Beauty and the Professor (A Modern Fairy Tale Duet 1)

Be careful, he admonished himself. Go slow.

He fisted his cock and forced himself to speak evenly. “What are you thinking about? Right now.”

Her eyes widened. “About you. How you’ll feel inside me.”

“You need to come?”

“Yes,” she breathed.

“When’s the last time you got yourself off?”

She blinked. If he wasn’t mistaken, a blush spread over her cheeks, spilling over the back of her shoulders. “You mean the last time we…?”

“Not me. You. How long has it been since you touched yourself?”

She turned her face into the carpet, muffling her answer. “This morning.”

He stroked up the inside of her thigh, not wanting her to feel alone in this and needing—needing to touch her soft skin. Not wanting to be alone in this either. Blood coursed hotly through his veins, pounding a beat of urgency and desire. Of possession, even though he knew that wasn’t right. Wasn’t good.

She deserved to be cherished, but all he could think was to hold her down and fuck her. She deserved to be worshipped, but he imagined his every sinful dream upon her body. Most of all, she deserved a better man, one whole and unbroken, but he would never let her go.

The silky skin at the top of her leg was already damp. He drew circles there idly, needing to stall before he plunged into her. Before he hurt her. He would accept her submission, her trust. He’d use her sweet body and in doing so reach his own bliss. Selfish, monstrous—that was him.

He leaned down, murmuring the only love words he could think in the moment. “Show me. Make yourself come for me.”

With a moan of acceptance, she reached down. He could see flashes of pale as her fingers worked quickly at her clit. Thick blinds filtered light from the evening, a shy illumination of her gorgeous curves and shadows beneath. He knelt behind her and bent his head. She tasted lovely. He reached deeper, nudging her legs farther apart and delving into her with his tongue. She shivered, and the motion of her hand sped up.

He’d directed this, but he felt strangely powerless. He could lick her, caress her with his tongue, but it was she who controlled the pace, she who stroked herself toward climax. It wasn’t what he’d intended at the start, but her pleasure was its own sweet reward.

She began to rock in a familiar rhythm. He grabbed her hips to hold her steady. His harsh grip seemed to spur something inside her. Her sounds were frantic now, her fingers desperate. He slid his own two fingers into the warm clasp of her body, finding the right angle and perfect spot, meeting her caress with his tongue through her swollen flesh.

She cried out as she came, sounding desperate and so wholly his that he reared back and slammed inside her before she had finished. He pushed inside again and again, not letting her relax or find comfort in the fullness. It was different than ever before, and that thought only spurred him higher. Harder. Deeper inside until she clenched around him in a bid for reprieve.

He couldn’t, though. Couldn’t stop, couldn’t breathe. More, more. He slid a palm along the sweat-slicked skin of her back and grasped her hair at the base. He pulled her up against him so she knelt upright and him behind her, almost beneath her, fucking upward. Reaching around her, he found her clit and fondled it with the same rhythm she’d used on herself, having learned her secrets now.

She gasped and sobbed in his embrace, hands damp with her own desire, clinging to his arms and scrabbling at his sides—wherever she could reach, which wasn’t much. He had her in hand now, under his control in a way he both loathed and craved. He wanted to give her all his gentleness only to find there was none left. He sucked at her neck, leaving marks for the world and for her—but mostly for himself. To know that she was his and to never doubt, never fear.

Still holding her steady with his hand tangled in her hair. Still circling her clit in time with the pulse of her cunt around his cock. “Come,” he murmured in her ear. “Come for me.”

“I can’t.”

“Do it now.”

He pinched her clit, and she came with a hoarse cry. Her pussy squeezed him tight. He almost came—not yet, almost.

“Again,” he demanded.

“No more. Oh God, I really can’t.”

But she could. Her inner muscles still rippled around him, her last climax hardly faded.

He bit her earlobe gently. “I want to feel you come again. I want that sweet pussy to squeeze me until I can’t hold back anymore. I want to feel your wetness drip down my cock to my balls. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”

She might have cried out his name, but the sound muffled in his ears as she did just what he’d ordered. As she came and shook in his arms while her sex tightened almost painfully around his cock. His vision went white, his body rigid. He came in a moment of blinding ecstasy and helpless, heartless need. With a cry of despair and release. With the knowledge that he would never survive it if she left him too.

He curled onto his side, catching her as she fell, panting. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

“No.” Her voice was raw. “Don’t you dare say you’re sorry. Don’t you dare.”