of him.

  With a sway of her hips, she began a gentle rocking motion. A slow grind of her ass in his lap as she pursued her pleasure. Bracing himself against the headboard, he pulsed his own hips up and down, working his cock deeper and rubbing himself inside her again and again.

  “This feels…” Her moan vibrated in her throat. “It’s so good, but I can’t…”

  “Can’t come like this?” he managed to gasp out.

  She shook her head.

  Gently, he tipped her forward, easing out from inside her. Urged her to her knees, her head against the mattress.

  Then he ate her from behind, licking into all that slickness and those swollen, plump folds. Flicking against her clitoris until she started those telltale little clenches again, the not-quite-orgasms.

  He rose to his knees and pushed deep once more. She shoved herself against him, taking him to the root, and snapped her hips forward and back again. Fucking herself on him. He gripped her hips, fingertips tight, and fucked her right back, until he was breathing in harsh inhalations and making helpless sounds of pleasure as he watched all that tight wetness stretch around his cock, enveloping him even as he sank inside her over and over again.

  This white static of agonizing pleasure…he had no context for it. No—

  She reached between her legs. Rubbed. And then she sobbed out a breathless fuck, and her pussy locked down on him, squeezing and convulsing until he thrust one last time and held. His throat strained as he made a sort of strangled howl and let go, let himself come inside Rose in furious spasms of release and teeth-clenching ecstasy.

  She was tightening around him, working her internal muscles to draw out his pleasure, and he fell forward, barely able support his weight on his hands, as he kissed her spine. Kissed her shoulder. Kissed anywhere he could reach.

  Jesus, he’d had no idea. Had always thought books and movies exaggerated.

  If anything, they’d undersold sex. Maybe because those books and movies weren’t about Rose, and she was the crucial bit. The crux of everything.

  His unsteady hand covered hers at her sex. “Want more?”

  She straightened her legs until she lay flat beneath him, and he slipped out of her body. But she didn’t protest as he rested atop her, a human blanket. Their hands remained pressed beneath them, cupped between her legs.

  Her voice was a breathless te
ase. “I thought older men needed more recovery time.”

  “Some parts do.” He grinned against her damp neck. “But our fingers and tongues don’t.”

  He couldn’t move his hand much, not with so much weight atop it, but he managed to trace the slick seam of her. Tease her entrance with his fingertip.

  She made a little hum of pleasure, but shifted minutely away from his touch. “I’m a bit sensitive right now, but give me five minutes. Then let’s test that theory.”

  He knew just what he wanted to do. How he wanted to bring her more pleasure. “Are you—”

  He cut himself off, unsure.

  Never in his life had he even attempted to talk dirty. What if he sounded like a fool?

  With a heave of her body, she rolled to the side and out from underneath him.

  She nudged his chin until she could see his expression. “What?”

  “How do you feel about a little…um…” He looked at the pillow for a moment. “Are you okay with dirty talk?”

  Her grin should have been a suspension-worthy offense, it was so wicked.

  “Oh, I’m more than okay. I’m downright enthusiastic.” Her voice was nearly a purr, velvet in the darkness. “Let me have it, Krause. I want to hear all about what you want.”

  Okay, then.

  He thought for a moment, then steeled himself to say it. To do what he’d envisioned.

  His breath teased her ear as he nudged her hair aside. “Are you going to come all over my face, Ms. Owens?” He licked her earlobe. Bit down. “How about if I finger-fuck you? Are you going to squeeze my fingers and soak my hand again?”

  She drew back and stared at him for a moment, silent, and he regretted everything. Everything. Even his birth.

  Then she spoke, those amber eyes aglow with what he could only interpret as lust. “I certainly hope so. Because as far as I’m concerned, your five minutes are up.”

  Dirty talk fucking rocked.

  Sixteen

  Rose slid Martin’s plate in front of him and waited for the inevitable teasing.

  He considered the crème-fraîche-and-caviar blinis for a moment, straight-faced. “Well, it’s not a Pop-Tart, but I suppose it’ll do.”

  And there it was. Smartass.

  Rose rolled her eyes and filled her own dish. “Pearls of caviar before swine.”

  “I’m on board with the pancake part. I’m just not sure fish eggs are a breakfast food.” When she deposited her food onto the table, he tugged her into his lap, even though she had to be crushing him. “You, on the other hand, I consider a nutritious and delicious part of any balanced—”

  “Forget it.” She tickled his neck until he stilled his wandering hands. “I need coffee before foreplay. Before conversation too, preferably.”

  He relented. “I forgot you hadn’t yet consumed your two-liter vat of coffee.”

  “The Mug of Caffeinated Glory waits for no man.” She patted its porcelain surface fondly as she took a sip. “And it doesn’t hold two liters. Not until I refill it, anyway.”

  Because he was a considerate man, as well as a wise one, he retreated to the entertainment of his phone while she drank her coffee and consumed her blinis. Which were freaking delicious, whether he appreciated them or not.

  But it appeared he did, because after eyeing them suspiciously and taking the world’s tiniest bite of the closest one, he began popping the rest into his mouth in quick succession.

  When he finished everything on his plate and peered longingly at the contents of her own, she transferred a few more blinis to him. By that time, she’d finished her first mug of coffee and started her second, and was feeling human-adjacent once more.

  “Any interesting news?” She slung her bare feet into his lap, and he gave them a squeeze. “Or were you checking your e-mail?”

  He laid his cell on the table. “Work e-mail, actually. Keisha says we’ll finally get initial class rosters for next year’s preps in another week or two. Apparently there was some sort of computer malfunction.”

  In other words, she’d find out soon just how extreme her drop in AP enrollment really was. Keisha might even tell them which preps they’d be teaching.

  Rose expected bad news in both cases.

  “I wanted to talk to you about something.” His fingertips gently rubbed her arches. “I don’t think you’re going to like what I have to say, though.”

  Please let this not be about prom. Please let this not be about prom.

  He’d let the subject slide for a couple weeks now, but her grace period couldn’t last forever. At some point, he’d want an answer, and she still wasn’t sure which one she could give.

  He leveled serious blue eyes on her. “I think you should sic Annette and Alfred on Dale.”

  Whew.

  “If they worked their rich-person magic on the school board, he’d be lucky to keep his job.” The prospect of an unemployed Dale appeared to cheer Martin. “Even if he managed to stay employed, he’d lose any power he had over you. You know that.”

  She inclined her head. “I do.”

  Lines scored across his forehead once more, his momentary levity gone. “So I don’t understand why you aren’t fighting him with every weapon you have. He’s a sexist, arrogant ass who’s punishing you for your success and your refusal to make yourself smaller than you are, not for anything problematic you’ve done. If you enlisted your former in-laws, it wouldn’t be because you were trying to avoid some sort of punishment you actually deserved.”

  “Martin…” She nudged his flat belly with her toe. “I refuse to meet with him one-on-one. I walk out whenever he says anything obnoxious. I threatened to cut off his balls and serve them as our school lunch special if he kept hugging me every time we met. He has plenty of reasons to discipline me, even if he’s an ass.”

  He let go of her feet and threw his hands in the air. “But the reason for those infractions is because he is an ass!”

  She caught one of his hands. Held it. “On that, we agree.”

  There was something especially seductive about a man who defended you to yourself. Who was determined to see your least-professional behavior as justified at worst, an actual virtue at best.

  He lowered her feet to the floor so he could move closer and take her face in his hands. “Rose, you should be teaching those Honors World History kids. For their sake, but also for yours.”

  The pain darkening his eyes was for her, and she had no idea how to handle it.

  “They do just as well with you,” she told him with complete sincerity.

  “Maybe for this year.” He cradled her face so carefully, like an artifact almost too precious to touch. “But by not getting you in tenth grade, they don’t know what an amazing teacher you are. They don’t know they can trust you. They don’t know they should follow you to AP U.S. History.” He paused, giving his next words extra weight. “Which means in eleventh grade, they’re missing out on an opportunity to do more. Be more.”

  He was echoing her own words. Her own past. Her own triumph and her own grief.

  Sharing herself meant being seen, being understood, even when she’d rather not be. Even when she’d rather pretend icy indifference and nurse her pain privately.

  It hurt.

  “Sweetheart…” He brushed the wetness from her cheeks so tenderly, she couldn’t even feel embarrassed about crying. “You need those kids. You love those kids.”

  When Vonnie—or Chase, or Ariana, or any of them—walked across the graduation dais in a little over a year, she’d do the same thing she did every spring. Smile. Congratulate them. Praise them to their loved ones. Then she’d go home, throat aching with unshed tears, and hope her kids never forgot they were loved and capable of greatness, even after she could no longer remind them every weekday.

  In a small way, she imagined it was the same pain Martin was experiencing when it came to Bea. A necessary loss didn’t hurt any less for its necessity.

  “For that matter, Annette and Alfred love yo
u. Let them help you.” He kissed her closed eyelids. “It would make them happy. It would make you happy. It would make your future students happy. Depending on what happened to Dale, it might even make your fellow social studies teachers happy.”

  He wasn’t wrong, but…

  But.

  “It’s a matter of pride, Martin.” She opened her eyes and covered his hands with hers, desperate for him to understand. “As long as I’m not in danger of getting fired, I want to outmaneuver Dale on my own. I don’t want him to know I needed help to defeat him.”

  He considered that for a moment. “Is your pride more important than your happiness?”

  The question was unfair. What’s more, he should know it was unfair, because she’d shared her past with him.

  She scooted her chair back, and his hands fell away from her face. “Pride kept me from drowning in poverty. Pride got me scholarships to college and a 4.0 GPA in graduate school. Pride helped me survive my marriage and my divorce. Pride deprives Dale of satisfaction every time he insults me and waits for the hurt to show.”

  Because he was Martin, he didn’t interrupt. He didn’t compose his own response in his head while she was still speaking. He listened.

  Which was good, because she wasn’t done yet. “Because of my pride, I survived long enough to have any chance at happiness now.” She spread her hands flat on the table and met his gaze directly. “And you’re telling me to set it aside? Disregard it as if it has no more use?”

  He waited to make sure she was done.

  Then he spoke slowly. Carefully. “As Bea and I have discussed many times, women are told again and again to swallow their pride to appease others, while men are celebrated for standing strong and remaining defiant. I’d have to be a sexist prick to want you to disregard such a fundamental aspect of yourself.”

  He reached out for her, then paused for permission. When she didn’t stop him, he traced the tight line of her jaw. Measured the angle of her chin.

  “And on a personal, selfish level, your pride was the first thing I noticed about you. The first thing that drew me to you. I would never want you to abandon it. I find it admirable, and I find it intensely, painfully arousing.” He flashed a self-deprecating smile. “But this isn’t about me. It’s about whether that sexy, stalwart pride—in this one, very specific instance—is keeping you from what you want, rather than helping you get it.”