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This lectureship position might be temporary but I am still her lecturer.
She’s my student.
She’s ten years younger than me.
I know ruining her life just because I want to screw her is a short course to hating myself more than I think I already do.
She’s worked her perfect arse off for years to get to where she’s at. Fucking me could ruin all of that.
I sip my Scotch, weighing things up, buying time. But apparently I’m out of time. She shakes her head slowly and spins around. She walks away from me, her beautiful back making my gut ache, her swishing bottom a beacon I don’t think I can ignore.
CHAPTER FOUR
HIS HAND AROUND my wrist is sexy and insistent. He grabs and jerks me, and when I spin back to him I see that he’s been treating me with kid gloves, giving me an opportunity to escape this fierce swirling lava of desire before it completely incinerates us both. Our glasses are on the floor, hastily discarded before he reached for me, and I nearly knock one over with the toe of my shoe.
‘You want to know what I want from you?’ he demands, a different beast altogether to the way he was minutes ago.
‘Yes.’ It’s a simple agreement, and it’s all I can say because words are clogged in my thick, dry throat.
Something has overtaken him, a darkness, a need, a passion, and it demands that we both answer to it. It controls us both. He is as powerless as I to manage this, to ignore it.
‘This is fucking madness,’ he grunts, almost like a plea, pulling on my wrist again before dropping his hands to my hips and spinning me around to face the wall. I curse the dress I’m wearing then. The length of it, the weight of it. But it’s no barrier to Connor Hughes. He wedges a knee between my legs and grabs the skirt at my hips, pushing it up, lifting it all the way up my legs, exposing the delicate lace thong I’m wearing.
‘Hold your dress,’ he commands, and I drop my hands instantly, doing exactly that. ‘Fucking dress,’ he grunts into my ear, his breath warm against my flesh.
I hear him unbuckle his belt, then his button and zip, followed by the soft rustle of fabric as he pushes his pants down. He runs the head of his cock along my arse and I make a noise that is barely human.
He’s harder than a rock and he’s hard for me.
I want him so badly I whimper.
I need him.
This is madness. I know it. But I don’t care. He reaches for my thong and I hold my breath as he pushes it down my thighs. I have to wriggle to step out of it but the second I’m free of its elastic constraint he’s arranging me against the wall, spreading my legs and pushing me forward so that my naked butt is in the air, one of my hands fisted around my dress, the other braced against the white wall of Tate Modern.
His hands are both on my arse then, cupping me, his fingers digging into my flesh as he spreads me apart and then his finger runs along my seam, finding my wet, pulsing heart.
‘You’re so goddamned wet,’ he murmurs and I nod, though there’s no need. He feels me. I feel me. And I know it’s all for him.
‘This is going to get us both in trouble,’ he grunts, his cock pushing against my arse. He holds it there and my breath is captive to my throat as I wonder about that for the first time in my life. I’ve never been interested in anything other than pretty standard sex. Definitely not...this.
But with Connor? Oh, I’d go there. I want him to tie me up and make me his in every conceivable way. This trust I have in him is inexplicable. On an academic level, I am wary of his career choices and I resent his line of work. But here, now, I would willingly put my life in his hands.
I’m sure as hell putting my expectations of pleasure in them. I am panting with a need to feel him inside me, desperately hoping I haven’t built him up to unreasonable proportions.
What if this isn’t good?
Am I kidding?
I’m about this close to coming and we haven’t really started yet.
‘I have wanted to fuck you since the first day I saw you,’ he says, lifting one hand to my hair and tangling his fingers in its length. He pulls at it, not hard, but enough to make my head jerk back. I moan, low in my throat.
His words thrill me because I have felt exactly the same. His admission is an acceleration of power; it thrills in my veins.
‘I have imagined having you, like this.’ And then he thrusts into me, immediately commanding my body, and he’s so hard, so big. He moves a hand to my breasts and cups one through the fabric of my dress, his touch possessive and dark in every single way.
He thrusts again, my muscles tight around him, and I explode, crying out as a fierce orgasm that has been building for four weeks rips me apart. There is passion in his darkness, and his utter, devastating need for me. I don’t know how I know it, but I understand intrinsically that this is just about him and me. The way he’s owning my body is because of what he feels for me. He’s not just made this way.
