Page 42 of Lesson Learned

My voice wavers as I finally respond, “Oh, really? Is that a thing?”

I hear a small chuckle, then he shakes his head. “It’s lucky your essay writing skills are good because you’re a terrible liar.”

My stomach knots so hard it pulls at my throat. “Am I in trouble?”

“Not necessarily.”

The words are said lightly but there’s so much potential meaning they land heavily in my ears. “Is it your turn to offer a quid pro quo?”

He lets out a sigh that’s long, indulgent, pleasurable, then reaches across, scooping me around the waist. “Come over here,” he says, patting his legs. “I want to face you while I’m talking to you.”

I clumsily shift nearer, giving a squeal when he lifts me and sets me down, straddling his thighs.

“That’s better.” He brushes my hair back from my face while my insides threat to liquify and become my outsides. “I never get to see you in class. Your friend makes a far better door than a window.”

I ignore the last sentence, more interested in the one previous. “Are you trying to see me in class?”

His hands grip me on either hip, then slide behind me, pressing me closer. “I’m trying to see you everywhere, but you’ve been in hiding.”

“I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

One of his hands steals mine, bringing it to his lips where he lays a gentle kiss on the inside of my wrist. The warmth seeps into my artery, instantly transporting his heat throughout my body.

Then he wraps his arms tight around me, my pleasure exploding up the charts.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he whispers into the curve of my neck, and I’m melting. “Every minute you’re in my class, I can sense you. I can’t stand up from my desk half the time because you make me so hard, Paisley.” His thumb strokes the inside of my wrist and instead of wiping away the kiss, it sears it deeper into my skin, tattooing it in place. “I’ve tried to put what happened between us behind me, but I can’t.”

There’s a strained note to his voice, like he’s on the verge of breaking down. Deep inside me, some part aches for that to happen. Aches to be the force that tears this gorgeous man apart and leaves him begging.

And I know I’m trying to be a different person. But all I can feel is his breath on my skin, his fingers roaming my body.

All I want is for him to force me down onto the seat, pin me with his powerful hands, and tear off my clothes. To stop talking about how hard I make him and just show me. Thrust inside me until I come with such force I scream.

“Can I touch you?” he breathes and my chest hitches, muscles bunching so hard my eyes water. I tilt my head back, staring at the car ceiling, “Do you want me to slide my fingers underneath your skirt? I won’t go any further. Just let me get near your tight pussy.”

The moan that comes from my throat gives him a green light. His fingers slither under my hem, snaking up the inside of my thighs while I’m spread wide across his lap, so open and eager and willing.

His arm shifts, tightens like a steel band behind me, holding me in place despite my swirling head, my dizzying waves of desire.

My fingers slip into his hair, clutching strands between my fingers as I tighten and loosen them in rhythm with the pulse beating in my chest, my head, between my legs. I pull him so the top of his head drives into my collarbone, his breath warming my chest, blowing over my hardening nipples, creating so much stimulation I can’t believe my pleasure centres aren’t exploding so my brain leaks out my ears.

“That’s my angel.” His words of praise send a firebolt of desire twisting through my body, leaving a charred path for my nerves to dance along, burning my eager flesh.

His fingers trace circles on the insides of my thighs and the tease drives me insane. I tip my hips, trying to get more but he shakes his head. “Not until I see you. I want to see how much you want me.”

And he shifts away, his fingers now rolling my skirt up my thighs, baring my plain cotton briefs to the world, sending a twinge of shame arcing into my core.

I untangle a hand from his hair, trying to pull my skirt down, but he fights me and wins. “Look at you,” he says, raising his head to stare into my eyes with wonder. “Look at you so wet you’re soaking these through.”

My eyes glance down, then jerk away, embarrassed at the dark spot on my underwear.

“Don’t,” he says, running the knuckle of his forefinger over the spot, making my mouth gape open as it flips a switch in my head, the bit holding me together. “Don’t you dare be embarrassed. Don’t you dare be ashamed to show me how turned on you are.”

He grabs my hand, guiding it to where his stiff cock bulges against the bunched fabric of his trousers. “Doesn’t that feel good to you?”

“Yes.” I scrabble at his belt buckle, wanting to free him, wanting to see how lovely his throbbing hard cock is, to have it pulse underneath my hand.

“That’s how you feel to me.” He pulls my wrists away, gently, securing them behind my back with one hand. With the other, he runs his knuckle along the wet spot on my panties again, this time harder, my hips responding to increase the pressure, increase the friction. “You don’t expect me to be embarrassed, do you? Draining all the blood out of my head and sending it straight to my cock.”

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