Page 69 of Freckles

“Are you sure? You might need to check the dictionary again. And all I wanted was to see if you followed instructions, this time.” He curls a lock of my hair around his finger and tugs. “You don’t know how hot it makes me that you obeyed.”

“I’m missing a study session for this. Maybe next time you want to check if your threat to have me murdered is still working, you could plan it for a more convenient time.” I leave a long pause, then add, “Or just stop fucking around with me altogether.”

His mouth finds my throat, knees bending either side of my thighs as he contorts himself to reach down so far.

The pull against my skin is sweet torture, sending an avalanche of sensation shuddering along my torso until my skin turns hyper-sensitive, brushing painfully against the tight fabric of my blouse.

A mark blossoms under the powerful suction of his tongue, a stamp of ownership far more revealing than his bracelet on my wrist or his shirt on my back.

“But I enjoy fucking around with you,” he murmurs, coming up for air. He presses a row of kisses along my collarbone. “Fucking around with you is the only thing keeping me sane.”

I push him, needing to gain some distance but he doesn’t allow it.

“Girlfriend experience, remember?” he growls. “Settle. Since you don’t want anything else, I’ll just take what I need, and you can go. Sound good?”

I screw my eyes shut as his fingers play with my hem, brushing against the sensitive skin on my outer thigh. “Sure.”

“See the desk?” He nods to a wooden bench with thick electrical wires snaking in and around it, chunky consoles on top to control the sound and lighting. “Go put your hands flat on top, no turning around. Got it?”

A push between my shoulder blades gets me moving. My cheeks burn as I walk over and lay my palms on a clear space, eyes straight ahead.

“Move your legs apart,” he says, and his proximity makes me jump.

I didn’t hear him move. Quite a feat for someone his size.

He bunches my kilt, throwing it up over my lower back, leaving my thighs exposed. A warm hand slides between them and my centre pulses, an ache growing when he slowly peels away my panties, one large hand squeezing my arse cheek.

His sigh makes my muscles clench.

Something cold and liquid lands on my tailbone and his fingers work it, spreading the lube down to my hole, circling it.

“No, I haven’t—”

“Shh.”

His fingertip presses inside me, and my muscles immediately grip, making the intrusion seem twice as large.

“Relax,” he says, voice lilting he withdraws then presses forward again. “If you’re a good girl, I won’t take your arse right here, where anyone in the school could walk in on us, but only if you keep doing what I say.”

The threat in his reassurance sets my core on fire, pulsing at the idea of someone stumbling across this scene like our eavesdropper in the library. My arse clenches even tighter when he removes his finger, and the cool press of silicone replaces it.

“I’m going to be away tomorrow, working, and thought you’d like to ease the boredom by sending me a lovely video.” When I stiffen, he adds, “No one else will ever see.”

Warm fingers snake around my throat, resting there, not tightening. The silicone eases inside, my muscles still resistant.

He taps on my windpipe. “Relax or this will hurt more than it needs to.”

A whimper slips from my mouth, and I try but tighten again when the bulb pushes deeper. He bends double, chest against my back, fingers firming on my throat.

“Lean back into me,” he orders. The same tone he used on me the first day, when he instructed me to open my mouth wide, proving I could take him. It helped then, and I let myself trust him now, pressure easing around the slippery silicone, breathing through the experience.

Kincaid’s hand leaves my neck to rub my lower back. “You look so good, stretching to take the plug the same way you’ll soon take my cock.”

The sensation of fullness increases, my legs shaking as it eases me wider, and wider… until with one last push backwards, the entire bulb is inside me. The hand stiffens on my back, and he slides the plug out a little, then back, then out again, the rhythm of the movement turning from discomfort into desire.

My knees tremble when he taps the jewelled head of the plug, the reverberations echoing deep inside, prompting another whimper.

“Stay,” he warns, and I hear the burst of photographs. “Okay, you can move. See how sexy you are.”

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