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His groan is so soft that I only hear it because I’m standing right here, pressed against him.
‘Show me.’
I blink.
‘Show me what you dreamed I did to you.’
I nod, slowly, and drop my hand back to my jeans, this time undoing the button and lowering the zip.
And, as I touch myself, his cock is right there, too. My fingers push against my wet, hot clit and he stays close, so that every movement also rubs his dick.
I’m so close. I’ve been dreaming about him for a month, wanting him, needing this, so that now I’m there I have no ability to hold on and stretch this out. I come hard, against my fingers, but when I would cry out with pleasure he lifts a hand to my mouth, pressing his palm against my lips to silence me. I bite down on his flesh—gently.
He laughs, and pushes his dick further forward, so that if it weren’t for the barrier of his clothes he’d be touching me. My body pulses.
Sagging, spent, I withdraw my hand, and he catches me around the wrist.
‘Now let me show you what I’ve been dreaming of doing.’
I hold my breath but, instead of lifting me over his shoulder and taking me somewhere more private, he simply lifts my fingers to his lips. He takes them deep inside his mouth and my knees buckle under the overwhelming sensual awareness. He wraps an arm around my waist, vice-like, and continues to suck my fingers until I’m whimpering.
Then, slowly, he pulls my wrist, removing my finger from his mouth, and he unclamps my waist. He steps back, watching me with glittering eyes. ‘Careful, Miss Amorelli. If you play with fire, you’re going to get burned.’
* * *
I had two lectures to get through after Olivia.
Two lectures that I somehow managed to bullshit my way through—I couldn’t tell you, for a million pounds, what the fuck I talked about. I guess I more or less stuck to the course notes, but holy shit.
I see only her face before me.
Her face, scrunched with pleasure, feel her nipples hard against my chest.
I hear only her rushed breathing, her low moans. I hear the exhalation of breath as she tipped over the edge, sucking her lower lip between her teeth and squeezing her eyes closed.
I smell only her.
I taste only her.
Hell, I taste her and it is like taking an addict to a crack den. She tasted so good; how am I meant to leave it at that? How am I meant to stand in front of her without a tent in my pants?
One taste of Olivia is never going to be enough.
I watch the last student file out of my class and then load up the LLS lecturer app on my iPad. I’m only here for the term—and just because I was feeling almost suffocated by my need to get away from Dublin and my firm. I didn’t want all the gadgets that came with this temporary lecturing gig.
I was happy to stand up in front of the class and spitball about law and trial experience, interviewing clients, prepping witnesses, you know, the real stuff these students will need to know to be effective in the real world.
But the university has weird rules about this stuff. All the teaching staff need to have the same equipment—it comes as standard. Something about what the students deserve.
So I have the app and for the first time since taking up this honorary lectureship I open it and flick into my student files.
They’re in alphabetical order by surname, so she’s right near the top. I send a guilty look towards the door—then feel like an A-grade idiot.
I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m just checking a student’s schedule.
She’s finished for the day—no hope of seeing her again now. I resist the impulse to scribble down her phone number and address. I’ve already crossed so many lines I’m like a freaking acrobat. I don’t think I need to add another transgression to my list.
She’s got a tutorial tomorrow at ten.
