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She stares and stares like she doesn’t understand what I just asked her.
“What?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No one’s ever asked me that.”
I know the feeling. “Then give me an honest answer.”
Nera thinks about it for a second, running her finger along the edge of the plate before looking back up at me. Her eyes shine with the competitiveness I’ve come to know well.
“Yes, I want to win. I want it more than anything.” There’s a kind of ferocity in her voice that leaves me in awe of her. “I want it so badly that some days I spend more time in my head dreaming of winning than I do actually living.” Her gaze softens small degrees but it’s more vulnerability than she’s ever shown me. “But I don’t…I don’t think I want to win for the right reasons.”
“Go on.”
“When I daydream about it, I don’t see myself with a medal around my neck. I don’t see myself waving at a crowd and holding a bouquet of flowers in my arms. I see my parents smiling. I see my dad finally being proud of me. I see my mum loving me unconditionally for once.” Her throat works like emotion holds her hostage, but her eyes are no wetter than before. “I feel relief, not triumph. This is something I’ve worked my entire life for, that my coach is driving me into the ground to achieve, that my dad won’t rest until I get, no matter the cost or sacrifice along the way, this one thing thatIdesperately want and I can’t even muster up any excitement about it. In my daydreams, I just feel the same kind of relief you feel when you’ve finished a chore. Because hopefully then it’ll be done and I’ll get to move on without this immense pressure in my life.”
I have an almost visceral urge to shove the table aside and take her in my arms but I know she’d run for the hills if I did.
I lean forward instead, resting my weight on my elbows. Underneath the table, my calf presses against hers, a silent show of support and the only one I know she’ll accept.
“Why do you think that’s what’s driving you?”
She looks down at her hands where they lay in her lap and thinks for a moment before her gaze flits back up to meet mine. “Because your family is supposed to love you. Hundreds of years of scientific research say so and I can’t rationalize away why mine can’t when I feel like I’ve only ever done exactly what they’ve asked of me.” Softer, so soft that I only just catch it, she adds, “And if I can’t make my own parents love me, then who else will?”
Protectiveness beats furiously in my veins, the need to shield her away from the cruelty of the world almost animalistic in its ardor.
“Sometimes the people who are supposed to love you the most are the ones who hurt you the most,” I tell her.“That says everything about them and absolutely nothing about you.” I lean forward ever so slightly, entranced by the sadness in her eyes. “It’s complete madness to me that you think you’d be a hard person to love,” I whisper, my thumb brushing absentmindedly over her cheeks, my hand cupping her face.
I clear my throat to lend light-heartedness to my words. They came out almost like a declaration, which certainly wasn’t what I intended. I’d only meant that I was captivated by her so I could only imagine how easily and quickly a guy open to something long-term would fall in love with her.
The thought makes my fists clench.
A thick silence hangs between us after each of our family confessions. The metal legs of my chair make a sharp noise against the floor as I shove it back and stand. She watches me approach with guarded eyes but when I bend at the waist, cup her face, and bring my mouth down on hers, she returns my kiss.
She stands, our mouths still fused together, and wraps her arms around my neck.
“You’re incredible,” I mutter heatedly against her mouth. “And your parents are twats if they can’t see it.”
She gives something like a breathy giggle that has my already hard cock so stiff I’m afraid it’ll snap in two. Cum leaks from my dick as primal need for her takes over the rational part of my brain. My forearm locks around her lower back and I hoist her into my arms, wrapping her legs around my waist.
She whimpers and I stiffen, some awareness piercing through the haze of lust to remind me that I brutally fucked her only hours ago.
“Why is it that I can’t get enough of you, hmm?” I ask, between bites along her jaw as I move up to her ear and suck her lobe into my mouth. “I already need to fuck you again. I want to see your eyes widen as I push into you and hear those breathy sounds you make every time I bottom inside you.”
I shouldn’t be doing this. I’m knowingly and willingly fucking a student repeatedly. Knowingly putting her reputation and my own in danger. Knowingly choosing to put my needs over my mum’s, knowing that with every time we do this, the chances of us getting found out and thus the chances of her getting hurt are increasing exponentially.
I know all this and I do it anyway.
It’s starting to be a sickness almost, this obsession with having her at all costs. I don’t care about the implications or the potential repercussions, not if it means I’ll have her even just one more time.
Her hands play with my hair, her nails sinking into my skin and sending delicious shivers down my spine. She arches into me, neck completely back and eyes closed as she rubs her needy center against my hard cock.
Fuck this. I’m not waiting until she’s not sore.
Leaning over, I swipe the contents of the table off with one savage move of my arm. The plate goes flying and shatters against the nearby wall. The sound makes Nera’s eyes fly open. She looks dazedly around, taking in the scene as I lay her down on the now empty table.
Her eyes find mine again as I stand between her bent legs, my hands cupping her thighs possessively for a moment before I rip her shorts and panties down her legs and off.
“Anyone ever tell you you’re very unhinged for a professor?”
