Page 57 of Wicked Little Secret
All that mattered was that right then, in that moment, it felt good.
“So good,” I groaned against her lips. “You’re so wet. Soaked through. Who gave you permission?”
I had slipped two fingers inside her. I was sliding them in and out of her. She was writhing and panting for air, her brown skin warm to the touch. Her once pinned back curls were no longer held down. Instead they were framing her face.
I played with her pussy, learning every tweak and graze that brought her to the edge.
Drawing back, I watched the pleasure flicker across her gorgeous face.
It was just as pleasurable for me—the soft, soaked texture of her pussy made me think about what she would feel like encasing my dick.
Another layer of torture that made me want to come.
Our kisses turned chaotic while we raced toward an ending. She thrust her hips back and forth and my fingers pumped in and out. We developed a rhythm that wasfaster, more aggressive by the second. The harder I rubbed her clit, the deeper my fingers curled, the more impatiently she rocked her hips toward me.
The desk legs scraped against the floor. The mug holding my pens slid to the edge, then tipped over altogether and smashed into a dozen broken pieces of ceramic. We held onto each other as we kissed and I finger-fucked her to orgasm.
The pleasure we had been working toward exploded for the both of us.
She came on my fingers, nice and slick, her pussy quivering. I gathered the pearly essence between the pads of my fingers, then slipped them past her lips so she could taste herself. I made her suckle, holding my dark, heated gaze before I dipped them into my own mouth and savored the forbidden sweetness.
It was at that exact moment the spell dissolved.
The lust-driven trance was broken, and we came to our senses. I’d come in my pants during the heat of the moment, and she was in equal disarray. We spent the next tense few minutes straightening our clothes and avoiding eye contact.
I offered to drive her home…
The memory ends just as quickly as our passion-fueled encounter had.
I’m left still in bed, listening to the loud silence of my neighborhood.
For the rest of the day I’m on pins and needles. I’m unable to stop thinking about last night. My usual Saturday routine doesn’t suffice. The errands feel pointless. The books I’ve planned to read fail to hold my attention.
I take Atticus for a walk around the block and find my pulse beating fast. Urges fillme to the brim. It’s the compulsion to pull out my phone and check Nyssa’s cloud. Obsessively watch over her social media for a clue of what she’s up to today. Drive by her apartment to see her… even if she doesn’t see me.
“No,” I whisper sternly to myself. “You’ll see her Monday.”
On Sunday, I exhaust myself working out. Burning pent up energy. Keeping my body moving so that my mind can’t wander to her. I run eight miles on the trails winding around the pine forest and then another two when I take Atticus for his daily walk.
By the time my head hits the pillow Sunday night, I’m depleted. I’m quick to fall asleep, aware that in exactly ten hours, Nyssa Oliver will walk through the doors of my classroom.
At ten a.m. sharp, I’m seated behind my desk, waiting. Other students mill inside clutching their books and bags and caffeinated beverages. I couldn’t care less, hardly paying them any mind.
The moment Nyssa strolls into the cavernous room, my skin’s heating up. My gaze is locked on her, tracking her every step toward her desk. She spares me no glance, taking her seat beside Heather Driscoll like this is any other class.
Not the class of the professor she was kissing forty-eight hours ago.
The two girls avoid each other too—Heather stares anywhere but at Nyssa, and she does the same.
I can barely hold my composure enough to start the lesson. Jason Hendricks has to clear his throat and ask if class will be beginning before I come to my senses.
“Yes,” I say, almost dazed. “Today we will be picking up where we left off. We will be discussing more about the model penal code.”
For the duration of the class, I’m waiting on Nyssa to raise her hand. Every time I ask a question, I pause long enough for her to do so, even as other students raise theirs. She never takes me up on the offer. For the first time since the semester began, she doesn’t participate at all in class.
The room begins to empty once time is up and everyone gathers their things. Heather Driscoll flips her hair over her shoulder and struts out of the room as if she’s important enough to draw attention.
But I’m much more fixated on Miss Oliver.