Page 36 of Marrying My Professor

“Mine,” I growl against her neck, my teeth grazing her pulse point. I work her with my hand, two fingers pushing inside, my thumb circling the sensitive bud at her apex. Her head falls back, exposing the elegant line of her throat. Her hips jerk against my palm, seeking more pressure, more friction. God, she’s so responsive. Every hitch in her breath, every clench around my fingers, is a confession. It’s a victory. It’s torture.

I pull my hand free, ignoring her whimper of protest. I turn her, not gently, pressing her front down against the cool, scarred surface of the old oak desk. Her palms flatten against the wood. I kick her feet wider apart.

“You want me to ruin you, Pet?” I say, my voice rough. I unfasten my own trousers, the sound clinical, final. “Let’s see how you feel about that when you’re coming on my cock with the whole school just a hallway away.”

I don’t give her time to answer, before I guide myself to her entrance, the broad head of my cock nudging against her soaked folds.

I look down. The sight is obscene. Her, bent over a student’s desk, her shirt rucked up her back, her perfect ass offered to me. My suit jacket is still on. The contrast is filthy. It’s perfect.

With one hard, relentless thrust, I fill her.

She screams, the sound muffled as she bites her own arm. Her entire body bows, tight as a wire. So tight. So hot and willing. I have to stop, buried to the hilt, just to breathe. To stop myself from losing it right then.

“Look at you,” I grind out, my hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave marks. “Taking me like this. In a fucking classroom. Is this ruined enough for you, Elara?”

“More,” she gasps, pushing back against me. “More.”

That single word unleashes me.

I pull out almost all the way, then slam back in. A hard, punishing rhythm. The desk creaks with every drive of my hips. The slap of skin on skin echoes off the chalkboard and the high ceilings. I lean over her, covering her body with mine, my mouth at her ear.

“This is what you do to me,” I snarl, punctuating each word with a thrust. “You make me a fucking animal. I see you with him, laughing, letting his hand rest on your back, and all I can think about is this. Is having you just like this. Reminding you who you belong to.”

“You,” she moans, the word breaking apart. “Only you. God, Alexander, right there…”

I hit a spot deep inside her that makes her legs shake. I do it again. And again. My world narrows to the feel of her clenching around me, to the sweat dampening the back of her shirt, to the little broken sounds she makes with every drive of my body into hers.

One of my hands slides around her front, down, finding that swollen, needy bundle of nerves again. I rub tight, quick circles against it, matching the brutal pace of my hips.

Her moans turn into a high, desperate keening. “I’m… I’m going to…”

“Come,” I command, my own release coiling tight in my gut. “Come for me. Show me how much you want to be ruined.”

Her body seizes. A violent, beautiful tremor racks her from head to toe. Her inner muscles clamp down on me in rhythmic, pulsing waves, milking my cock, pulling the orgasm from me with a force I can’t fight. I bury my face in the nape of her neck, a guttural groan tearing from my throat as I empty myself into her, my hips stuttering through the last few, shallow thrusts.

For a long moment, there is only the sound of our ragged breathing and the distant hum of the school’s ventilation.

Slowly, I soften inside her. I press a kiss, surprisingly tender, to the vertebra at the top of her spine. I straighten, pulling out of her gently. The aftermath is stark. The smell of sex and sweat in the air. The sight of her, still bent over the desk, trembling.

I fix my clothes, my movements mechanical. The reality of what we’ve just done—where we’ve just done it—starts to seep in. I help her up, turning her to face me. Her eyes are glazed, her lips swollen from my kisses. I pull her skirt back down, my fingers clumsy on the zipper, then smooth her t-shirt down.

She sways, and I hold her steady, my hands on her shoulders.

Before either of us can speak, the jarring, electronic blast of the school bell slices through the silence. It signals the end of the period. The hallway outside will flood with students in moments.

Reality crashes back in—harsh and unforgiving.

I should step back. Put distance between us. Smooth down my shirt and pretend this didn't happen, that I didn't just kiss my student in my classroom like a man who's forgotten every rule he's supposed to follow.

But I don't.

Instead, I grip her chin between my fingers, tilting her face up so she has no choice but to meet my eyes. Her lips are swollen, red from my mouth, and her chest is still heaving with shallow breaths. She looks thoroughly ravaged, and the sight sends a dark satisfaction coursing through me.

"Don't," I say, my voice low and rough, "let me see him touching what's mine again. Understand?"

Her pupils are blown wide, dark with pleasure and something that looks dangerously close to submission. She bites her lip—that same lip I just claimed—and the small gesture makes my grip tighten on her chin.

"Yes, sir," she whimpers, and the words go straight through me like lightning.