Page 66

He moans. “You’re drenched.”

He kisses me again, hard, and his fingers find the right place and start to work at me, the sound wet and lewd in the hush of the graveyard.

He’s good at it. Terribly good. Not that I expected anything less from watching those long, skilled fingers during class, the way they carry confidence and control.

“Right there, yeah?” he asks as they rub and press at just the right spot.

I nod against his cheek, unable to form words.

“Open your eyes.”

I open them and he pulls back to stare at me, his golden eyes on fire.

“Look at me when you come,” he demands hoarsely.

“Yes, Professor.”

Oh, he likes that. He breaks into a lopsided grin and slides two fingers inside me and keeps his thumb working at the top, and I’m about to come and he knows it. His eyes don’t leave mine, until it becomes too much, until I’m swept away as if I’m dragged into the sea and my eyes pinch shut as my body gives up all control.

Stars flash behind my eyes and I come on his hand with my mouth open against his and the sound I make goes into him. His hand doesn’t stop until I’ve stopped shaking around his fingers.

I slump back against the headstone.

He pulls his fingers out slow and brings them to his mouth and puts them in, tasting them.

Goodness. While this isn’t the first time a man has made me come, it’s certainly the first time a man has deliberately wanted the taste of me. Anton managed the first part eventually, after a lot of fumbling in his father’s boat shed. He never once wanted the second.

Baz’s eyes don’t leave mine while he does it, licking them clean in such a manner that another pulse of desire goes through me, despite my body having been spent a moment earlier.

“God, you taste—” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He kisses me instead and I taste myself on his mouth and that goes through me too.

“Turn around, darling,” he murmurs as he pulls back.

He takes my hips in both hands and turns me so I’m holding on to the top of the headstone and my back’s to him, then pushes my dress up to my waist and holds it there with one hand at the small of my back, and I hear him working at the front of his trousers behind me. The cold air nips at my legs and rear and I shiver from that and the anticipation of what’s to come.

This is happening.

This is actually happening.

All the days I’d spent in his class, wondering what it would be like, all those nights I’d lay in bed and let my hand slip between my legs, imagining him, imagining the two of us together. And yet my imagination never could have predicted this, in the cemetery of all places.

Though I suppose it is rather fitting.

Then my thoughts leave my head the moment I feel the long, hard heat of him against the back of my thigh.

He’s bigger than I’d imagined, even more than what I felt earlier, and he’s deliciously hot against me. He runs the length of himself once along the wetness, slow and deliberate, and my body starts to squirm with need.

“Oh, my darling witch. You want more of this, don’t you?”

I make a strangled noise that only means yes.

He pushes down on my back, adjusting the angle, then moves down to grip my hip, hard enough I’ll see fingermarks tomorrow. With his other hand I feel him behind me.

He pushes in.

And I can’t breathe.

He goes slow and steady enough that I can feel every inch of him stretching me open, wider and wider. I make a choking sound at the back of my throat, and he stops halfway and swears under his breath.