“Three—fuck.”
“Language,” he said darkly.
I huffed.
Snap.
“Four. Shit.”
“Brat.”
His hand came down next—no ruler—just palm. Hot. Possessive.
He gripped one cheek and squeezed hard enough to make me gasp.
“Bad girl,” he murmured, releasing me. “Teasing me for weeks.”
Weeks?
Snap.
“Fuck—five,” I panted.
“You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
His voice dipped again before he rained down another five strikes.
Each one different. Alternating sides.
By the time we hit ten, I was gasping out the numbers between shallow breaths.
Then it stopped.
His hands cupped my heated cheeks, firm and grounding.
I looked down just in time to see the ruler fall to the grey rug.
Then I heard it.
The drawer opening again.
“Test time,” he said.
“That’s a bit unfair, Professor Graves. I wasn’t given a chance to revise,” I said with a snicker.
“Oh, I disagree, Ms Shaw. You’ve done nothing but revise for ten days,” he drawled.
I closed my eyes.
The vibrator.
Shit.
He wasn’t going to let me live that down, was he?
“Which means,” he continued, “you should be well prepared. Now bend a little deeper. Elbows on the desk.”
I obeyed, spine curving, breath catching as my bare skin met the cool surface.
