Page 17 of Wild Skies

“What do you want, Maren? Tell me.”

My throat is dry as I swallow. He watches and waits, so kind and patient.

Why is this so hard to say?

“I want… you know.” My thighs squeeze his waist once more, our bodies brushing together. The professor’s expression doesn’t change, but Ifeelthe way his cock twitches, straining toward me inside his jeans.

“Maybe I don’t know,” Greg murmurs, winding a wispy lock of blonde hair from my hairline around his knuckle. “Maybe I want to hear you say it.”

Arousal simmers in my veins, and the slickness gathering between my thighs is maddening. So distracting, so tickly, sowet.

“I want…” I mumble.

Greg nods, still playing with that escaped tuft of hair. “Go on.”

“I want you to…”

He rolls his neck when I trail off again, inhaling sharply. Like I’m fraying the last shred of his patience, tormenting him too. He tugs lightly on my hair.

“Say it, Maren.”

Oh, god. Here goes.

“I want you to fuck me, professor.” The words tumble out of me, loud and clear in his empty office, and now they’re out there. Can’t take them back, can’t pretend I never said them. My cheeks burn red, but I push on. “I want you to be my first.”

The professor’s nostrils flare at that, and his eyes darken—like it had never occurred to him that I might not have done this before. That I’m untouched.

He can’t speak for what seems like a long stretch of time, though his hips roll against me rhythmically the whole time, his body making its own statements. I cling to his shoulders and grind back, needy and breathless.

“First and last,” the professor says eventually, his voice pure gravel, and then he’s gripping my braid and tugging my head gently back; he’s kissing me with such filthy, shamelessownershipthat my toes curl in my hiking boots.

I gasp, clinging on for dear life, and yank at the sides of his shirt like I could actually tear the final buttons off with my uncoordinated hands. The professor snorts when he realizes what I’m doing, breaking our kiss only to yank his own shirt open, popped buttons flying across the office floor.

Outside in the hallway, distant voices float past the door. This building isn’t empty; it’s not even dark outside. It’s a regular Friday on campus, and the natural sciences building is full of professors and students all going about their day—completely oblivious to the rules we’re breaking in this fancy corner office.

“My leggings,” I whisper, and after frowning down at our bodies, Greg reluctantly sets me down. He doesn’t step back, though, and keeps me caged against the door as I kick off my boots, shove my leggings down my legs and onto the floorboards, then leap back up into his arms. My ankles cross behind his back once more, and the rough scrape of his jeans against my most sensitive area makes my body flush hotter than an inferno.

“No underwear, Maren.” The professor sounds pained. “Have you been like that all week?”

I shrug, winding my arms around his neck. “Whenever I wore leggings, yeah.”

Greg groans, resting his forehead against mine for a long moment… then he juggles my ass onto his left forearm, and his right hand begins to roam.

My ass cheek: squeezed. My hip: stroked. When those fingers slide along my seam, it’s like the river all over again. Maddening and perfect. I squirm in his hold, biting my lip to stifle my cries, and soon I’m bucking against him, hips rolling to chase his touch.

The professor rubs a thumb over my clit, then presses a single finger inside me. Just to the second knuckle, but this is new. It’s new, and it steals my breath.

“Oh,” I murmur, head flopping down to rest on his shoulder. “Oh. Okay.”

“Feels good?”

That finger works its way deeper, gentle but determined, pressing inside my virgin body. The professor’s low voice reverberates through my whole torso, tingling all my nerve endings, and I nod weakly.

“Uh-huh. So good.”

But how the hell will I ever fit more?

Turns out I should have more faith in biology, because two minutes later I’m fucking myself on two thick fingers, both of them sliding as deep as they can go, hooking inside me to press at my most pleasurable spots. There’s a faint flush on the professor’s cheekbones, and he’s watching me like I’m a miracle. Like I’m more fascinating than any meteor shower.

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