Grading Curves

by Naima Simone

  “Don’t even think about it,” he warns softly. Again, with the mind reading. He slides a finger through my folds, pausing at the top to circle my clit. My hips recoil and jerk forward. “Shh,” he soothes, repeating the caress, but firmer, tighter, dragging a strangled cry from me. “I knew your pussy would be pretty.” He slicks a path through my slit and pleasure slams into me like a ham-sized fist. “And taste so fucking good.” His tongue strokes me again, and the tip stabs my clit, making me jump in the chair. “Are you as tight as I imagined?” he murmurs, and the rumble of it vibrates against my flesh. He works a finger inside me, thrusting and pausing, thrusting and pausing. Giving me a premonition of what his dick will do to me. “Fuck yeah, Woody. Tight as a mother-fucking fist. You’re going to kill me when I get my cock in you, and I’m looking forward to dying.”

  With those ominous but thrilling words, he proceeds to kill me.

  He eats me as if I’m his first meal after a long fast, and he can’t help but gorge on me, swallow me down. Holding my lips open, he licks, sucks, and kisses every part of my sex. No inch of me is left untouched, undiscovered. I can’t sit still under his mouth; he’s turned me into this wild, sexual creature that willingly props her heels on the arms of the chair to give him greater access. That tunnels her fingers in his hair and grip the strands, pushing him deeper, begging with my hungry mewls and cries to take more…take me higher.

  On a growl, he wedges two fingers inside me, and I throw my head back against the chair, arching into his touch. But then, I can’t not look. Can’t not watch a part of him screw me. God. If I burn like this…if he stretches me like this with just his fingers…he’s going to render me to ash with his cock.

  “Careful of your tattoo,” he says, gazing up my bucking hips and arching torso to my face. His eyes, blazing hot yet dark with lust, search my face. “You good?”

  I nod, the movement jerky. “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  He studies me for a moment longer, then maybe as a reward, he twists his fingers inside me, massaging me even as he plunges deeper, higher. I whimper, and with an almost cruel smile, he returns to my clenching, greedy sex and sucks on my clit, catapulting me closer to an orgasm that’s going to make me resemble a flaming out star.

  It’s messy, wild and incredibly erotic how he goes at me, and I savor every second of it. Or I would if I was coherent enough to. But when his hooks his fingers inside me, stroking a place that’s been virgin territory until now, I am incapable of thought.

  “Oh shit. Oh fuck. What…” I gasp, lower my feet to the chair cushion again, not certain if I want to push into the caress or back away from the intensity of it. I can feel myself… Can feel it…

  A big hand clamps down on my hip, holding me in place, and he rubs it again. And again.

  “Dean, please…” I whine, but that’s all I get out before I detonate, flying apart and coming so hard a sliver of fear slides through me. Then I feel nothing but the sharpest, most all-consuming pleasure. I am pleasure.

  Seconds, minutes, hell, years later, I descend back to earth in time to see Dean wipe his palm over his face and—oh damn—slick his tongue over his lips. It should be impossible, but my belly and swollen, sensitive flesh spasms. That quick, desire flickers to life again when I should be satiated and in a damn orgasm-induced coma.

  His hands fall to the hem of his shirt, and I straighten in the tattoo chair, enjoying the strip tease as his heavily inked abdomen and the lower part of his chest come into view.

  The bells above the front door jingle and a woman bellows, “Dean! You back there?”

  We both freeze, staring at each other. His eyes are hooded, while mine are undoubtedly wide with shock and horror.

  “Shit.” He yanks his shirt back down. “Be right back,” he growls before stalking from the cubicle.

  The absence of his presence flips a switch in me. Scurrying off the chair, I return the tank strap over my shoulder, mindful of my newly tatted skin. Then I locate my jeans, sweater and flip-flops, and jerk them all on, probably looking like a cartoon character on speed.

  Reality slaps me in the face, barreling into me with the force of a runaway train on greased rails. What have I done? What in the hell was I thinking? This isn’t me. If whoever-that-is hadn’t interrupted, I would’ve had sex with a man I barely know on his damn tattoo chair.

  The low murmur of voices filters back, and in the middle of my scrambling, I can’t stop the questions from infiltrating my brain. Who is she? Another artist? A customer…a girlfriend? I squeeze my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose. I have to get out of here. Now.

  I snatch up my bag and dig into my wallet, snatching the several hundred dollar bills I’d pulled out of my brand new, secret bank account just for this.

  “Sorry ‘bout that—” Dean appears in the doorway of his cubicle again and draws to an abrupt halt. In one swift glance, he takes me in, fully dressed and panicking.

  “I need t-to go,” I stammer, so off-kilter that part of me yearns to climb back on that chair and continue what was aborted.

  And the other part—the part that has been rooted in self-preservation for thirty years—wants nothing more than to race out of here and never look back. Never remember who I’d become in here under a tattoo gun, big, elegant hands and bright blue eyes.

  “Here.” I thrust the bills at him, but he doesn’t reach for them. Does nothing but continue to stand there, tension rolling off him in great waves, and study me with that unnerving gaze. I slap the money on the end of the table I was stretched out on thirty minutes ago.

  And then I do what I told myself I would never do again once I left Westchester and my family behind.

  I run.

  Chapter Two

  Dean

  Nine o’clock in the morning is too damn early to be doing anything but sleeping and fucking. And then falling back to sleep after fucking.

  It’s definitely too early to be sitting in a classroom at Wellington College, the local, private school, waiting for a Western Civilization class to start as soon as the professor arrives. I glance at my phone. 9:03 AM. Twelve more minutes before I can get up out of here. This might be my first year as a college student, but even I know about the fifteen-minute rule.

  I’m doing this for you, Mom. Hope you’re looking down, seeing I’m on time for something, and are proud.

  Most people—especially my younger brother and sister—would be surprised to know I still talk to my mother in my head. I have no clue if she can hear me in heaven, purgatory or the nothing that exists after death. I don’t particularly believe in God, but she did. And since I had nineteen years of having her to speak to, confide in—the Alzheimer’s stole her away from us long before she stopped breathing four years later—it’s a habit I haven’t been able to break. Don’t want to break.

  Which explains why my ass is planted in a freshman level class, surrounded by fresh-faced kids who still got milk on their breaths. Mostly eighteen and nineteen-year-olds who don’t know anything about hardship or scraping by so your family can eat. At their age, I was putting my mother in a nursing home because of early onset Alzheimer’s, working a full-time job and taking over raising my younger sister and brother. My father left all of us when I was eleven. And then eight years later, my stepfather—and I use that term loosely—abandoned us because the dickless wonder said fuck you to the “in sickness and health” part of his vows when Mom’s Alzheimer’s worsened. Even though at twenty-three, I’m just four or five years older than the other students, it might as well be twenty.

  I have no business here; I don’t want to be here. But a promise to Mom during one of her more lucid moments, has me chained to this chair like invisible handcuffs. Even if all I want to do is tattoo. Even if I don’t give a flying fuck about philosophy, humanities and whatever else clutters up my schedule. Even if I hated high school and finished by the hair of my balls.

  None of that matters.

  Because of money and responsibilit
ies, it took me four years longer than planned to get here. But I am, fulfilling my vow to her.

  Scanning the room, I catch more than a few of the other students throwing curious looks my way. I can practically feel their eyes skim over the tattoos that cover my arms, crawl up my neck and even inked into the shaved side of my head where my hair is growing back in. This is a small, Christian college. While I’m probably not the only tatted up, scruff-having, pierced man on the campus, I am the only one in this class, which makes me an oddity to these preppy, conservative kids with their pastels, prints and freshly-pressed jeans.

  Pierced. I hadn’t been wearing the barbell in my tongue last night or the rings in my eyebrow and lip last night at the shop. Last night. How hotter would Nikki have burned, how much harder would she have come with my barbell rolling over her clit?

  Lust gut punches me, and I clench my jaw against the flames blasting through me, culminating in a hard and insistent pounding in my cock. I’m sure at some point, I’ll be able to think of that…encounter and not erupt into a human tiki-torch, but today ain’t that day. From the moment Nikki Barber walked into the shop, both my chest and my cock pounded. Such goddamn beauty. Class. Grace. And I wanted to claim it, own it…dirty it.

  Fuck. I shake my head and smother a snort. That’s what I hungered to do to Nikki—what I intended to do—before Natalie showed up looking for me. I’d never regretted giving her a key to the shop more than I did last night. That wasn’t the first time my little sister cock-blocked me, but it was the first time I’d considered sororicide. Any judge—male or female—who laid eyes on Nikki would never convict me. Not if they had the opportunity to bury their mouth, fingers and cock in the sweetest pussy God ever created. Not if they could have her thick, beautiful thighs shaking around their head. Not if they had that sexy, midnight-and-whiskey voice screaming their name…

  That voice. I’ll never forget it.

  It fucking haunts me…

  “Good morning. I apologize for my tardiness. My only excuse is I’m new here, and apparently have no sense of direction. Columbus and I would’ve made an awesome team.”

  The class chuckles, but not me. Astonishment and more than a little bit of confusion rips through me, because I’m experiencing an aural hallucination. How else can I explain hearing Nikki’s voice in my Western Civilization class? I lift my head at the clack of heels on the floor. It can’t be. No way in hell could—

  Oh fuck.

  Nikki. At the front of the room. Setting her cup of coffee and bag on top of the desk.

  The desk that belongs to the professor.

  She’s my teacher.

  I’ve had my goddamn tongue and fingers buried inside my college professor.

  Jesus Christ. Had she mentioned teaching at the school? I mentally shake my head. No. No, she hadn’t. She’d talked about moving here, but nothing about a position at the school.

  “In case you’re confused about where you are, no worries. This is Western Civilization, HY 101, and I’m Professor Nikki Barber.” She smiles, and the dimple I clearly remember wanting to dip the tip of my tongue in flashes in her right cheek. She scans the room, giving each student quick but definite eye-to-eye time. My chest is a drum kit for my heart as I wait for her gaze. It’s nearer. Now on the kid at the end of my row… “In here, we will examine the evolution of western civilization”—two students over—“from its origins in Ancient Greece”—to me—“to the emergence of…of modern…modern Europe.”

  Her voice falters. Her eyes widen. Maybe no one else glimpses the utter shock in them, but I do. Her wide, plump, biteable lips part and tremble. A memory flashes across my mind. Her teeth sinking into that slightly-fuller bottom lip as I spread her legs and palmed her thighs. Shit. I shift in my desk, sliding down a little further in my seat. Trying to conceal the quickly growing hard-on changing the fit of my damn jeans.

  I didn’t get nearly enough of that mouth last night.

  “I-I’m sorry.” Tearing her gaze away from mine, she smiles. And again, maybe I’m the only one who catches the strain in it. Turning, she picks up her coffee and cradles it between her palms. Like a lifeline. “I’m a shade above useless without my coffee in the morning.” She clears her throat, sips, then turns up the wattage of that smile. Keeping all visual contact off me. “As I was saying…”

  She jumps into her speech about the contents of the class, and after several moments, the confident swagger she entered with returns to her voice and demeanor. She’d been reserved, a little unsure and out of her element in the tattoo shop. That vulnerability—especially when she shared with me about her fear of needles and the meaning behind the woodpecker—pulled on me, unearthed this protective streak that had only been delegated to family. I’d wanted, needed to, give her everything—the tattoo, a willing ear…pleasure. Anything.

  But this woman? This woman owns this classroom and has already captured every student’s attention with her poise, humor, knowledge and take-no-shit attitude. It’s hot as fuck.

  One thing that’s not different is the power and impact of her. She’s like walking into one of those wind tunnels and struggling not to be knocked on your ass. That’s what looking at her is. A battle not to be swept up in the sensual but almost painful loveliness of those oval-shaped, brown eyes, the elegant nose with the flared nostrils, the fuckability of her mouth and that delicate but stubborn jaw. There’s beauty and strength in that face. Nobility and carnality. Dark corkscrew curls fan out in a gorgeous riot, brushing the shoulders of her suit jacket. I’ve had my hands in that hair, and I can still feel the soft and touch-of-coarse texture between my fingers, against my palms.

  And then there’s that body. Christ. Today’s pants suit and white blouse are a far cry from last night’s sweater, tank and jeans, but all that beautiful, chestnut brown skin, the more-than-my-handful breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of hips perfect for holding onto for a good, hard fuck, the thickness of tight thighs… She’s goddamn perfection.

  And undeserving fuck that I am, I’d been blessed enough to have my hands on her. In her.

  “You are expected to be familiar with the syllabus and keep up with all the assignments via the online portal. In other words, ‘But you didn’t mention it in class’ isn’t a valid excuse but your zero will be very valid. And final. At the top is also my office hours. My door is always open if you need to discuss anything regarding assignments, grades or projects.” She glances at the clock on the wall and grins. “We’re done here. I’ll see you Thursday.”

  Students shuffle out of their seats and more than half bombard the front, gathering around her. Glancing down at the syllabus, I head out the door. What I need to talk to Professor Barber about can’t be said in a classroom full of witnesses.

  An hour later, I’m leaning against the wall outside of her office, watching and waiting for the double doors at the very end of the hall to open. When one does several minutes later, I slowly straighten, staring. I don’t even try to hide it, even though I should.

  She notices me as soon as she steps inside. Her step stutters, halts, then she strides forward with a determination that pretty much screams, “Don’t fuck with me.”

  A little too late for that.

  “Mr. Shaw,” she greets me in a firm voice. As she did during the hour-and-a-half of class, she doesn’t meet my eyes, instead focusing on unlocking her door. “When I invited students to take advantage of my office hours, I didn’t mean quite so soon. It’s the first day of class. Questions already?”

  She turns to me, but her gaze is fixed on my chin, and I curb the urge to grasp her chin and tilt it up until she’s looking at me. I love having those pretty eyes on me. Especially when I’m face deep in her pussy.

  “Yes, Professor Barber,” I say, and damn if that doesn’t send a bolt of sizzling heat straight to my cock. “There are a couple of things I’d like to discuss if you have a minute.” Lowering my voice, I add, “Or we can talk about…tattoos right here in this hallway where anyone
can come by and overhear. But either way, we’re going to talk, Professor.”

  Her lips flatten—well as much as those plump curves can—and she twists the knob and shoves the door open. I follow her in, shut it behind us and prop a shoulder against the wall. She marches to her desk and sets her bag and books on her desk, then pivots to face me, arms crossed, hip cocked.

  Silence damn near vibrates in this closet generously called an office. And it’s heavy with the knowledge of what we did last night. Dense with the awareness of our role reversals. That she’s my teacher, and I’m her student.

  And she loved having my mouth on her pussy.

  “Well, Mr. Shaw?” she asks.

  “Mr. Shaw?” I arch an eyebrow. “Really? In here?”

  She sighs, glancing away before refocusing her attention on me. “Dean, what do you want?”

  “How’s your tattoo this morning?”

  She frowns. “Fine. A little tender, but…fine.” Her frown deepens. “Is that what you wanted to see me about?”

  “You ran out before I could give you aftercare instructions. Such as rubbing ointment on it for the next few days. If you’ll swing by the shop, you can buy some there,” I offer. “But no, that isn’t why I’m here. And let’s not pretend you don’t know why I am, Woody.”

  Emotion flares in her dark eyes at the nickname, my intentional reminder forcing her to confront and acknowledge the big ass herd of stampeding elephants in the room.

  “It should’ve never happened,” she murmurs. “We both need to forget about it. I’m your professor and you’re one of my students. That’s the extent of our relationship.”

  “No.”

  Her chin jerks up at my blunt refusal. “No,” she repeats, slower.

  “I’m sorry, correction. Hell no.”

  Anger seeps into her face, narrowing her eyes and staining her sharp-as-glass cheekbones. “What’s your plan? Hold last night over my head? Use it for what? Favor? A grade? Maybe tell—”