Page 87 of Boiling Point
His touch pressed warm and insistent through the soft fabric of my leggings. I tipped my head back, a faint shiver running through me as he brushed his lips along my neck, lingering and tender.
“Cal,” I breathed, a halfhearted protest that melted into a sigh.
He shifted his weight, coaxing us both toward the bed. “Yes?” he asked, the word a drawn-out rumble against my skin. He slipped warm fingers beneath my waistband, his touch electric. I drew in a sharp breath, dizzy with want but still clinging to some thread of responsibility.
“I really do need to study,” I murmured, the protest faint and feeble.
He let out a low, wicked laugh that sent a jolt of heat straight through me. In one breath-stealing motion, he tossed me onto the bed, his body quick and sure above mine.
“Ask me anything,” he whispered, peeling my leggings and panties away in a slow, deliberate tangle.
His touch was teasing and relentless, until I could barely remember why I was supposed to resist. “I don’t want to take advantage,” I said, the words tumbling out, uneven.
He stilled, a sly grin curving his mouth. “You’ve never asked for help in my course outside of class or office hours,” he said, fingers grazing across my skin, unraveling my defenses. “Not once.”
I bit back a gasp as he thumbed my clit. My body yielded to his touch, aching. “I’m trying to keep…separation of church and state,” I managed, my voice catching.
He teased me with his fingertips, deliberate and devastating. “We fucked in a chapel, Gabrielle.” His breath scorched my neck, his touch dizzying. “That act alone obliterated the line.”
I shuddered—a sharp, exquisite wave—as his fingers finally slipped inside me. “Underneath the chapel,” I corrected, the words almost lost in a rush.
“Still sinful.” He pumped his fingers, drawing a ragged sound from deep within me. “You’re only my student for two more days.” He nudged my thighs apart, settling between my knees, his breath hot and demanding against my skin. “And you’ve followed all the rules.” His tongue flicked against me, quick and devastating. “Be a bad girl now and break those rules for me.”
I moaned low, drawn out.
He looked up, gray eyes molten and urgent. “Consider this office hours,” he said, his voice dark and coaxing. “House call edition.” He paused, teasing. “What do you still need help with, Miss Clark?”
I shivered, head spinning, fingers clutching the sheets. “Waves,” I gasped, the word catching on a breath. “I get how frequency and amplitude work. Technically. But…”
“But?” he prompted, that smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“But why does higher frequency feel…stronger?” I breathed. “If the amplitude’s the same, shouldn’t it all feel the same?”
He stilled, a wicked smile playing at his lips—hot and unholy. “Funny you should ask.” He slid off the bed. “Where do you keep your vibrator?”
I blinked at him, dazed. “My…what?”
“Every woman has one,” he said, amused. “Or so I’m told. Where’s yours?”
Heat flushed through me. “Second drawer of my nightstand.” The words were a reckless, breathless confession.
He moved to the drawer, retrieved the vibrator, and held it loosely in his hand—off, but somehow humming with promise. He returned to the edge of the bed, his gaze sharp, scientific, and entirely indecent.
“Frequency is measured in…?” he asked, dragging the smooth curve of the toy along my inner thigh. Not enough pressure to satisfy. Just enough to make my skin chase it.
“Hertz,” I whispered, my voice barely there.
“Good girl.” His mouth curled. “And another way of saying Hertz?” He teased the vibrator against my clit.
My breath hitched. “Pulses…per second.”
He nodded, pleased. “Exactly.”
He clicked it on at the lowest setting. The vibration hummed through me. I gasped and arched beneath him.
“This lovely little device is delivering energy to your nervous system at…” He paused, voice dark and wicked. “Let’s call it fifty pulses per second. Fifty Hertz.”
He moved the vibrator in slow, tantalizing circles. I whimpered, my body tightening with the effort of staying still.
