“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.
Delicious because it’s nothing like the familiar massage of my hands or the plastic hum of a vibrator. It’s human and messy and dirty. It’s not the tame thing I thought it was at all.
It’s wild. It’s primal. Like a lioness being pinned and bitten by her male. Like a cavewoman being slung over the shoulder of a lusty caveman. I thought I knew the boundaries of it. I thought my research would make the act planned and civilized…
There’s nothing civilized about this. And despite his expensive sweater and even more expensive accent, there’s nothing civilized about Oliver at all.
“I love the way you taste,” he tells me, pulling back to bite at my ass. “Like summer. Fresh and tart and rich.”
“I—” I have no words for this. Never in a thousand years when I made my plans and fantasized about finally having sex did I imagine what this would feel like—not just his mouth on my clit, but hearing him talk about my body with such raw pleasure, knowing that my secrets were secret no longer.
And never could I have imagined that he’d sit on the bed and then haul me over his lap like a child, his hand smoothing over the curve of my ass.
I look back at him, and he looks back at me with those uncannily colored eyes.
“Red means stop,” he repeats.
And then he brings his palm down against my ass, and I buck over his lap.
“That is for going out alone in a strange city,” he says as he tucks me even harder against his lap.
And spanks me again. “That is for looking for a strange man to fuck you.”
And again. “And that is for being so fucking delicious that I couldn’t say no when you asked.”
I’m breathing hard into the blanket, the skin along my ass and thighs nearly dancing with sparks. There’s heat everywhere—heat on my skin, heat deep in my muscles, heat in my belly, and heat between my legs.
I…I had no idea.
This definitely was not the plan. The plan never involved spanking. It never involved pain or punishment, and yet…when he soothes the skin with his hand, rubbing gently…when he croons that I’m a good girl, I’m more alive than I’ve ever felt. I’m dizzy with it and drunk with it, and I feel giddy and heady and wild. Like I can do anything and have anything.
Have anyone.
“I liked that,” I murmur in disbelief. “I liked that.”
His hand stops over my ass. “You did?” he asks in nearly as much disbelief.
I realize he’s trembling where he touches me. His hands are shaking, and I can feel minute shudders chasing up and down his solid body.
I suddenly panic that I’ve done something wrong, that I’ve accidentally been disgusting by admitting that I liked it, but then he bends over me, pressing his lips to my back.
“Amanda,�
�� he groans and then bites me. “Where the hell did you come from?”
I don’t know, but I’m suddenly encouraged. He’s shaking because of me. Because I liked what he did to me. I can’t separate my enjoyment of it from his enjoyment of it, but maybe I’m not supposed to. Maybe that’s the point.
And for once in my life, I’m happy not to overanalyze. Happy just to be in the moment and do something that feels good.
“More?” I ask, batting my eyelashes for good measure. “I know you’ve already spanked me for being a bad girl, but maybe some more just for fun?”
I don’t have to ask twice.
A pleased noise rumbles deep in Oliver’s chest, and he resumes his work—a bit lighter this time, I notice. Hard enough to sting but not so hard that it truly hurts. Soon I’m arching and squeaking with each strike, rocking back into his touch and also trying to press my pussy into the firm length of his thigh. His erection burns at my belly even through his pants, and he’s breathing harder than I am—breathing like he’s run a race, like he’s pushed himself to the point of collapse.
And when the collapse comes, it’s not his body but his control that fails. He scoops me up and tosses me back onto the bed, slouching over me like a lion in truth.
“Tell me you’re wet,” he says, lowering his body over mine and taking a nipple into his mouth. “Tell me you need it,” he murmurs around my skin, leaving my nipple to kiss at the soft skin between my breasts and down the even softer contours of my belly. “Tell me you can’t wait another minute.” His mouth reaches my pussy, and it’s like all the fire he’s laid into my backside is now kindling here, here, here. And when he slides one long finger inside me, his lips and tongue and teeth all working to worship my clit, I’m done for.
Battery power has nothing on this.
My back bows off the bed as I cry out and grab for him, my fingers threading through his hair as I quiver and shake against his mouth, as my first ever non-solo orgasm tears through me with tidal, elemental power. I feel it everywhere—to the roots of my hair and in the balls of my feet—and as I’m racked with the gorgeous agony of it, he still pleasures me, still kisses and feasts on me like he can’t bear to stop.
And when I finally, finally still against his lips, going from wire-tight to limp and happy, he gives my pussy a final kiss and rises up to his knees, tugging off his sweater and kicking off his shoes and trousers. He should look clumsy, pulling off damp clothes, but in that mysterious Oliver way, it all looks graceful. Powerful. And inch by inch, his body appears. His handsomely squared shoulders and deceptively wide chest and a torso ridged with lean muscle and marked with a single line of dark hair trailing down from his navel.
And then those hips, trim and narrow, the spread of dark hair low, low on his belly, the tops of firm thighs, and then—
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
His cock.
It flexes as I trace it with my gaze, the veined thickness, the blunt swell of the head, and the proud jut of its hardness. There’s something so potent and arresting about this part of him; it’s so very male and handsome, and even just looking at it makes my belly churn low with new longing.
“You want it,” Oliver says, drawing my gaze up to his. It’s not a question, but I answer anyway.
“Yes.”
He looks down at my pussy, spread and wet, and then up to my face. I can’t read his expression, but there’s something twisting the sharp corners of his lips, and I realize it’s excitement. I realize it’s glazed fervor.
He wants me as much as I want him.
And God, how that punches me in the gut.
“I wear condoms,” he informs me, reaching for his wallet.
“Okay.”
“Every time.”
“Okay.”
He tears the wrapper open with long fingers, nimble and dexterous in the way that brings to mind writing or piano playing, and then rolls the latex sheath over himself with an ease that both fascinates and frustrates me.
“And I’m on top this time.”
“Okay by me.” And it really is because I’d have no idea what the hell to do if I were on top. And being so exposed—not just with my braless breasts and my soft thighs but with my inexperience, with my unpracticed movements… I don’t think I’m ready for that yet. Especially not with someone as wickedly sophisticated as Oliver.
“Any other rules?” I tease, even though I like the rules. I’ve always liked rules, and from him, there’s nothing sexier.
“Yes,” he says, crawling back between my legs. “Red still means stop.”
And then he lays his body over mine, matches the wide crest of himself to my cunt’s opening, and begins to push inside.
I arch in a slow writhe, the pressure too much, the bite of pain too real, and for a substantial moment, I think about pushing him away. I think about saying red. It’s one thing to read about the discomfort some women face in their inaugural encounters with penetration, but it’s an entirely different thing to feel it. It’s so unfamiliar, this discomfort. It’s so intimate, right at the heart of me, as if I’m being split open by the coolly vicious man above me.
Except not vicious.
Not really.
Even as he spanked me, he soothed me and played with my pussy, and even as he wedges inside me now, he strokes the hair from my face and sucks at my neck. And the noises he makes as he grits his teeth and pushes in—guttural noises, animal noises, words uttered in the most filthy tone possible: tight, Jesus, tight and goddammit, you feel so good and so fucking much, so fucking much.
“Going to fuck you,” he whispers into my neck as his head drops to the pillow next to mine. He’s still only halfway in. “Going to fuck you until you’re a good girl again.”
All of it, all of it, but especially those last words, take the pinch of pain and turn it into something new. Something as good as the good girl I want to be for him, and instead of pushing him away, my hands wander down to the tight clench of his ass and coax him in farther. Deeper. Until he’s seated as deep as a man can go in a woman.
“Oliver,” I gasp, because he’s filling me where I’ve never been filled, heating me and stretching me and stroking me, and the tip of him is kissing against a part of me I never even knew was there. “Oh, Oliver. It feels— I can’t believe how it feels.”
He pulls up and stares down at me, that sharp-tipped mouth pressed into a line and his eyebrows furrowed. “I can’t believe how you feel,” he corrects. And then he shakes his head slightly, his mouth twisting in some conversation with himself. “You’re not at all what I expected,” he says. “You’re not at all how you look.”
“How do I look?” I whisper.
He gives a dark smile and reaches up to run a thumb over my fire-engine red lips and then down over a plump breast. “Like you know everything there is about fucking.”
“I don’t know anything,” I admit. It was never the plan to reveal my virginity to my would-be paramour, and it seems strange to tell Oliver about it now, when he’s already inside me. But a big part of me wants to tell him, wants him to know how much I’m trusting him with, how much I need him to continue being his mixture of safe and dangerous. But then I add, “You have to show me. Have to teach me,” and his eyes go so dark, so feral, that I decide the conversation can wait until later.
I want him ferocious now. I want him looking like this, all possessed and desperate.
“You want me to teach you?” he rasps, moving between my legs again. “You want to be my little student? My little whore?”
Holy shit. I nearly come from his words alone—from this teacher game, this good-girl game. And still he moves, long and sweet strokes that have my toes curling and my back arching.
“Good girls come on the cocks their teachers give them,” Oliver says as he fucks me. “You want to be a good girl, don’t you?”
I nod vehemently. It’s all I want, it’s all I’ll ever want, and I need to be his good girl. I need it like I need air and water and breath.
“Please,” I whimper. “Help me be a good girl, please, please.”
He moves the wide pad of his thumb to my clit between us, rubbing in time to his deep, rolling thrusts, and the orgasm builds like nothing I’ve ever felt. A runaway train bearing down on me, a wall of sweaty, dirty pleasure—it’s so much that I try to move away from it, try to squirm away from under him.
I can’t bear it. I know I can’t. I’ll die if I orgasm, because it’s too strong, too fucking strong, it will shake the bones right out of my body.
“Oh no, you don’t,” Oliver murmurs, his body easily chasing mine, his thumb on my swollen pearl all the while. “You give it to me first. You let me have it.”
And I can’t resist him—not the thick bar of needy male inside me, not his polished accent, not his still-damp hair tousled around his face. Not his savage mouth or his kaleidoscopic eyes. He stills me just enough for the climax to nip at my heels, to tackle me down, and with a panicked moan, I’m felled by it.
I’m slayed by it.
It starts in the deepest pit of my belly, right around the wide tip of him, crushing in and then exploding out like an atom bomb, crumpling through me like I’m nothing but paper in a strong fist. I can feel myself clenching—my belly and my thighs and the inner parts of me—squeezing and clutching at his erection, and he hisses, long and wounded, his hands fisting hard enough in the pillows around my head that I can hear the stress of the fabric. And I can’t speak, I can’t ask if his reaction is good or bad, but there’s something in the rigid tension of his torso, in the strained cords of his neck, that make me think it’s good, that he’s getting pleasure from my pleasure just as I did from his when he spanked me.
“Dammit,” he says through gritted teeth. “Goddammit. I’m going to—you’re making me—Amanda—”
The last comes out as a jagged groan, and then he’s up on his knees, his hands curling hard over my hips as he fucks his way through his own climax. His eyes flutter closed, so I can watch him in my state of limp stupefaction as he uses my body to his own ends. As he uses my happy pussy to send himself over the edge. And then with a grunt and the impossible tightening of all those delicious muscles in his arms and chest and belly, he stills, buried to the hilt, as he pulses in fast, flexing throbs.
Misadventures with a Professor Page 3