Page 69 of See Me After Class

She nibbled on my earlobe, sending a stream of shivers down my spine. "Go on and take what you want."

My hands roamed over her body, mapping every dip and curve. She was all soft skin and supple muscle, her nipples hard and lush. I slid a hand between our stomachs so I could stroke her clit while I fucked her, my pace building.

Her breath caught in her throat as her hips ground against my palm. "Say it," I demanded, my voice roughened by the sheer need to gratify her.

She groaned. "Please."

I grabbed her wrist and pinned it above her head, my other hand working on her. "Say my name."

She glared up at me, but the same need shone through. "Please," she purred. "Leon."

I smiled. "That's better."

Our pace built like a poem that had gotten out of hand. Our bodies became slick with steam and a thin layer of sweat as we moved together. We fucked against the glass wall, our bodies slamming together in a primal rhythm that had no end. I could feel every curve of hers, every inch of her soft skin against me. She dug into my skin as if she wanted to mark me as hers.

Every mewl she made fueled my desire, making me want to push her further toward the edge. She cried out as I hit that sweet spot deep within her over and over again, bringing her closer and closer to the brink of release. She dug her nails into my back, urging me on.

With one final thrust, we both exploded in a wave of pleasure that consumed us. We clung to each other tightly as we rode out our orgasms together. As we came down from our high, I pulledout of her and held her close in my arms. We stayed like that for a few minutes, catching our breaths and basking in the afterglow of whatever this was.

Then, she sprang away from my embrace, her eyes immediately hardening.

"Dessie—"

She shook her head and stepped out of the shower, stopping just in front of where John stood like a statue. She placed her hands on her hips, seemingly caring nothing about how naked she was.

"So?" she asked defiantly. "Are you waiting for me to fuck you? Because I'm tired, and I'm going to my room."

Dessie's blunt refusal landed in the air like a dropped anvil, silencing John with a force that seemed to suck the oxygen from the room. His planned riposte, whatever it was, evaporated, leaving him floundering like a fish gasping for breath on land. His head swiveled in a jerky pantomime of denial, chin jutting out in childish defiance that would be comical if not bordering on pathetic.

My lips twitched, the urge to guffaw a volcanic eruption threatening to crack my stoic façade. But John, when cornered, was venomous, and the amusement dancing in my eyes could easily morph into a target for his barbed wit. So, I swallowed the laughter, replacing it with a neutral mask that mirrored his stunned bewilderment.

We stood in silence as Dessie slipped into her clothes and walked out of the greenhouse, never turning back. John looked at the two of us as her form retreated in the distance.

"What the fuck was that?"

28

John

Ihated rejections.

This was why it didn't take more than fifty seconds for me to leave the greenhouse and run after Dessie. How dared she?

How did she have the infuriating gall to reject me after fucking Viktor and Leon? What did they have that I didn't?

What could they do that I couldn't?

The glass panes of the conservatory warped my reflection, morphing me into a grotesque caricature of fury, teeth bared, fists clenched around phantom words.

But words wouldn't mend the gash in my pride, wouldn't erase the mocking glint in her gray eyes. No, I needed action, the primal chase, the thunder of boots against gravel. Rejected. Discarded. The greenhouse air, thick with the cloying sweetness of orchids, turned to barbed wire in my lungs.

I stormed after her, boots crunching on gravel, the glass panes of the greenhouse distorting my reflection into a hulking caricature of fury. The yew gardens beckoned with their sculptedgloom, the ancient trees guarding secrets under their cloaking shadows. Here, the air was crisp, laced with the earthy tang of pine needles. The maze, a morbid masterpiece of clipped topiary, loomed, a skeletal monument to my broken pride.

I spotted her flash of crimson among the emerald darkness, a poppy against the verdant tapestry. My legs pumped with the primal urge of the chase, fueled by a cocktail of fury and something I refused to acknowledge—envy. Envy that she would—that she could ever—consider me as someone expendable, someone less important than my colleagues and subordinates.

Just as my fingers grazed the hem of her scarlet dress, she spun, gray eyes flashing defiance. "Let go, John," she spat, her voice a whiplash crack against the stillness. "Haven't I made it clear enough?"

But the fire in her eyes mirrored the inferno in my veins. Her impertinence was an ember to my furnace, and I surged forward, hands gripping her wrists like iron manacles. "No," I roared, the word erupting from my throat like a caged beast. "Not until you tell me why."

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