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“Is there something wrong with me? Do I smell weird or something?”
An annoyed glance in my direction. “What? No. No, of course not. I’m just thinking that this is going to haunt me for the rest of my life.” Two hands trail up my thighs as my tutor speaks, before settling on either side of my slit. Inhaling sharply, Ambrose draws his hands apart slightly, until my slickest, pinkest parts appear.
I quiver.
“Fuck,” he says, eyebrows spearing down. But now that I know his crankiness is agoodthing, that it’s a weird kind of compliment, my cheeks ache from smiling. I shift my hips, wriggling to tease him, and Ambrose gives me alookbefore ducking his head. The waft of warm breath is my only warning. Then—
Thick, dark hair tickles my inner thighs.
His sharp jaw flexes, his eyes falling closed.
And—thatmouth.
The hot, maddening stroke of his tongue. The scrape of his teeth; the suction of his lips. It’s so much sensation, a sudden overload without warning, and I only notice I’m wailing when thunder rumbles again, drowning out the sound. My hips shift restlessly, and Ambrose pins me down then licks me deeper.
Ho-ly. Shit.
Ambrose Brent takes zero prisoners. My stern, uptight tutor is eating me alive, unleashing all his frustrations on the most sensitive parts of my body, and I can’t even blame him for the lack of preamble. After all, I’ve tortured us both for weeks now, teasing and flirting. I’ve built us up to this, lit the fuse with my own match, and now Ambrose is punishing me for it, his jaw cracking as his mouth works between my thighs.
The heat.
The tingles.
The throbbing pulse in my clit.
I can’t—can’tbreathe.
“Oh!”
Ambrose doesn’t lift his head, but Ifeelhis evil smile curve against me. And I’m squirming, thrashing, but he holds my hips in a merciless grip, chasing me higher and higher with his tongue.
“Please!”
Ambrose slides one palm up my stomach then grips my breast hard, kneading and testing it so possessively that I cry out and arch into his hand.
Iwanthim to touch me like that. Like I’m his plaything. His doll.
Shoot, were my parents right about me? Am I nothing more than an empty-headed bundle of hormones? Before that thought can take hold, Ambrose licks inside me, and my brain quietens down again.
“Come for me.” His words are desperate, ragged, but he doesn’t need to boss me about. Not about this. I’m already hovering on the precipice, my body flooded with heat; already teetering past the point of no return. So when Ambrose sucks hard on my clit, I buck against his mouth with a wild cry, and shuddering waves course through my whole body.
It lasts forever. So much longer than when I bring myself off with my fingers—so long that I wonder distantly whether he’s broken me and I’ll be stuck coming for eternity.
Then I flop back against the bed, breathing hard, and Ambrose sits up, his chin slick. He snags my towel off the back of the chair and wipes his mouth, then turns to me.
“There. That’s lesson two.”
I smile, but my giddy heart sinks.
Eight
Ambrose
Iam the instigator of my own torture.Iam the reason I know the taste of Lane Rhodes’ most intimate, salty-sweet tang; I’m why her breathless cries and whimpers have echoed around my head since Sunday. I’m the reason I haven’t slept in days, and I’m the reason my sanity has unraveled.
No one else did this to me. No one forced me to lay my student back on that mattress, or pushed my head between her warm, soft thighs.
Now I’m haunted. Ruined. Going slowly insane.
