Page 150 of Teacher's Pet

“I don’t give a fuck about Jake.” My words cut through his like a blade, cold and merciless. “You want to be a fucking man, Noah?” I step closer, tilting my chin up. “Then show me how far you’re willing to go for me.” My voice drops, daring him, pushing him, “Show me,Noah Antonov.”

Something shifts in his eyes. Hesitation. Uncertainty.

But I don’t let him linger in it.

“Or,” I growl, leaning in just enough to let my breath ghost over his lips, “maybe you need a reminder.”

I move toward the couch slowly, deliberately, my every step calculated. Noah’s eyes track my movements, dark and heavy with something barely restrained. Tossing his tie aside, I lower myself into the seat, stretching out, making myself comfortable, making sure he sees exactly what he’s been missing.

“For two months,” I whisper, voice smooth as silk, “I tormented myself in your absence.”

My fingers trail down the front of my body, teasing my own skin, my legs parting with no shame. The air between us crackles, charged with something dangerous, something inevitable. He hasn’t even touched me, but I’m already slick, already aching for him in a way that would be humiliating if I wasn’t so damn determined to make him suffer for what he’s done.

“Two months of wondering what I did wrong,” I murmur, my hand drifting lower, grazing the curve of my breasts.

His breathing hitches. He fists his hands at his sides, like he’s fighting the urge to close the distance, to put his hands where mine are. But he won’t. Not yet.

“Two months of questions,” I continue, my fingers traveling further, stopping at the hem of my dress, playing with the fabric.

Noah swallows hard.

“Two months of missing your touch.”

I hike the dress up just enough to expose my soaked panties, my skin burning under his stare.

“Two months of imagining what it would feel like to have your cock ramming inside me again,” I whisper, my voice laced with sin, my eyes locked onto the way his body reacts.

His jaw clenches, his breathing rough. The blood rushes between his legs, his arousal evident, undeniable.

I have him.

“I would crawl into my bed,” I whisper, dragging my nails over my thigh. “Letting my hand trail down, just like this-”

Slipping my fingers beneath my underwear, I toy with my own slick entrance, teasing myself the way I know he wants to.

“I’d whisper your name into my pillow,” I breathe, tilting my head as I watch him, “wishing it was you touching me… instead of just me.”

A shudder rolls through his frame, but he stays rooted in place, his restraint teetering on the edge of collapse.

Then, with a slow, taunting push, I slide two fingers inside myself, my moan slipping past my lips in a sultry gasp. My heeled feet anchor onto the couch, bracing me as I start a slow, torturous rhythm.

I don’t break eye contact.

I want him to watch.

To see what he abandoned.

To suffer for it.

To break for me.

And judging by the way his fists tighten, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths…

He’s already hanging by a thread.

My fingers work in and out of myself faster, deeper, the slick, obscene sounds filling the air between us. My breath turns ragged, little panting gasps slipping past my lips, teasing him, tormenting him.

I know he hears it.

---