Page 24 of Marrying My Professor

“You teasing me? You think I want take you into that closet over there and fuck your bratty little mouth?” His voice drops to the same low growl he had the first night we were together, and I feel like putty in his hands.

The pressure of his hand on my throat is possessive, anchoring, and the only thing keeping my knees from buckling.

My brain is screaming yes, yes, please, but my bratty streak, the one that thrives on his control, makes me whisper, “You wouldn’t dare. Not here.”

A slow, predatory smile spreads across his face. “Watch me.”

His hand leaves my throat, slides down to clasp my wrist. The grip is firm, unyielding. He doesn’t drag me, but his pull is magnetic, inevitable. My over-the-knee heels click a frantic, secret rhythm on the library’s polished floor as he strides toward a nondescript door marked ‘Supplies’. He shoves it open, and the scent of old paper and lemon polish washes over us. It’s dark, cramped, shelves looming in the shadows.

The door clicks shut, plunging us into near-total darkness. A sliver of light from under the door paints a pale stripe across the floor.

“Alexander,” I start, but his mouth is on mine, swallowing my protest. It’s a hard, claiming kiss, all teeth and desperate heat. I can taste the coffee on his tongue, the sharp bite of his want. My hands fly up, clutching the fine grey wool of his suit jacket.

He breaks the kiss, his breathing ragged. “On your knees, Elara.”

In a moment of clarity, my throat tightens. “We’re not supposed to do this again.”

His gaze drops, then lifts back to my eyes, steady and unyielding. “You’ve never choked on my cock before, Pet. So this is something new. On your knees, Elara.”

Fuck me.

The command, delivered in that low, professor-turned-sinner voice, liquefies my spine. Oh god. I don’t hesitate. The soft wool of my sweater dress cushions my descent as I sink to the cool linoleum. The position hikes the dress up my thighs. The cool air hits my damp panties, and a fresh pulse of wetness soaks the lace. I’m aching.

I hear the rustle of fabric, the clink of his belt buckle. Then his hands are in my hair, not gentle, gathering the strands into his fist. The slight pull makes my scalp tingle.

“Look at me,” he rasps.

I tilt my head up. In the dim light, I can just make out the fierce hunger in his eyes, the rigid line of his jaw. And then I see it. His cock, freed from his trousers, thick and heavy and already glistening at the tip. My mouth waters instantly.

“Open,” he says, and it’s not a request.

I part my lips, my tongue darting out to wet them. He doesn’t make me wait. The blunt head nudges past my lips, and I open wider, taking him in. The first taste is salt and musk and pure Alexander. I moan, the vibration traveling straight up his length.

“That’s it, Pet,” he praises, his voice rough. “Such a pretty mouth. Made for this.”

He doesn’t let me set the pace. His hand tightens in my hair, and he begins to move, a shallow, testing thrust. My eyes water as he pushes deeper, the head bumping the back of my throat. I relax my jaw, letting him in.

“Fuck, you’re good at this,” he grunts, his hips pumping slowly. “Taking me so well. Look at you. My perfect little slut.”

The degradation, wrapped in his praise, sends a jolt of pure lightning to my core. I’m so wet I can feel it slicking my inner thighs. I suck lightly as he pulls back, swirling my tongue around the sensitive ridge.

“Yes, just like that. Use that clever tongue.”

He picks up the pace. The quiet of the closet is broken by the wet, rhythmic sounds of his cock sliding in and out of my mouth, my soft gags, his ragged breaths. My world narrows to this: the stretch of my lips, the weight on my tongue, the salt-bitter pre-come, the solid heat of him fucking my face.

“You love this, don’t you?” he demands, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper. “You love being on your knees for me. Using your mouth like a good little cocksleeve.”

I can’t speak, can only whimper around him, a sound of absolute agreement. Tears are streaming down my cheeks now, a mixture of strain and overwhelming arousal. My own hands are between my legs, pressed against the soaked wool of my dress, rubbing frantic circles. I’m so close. Just from this. From the taste of him, the feel of him owning my mouth, the filthy, beautiful things he’s saying.

“You’re dripping for me, I can smell it,” he snarls, his control fraying. “Aren’t you? My brat, all soaked and desperate just from having her throat fucked.”

I nod as best I can, my nose buried in the coarse hair at his base. The vibration of my moan makes his hips stutter.

“I’m gonna come, Pet. And you’re going to swallow every last drop. You’re going to take it all for me, like the good girl you are deep down. Show me.”

His rhythm becomes punishing, frantic. The grip on my hair is almost painful, holding me exactly where he wants me. A deep groan tears from his chest. “Now. Swallow.”

The first hot, bitter pulse hits the back of my throat. I swallow instinctively, again and again, as he empties himself into me with a final, shuddering thrust. I take it all, my throat working, until he’s spent, until he’s softening in my mouth.