Page 117 of Teacher's Pet

A few raunchy words, a flick of her tongue, and my control shatters.

My release spills into her mouth, coating her tongue, filling her like she was made for it. She swallows every drop, taking it without hesitation, without complaint, sucking me clean before tucking me away again.

Fastening my belt, buttoning my pants, I waste no time yanking her up from under the desk.

Then my hand slips down the front of her leggings.

No hesitation. No patience left.

Her breath stutters, a moan slipping free as I retrieve the toy from between her slick, soaked folds, watching as her fingers tighten in my shirt for balance.

Pulling it free, I hold it up between us.

Her cum coats the surface, sweet, glistening and addicting.

My mouth waters at the sight.

All fucking mine.

“How did it feel?” I murmur, gripping her hair tight, giving it a firm tug until her eyes snap to mine. “Taking my cum like a good fucking slut… knowing you let yourself finish from something that wasn’t me?”

Her eyes blaze, defiant even as she winces.

“I’d much rather have taken your cock,” she whispers, her voice dripping with sin.

Then she smirks.

“Now open up, Mr. Ackerman. You have a mess to clean up.”

She nudges the toy past my lips, and the second her taste hits my tongue, I groan, sucking it clean without hesitation. The sweetness of her release lingers, addictive, all-consuming, and she watches me with a hunger that rattles me to my core.

This woman is going to be my undoing.

Tossing the toy into my desk drawer, the blaring fire alarm finally registers, snapping both of us back into reality.

Sort of.

“Care to share with the class how you’re going to explain my sudden arrival?” she prods.

I should be focused on the fact that the classroom will be filling back up, that at any moment, someone could come too close, notice something is off.

But all I can think about is laying her over this desk and burying my face between her legs.

“Simple,” I murmur. “You missed class today.”

I slide her off my lap, slowly, deliberately, my eyes flicking to the space beneath my desk, the space she had just been hiding in.

“Get back under there,” I command.

Her brows lift, eyes widening slightly before darkening with understanding.

Already, I feel the strain building again. Already, my body is demanding more.

“You don’t get off your knees,” I add, voice low, dangerous, “until it’s painting your face.”

It’s wrong.

So fucking wrong to be doing this here, in a classroom, surrounded by students who, at any moment, could walk up, could put the pieces together.

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