Page 11 of The Professor's Indecent Obsession

I hold myself deep inside her, needing to fill her up, to mark her as mine. My dick twitches, pumping rope after rope of cum into her unprotected womb.

“That’s it, baby,” I whisper, my lips brushing against hers. “Take it all. Take everything I have.”

Her eyes are wide and dark, and her mouth is open in a silent scream. Her cunt ripples around me, milking every drop of cum from my balls.

“Fuck,” I groan, my head dropping to rest against her shoulder when I’m spent.

She’s still shivering and shaking, her body trembling with the aftershocks of her orgasm. She’s clinging to me, her hands and legs wrapped around me, her nails digging into my back.

“Now you’re really mine, baby,” I growl low into her ear. “And when you start growing big and round with my baby, everyone else will know it, too.”

I bring my lips to hers, kissing her tenderly. Her body melts into mine, and the only thing that matters is how perfectly she fits against me. How right it feels to have her in my arms.

She’s mine, and I’m never going to let her go.

Chapter Five

Roman

She’s asleep beside me, soft and still and fucking perfect, and I’m ruined.

The sun hasn’t fully risen yet. There’s just a hint of light slipping through the blinds, golden and quiet. The room is hushed, holding its breath, like even the world knows not to interrupt this moment. Callie lies curled on her side, facing me, lips parted slightly as she dreams. Her lips still look red and swollen from all my hungry kisses, and all I can think is that she is mine now.

I should sleep. I haven’t closed my eyes all night. Not once. Not after the first time I took her. Not after the second. Not after the third, when she fell asleep with her hand still wrapped weakly around my wrist like she needed to tether herself to me even when she was unconscious.

But I can’t sleep.

Not when I have her story in my hands. Her heart bleeding across the glowing screen of my phone.

I’m halfway through it when it hits me, when the first real crack appears in the armor I’ve been dragging around my whole goddamn life. Because I expected it to be good. I expected passion, heat, wild imagination. Maybe some rough edges, maybe something young and a little raw.

What I didn’t expect was this.

It’s beautiful.

Every sentence is like a thread tugging directly on my ribs. Her prose is lyrical, intimate, fucking fearless. Her characters bleed the way real people do. Her heroine is soft, smart, stubborn, and is a clear reflection of her, even if she doesn’t realize it. And the way she writes about love?

Christ.

It’s not naïve. It’s not cutesy. It’s aching. Slow and bruising and devotional in a way that grabs me by the throat and doesn’t let go.

I feel her in every line.

Not just her talent. Not just her voice. Her.

The way she aches. The way she dreams. The way she wants to be seen, to be chosen, to be claimed.

And not just in the bedroom, though that part is there too, thick and molten between the lines.

She writes about love like it’s a holy thing. Like it ruins you. Like it demands every piece of who you are and gives you something even more terrifying in return.

I’ve never read anything like it.

I’ve never felt anything like this.

I look over at her again, still sleeping, lashes fanned across her cheeks, hair tangled over my pillow. I don’t know what I ever did to deserve to have her in my bed. Don’t know how I’m supposed to let her walk out that door when morning comes.

Because something’s shifted inside me. Something massive and irreversible.

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