Page 340 of The Winslow Brothers

Her mouth moves to my neck, and her lips and tongue suck at my skin in a way that makes my cock think he should be next. She pumps her hips toward me, rubbing herself hard against me, and my head falls back while my hand latches on to the edge of my desk. Images of Rachel grabbing on to my bare cock with a rough grip and running her tongue over the tip dance vividly behind my closed eyes.

I know that would feel incredible. So much so that a groan starts at the base of my throat, and I can’t stop it, no matter how hard I try.

“Ty,” she whispers, and I feel her move to her knees now, but I am powerless to say anything, do anything, besides stand there and let whatever happens happen.

The sound of my zipper echoes in my office, and then her mouth is on me.

On my cock.

I gasp when her perfect lips slide down my length. Holy shit, this is not good, but it’s oh-so fucking good at the same time.

And when I jerk open my eyes and see Rachel’s dark hair below me, I’m stuck between feeling like this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me and wondering if God is about to strike me dead right now.

She moans around the head of my dick.

“Fuck,” I mutter, and my hands have a mind of their own, reaching out to gently slide into her hair.

This…this wasn’t my intention. But just like I told my class, I’ve completely flubbed the execution.

A voice in the very back of my mind—a messenger sent by my cock, no doubt—poses the question ofhow much could something be going wrong if it’s ended with a mouth on your dick, but I know better.

I…thinkI know better.

I know…something.

Holy shit, this feels beyond incredible.

I sink my hand deeper into her hair as she sucks me harder, and I nearly choke on my own tongue when she swirls hers around my shaft.

She’s good at this. Like, really, really good at this. Taking a deep breath in an effort not to come immediately, I look up from her head and mindlessly toward the wall where one of my bookshelves sits.

And right there, at perfect eye level, is the priceless work of Walt Whitman that Professor Rose gave me as a gift of respect. In retrospect, maybe that wasn’t the best place to put it after all.

Guilt niggles and nags at me, and I shift my weight from foot to foot, trying desperately to let it go and concentrate on how good Rachel’s mouth feels.

I can’t, though, and before I know it, the feeling of wrongdoing is so strong, I can’t escape it. Put bluntly, it’s smothering me. Choking, cloying, all-encompassing, for the first time in my life, I feel as if I’m following in my birth father’s scummy footsteps. Selfish, want-centered abandonment of responsibility.

We can’t do this—Icannotdo this.

I reach down to Rachel’s shoulders gently and pull her back to release myself from her mouth. She looks up immediately, her eyes rounding in question. She and I both know she was seconds away from getting to the best part. I shake my head, willing my mouth to convey the words I have to say compassionately. “I’m sorry…I shouldn’t be doing this. Ican’tdo this.”

The tone is so much rougher than intended, grittiness brought on by arousal lacing my words with an edge.

“But I thought…”

I nod, trying like hell with a heavy swallow to make my delivery softer. “I know. I know. I just…this is wrong. What we’re doing is wrong.”

She gulps thickly and climbs to her feet, her eyes shimmering slightly before she turns her back to me and rounds the desk toward the door.

“Rachel, wait,” I call, buttoning my pants and shoving my still-hard dick inside as she moves so quickly out the door, she doesn’t even bother to take her stuff. “Fuck!” I snap to myself, hating the look I just put in her eyes so much that I feel nauseated. That wasn’t how it was supposed to go. This isn’t how it’s supposed to end.

It’s not right, and it’s not fair, and Ihatethe idea that she thinks she did something wrong. Out of the two of us, I’m the most responsible for bringing us here. I’m the one who started the panty war instead of letting it go. I’m the one who’s done her wrong.

She hasn’t done anything other than play along with the environment I created. I’m the problem—the one who can’t seem to make up his mind and land on a side of the fence.

I mean, fuck, I know I owe Professor Rose a lot, but why in the hell did I think I owed him more in that moment than I did her?

Hurting one person as a sacrifice to save another? That’s bullshit.

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