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She’s extraordinary. Not in the abstract way people use the word and not in hyperbole. But she truly is, the full soft weight of her breasts, the curve from waist to hip that my hand already knows the shape of and wants to know better, the dark red hair against her pale skin, the way she’s looking at me like she can’t decide whether to be pleased or terrified.

“You’re allowed to breathe,” I tell her.

“I’m breathing,” she says, and her voice is slightly unsteady.

I close the distance and take the hem of her shift in both hands and lift it over her head, and she raises her arms to let me, and then she’s standing in front of me with nothing between us and the candlelight, and she is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life and I tell her so because she should know it and she should be told it every day of her life.

She blushes, a flush from chest to cheeks.

I put my mouth to her throat and breathe her in, that dark plum-and-resin smell I’ve been obsessing over for months, warmer now than I’ve ever smelled it, and feel her heart beating under my lips.

There is no escaping where we are and I’ve made peace with how narrow the bed is. But that also means there’s nowhere to go and no way to do this with any kind of distance, which turns out to be fine. Better than fine. I take her down to the bed as one. She hooks her leg over my hip and pulls me in and laughs a little at the cramped logistics of it, and I feel that laugh against my mouth and want to hear it again and again and again.

I get her fully down on the bed, naked, lush, and all mine, and pull back to look at her once more, then I take my time. I stop at her throat, the soft inside of her arm, the curve of her waist where it meets her hip, the small of her back where she arches up into my palm, and she makes greedy little sounds and turns toward my hands with a focus that strips away the last of my patience for going slowly. Her eyes stay on my face the whole time, the eye contact relentless, like the act of sex itself. She watches me like she’s trying to read something and I let her look because I’m not hiding anything, not right now, not with her watching me like that.

I work my way down her stomach and settle between her thighs and feel her tense slightly and then consciously release it.

“Okay?” I ask against the inside of her thigh.

“Very okay,” she says, somewhat breathlessly.

I spread her thighs with my hands, pausing once again to make sure she consents, and when she gives me a look of impatience, I know to keep going.

She tastes of clean skin and a faint, fresh sweetness. When my mouth finds that spot just inside her thigh, she draws in a sharp breath and holds it. I take my time mapping her body—the way her fingers twist into the sheet when I trace a certain path, the involuntary lift of her hips when my tongue presses against her clit just so. I learn the exact rhythm that makes her bite down on a moan, a sound she swallows because the walls are thin.

I bring her slowly toward the edge, feeling her grow slick against my mouth, her thighs tensing around my shoulders. Her fingers slide into my hair, not guiding, just holding on. I feel the first tremors begin deep within her, a gathering quake. But I don’t let her fall. I pull back gently, easing the pressure until I’m barely touching her, and hear the frustrated rush of her exhale. Against her skin, I almost smile.

“Bastard,” she breathes.

“I’m being thorough,” I tell her.

I lower my mouth to her again, this time with purpose. No more teasing. Her scent fills my senses as I press my tongue flat against her center, savoring the taste of her arousal. She arches beneath me, a silent plea for more.

“Please,” she whispers, her voice breaking on the word.

I circle her clit with deliberate pressure, feeling it swell under my attention. Her thighs begin to tremble, and I know she’s close. I slide two fingers inside her, curling them upward to find that spot that makes her gasp.

“You’re so wet,” I murmur against her skin. “So ready for me.”

Her fingers tighten in my hair as I increase my pace, matching the rhythm of my tongue to the thrust of my fingers. I feel her body tensing, coiling like a spring. When I suck gently on her clit while maintaining pressure with my fingers, she shatters.

The first wave hits her silently—her mouth opens in a soundless cry, her back arching off the bed. Then the sounds come: soft, breathless moans that she tries to stifle by biting her lower lip. I don’t let up, riding through her orgasm as her inner walls clench around my fingers in rhythmic pulses.

“Goodness,” she breathes, her body still trembling with aftershocks. “That was…”

I kiss my way up her body, feeling the rapid flutter of her heartbeat beneath my lips. When I reach her face, I find her eyes half-closed, lips parted, cheeks flushed with pleasure.

“Something,” I finish for her, brushing damp hair from her forehead.

“Yes,” she says, her voice ragged and spent. “That’s one way of putting it.” Then she raises a brow at me. “But, tell me, Professor, why are you still in your clothes?”

The question catches me off-guard, and I laugh—a low, surprised sound that rumbles in my chest. She’s already sitting up, flushed and dazed, her fingers working at the buttons of my shirt, clumsy in her eagerness. I watch her face as she works, noting the way her tongue peeks out between her lips in concentration, the flush that still stains her cheeks.

“Impatient,” I murmur, but I’m already shrugging out of my shirt, letting it fall to the floor. Her eyes track the movement of my hands as I unbutton my trousers.

She sits up, pushing herself against the headboard. “I think I’ve earned the right to be impatient. You’ve seen me like this and I haven’t seen you.”

I stand to remove my trousers, feeling her gaze like a physical touch against my skin. When I’m naked before her, she doesn’t look away—she studies me openly, her eyes traveling the length of my body with undisguised appreciation.