Page 55 of Brat Baby
She shoves up from the desk and stalks toward me, and somehow—I don’t know how—she makesmefeel like the prey. Emmy stops so close, I can smell her perfume, something sweet and floral.
This close, I can see her Tiffany necklace. That’s new.
Her hand touches my chest, and she pats right over my heart. “Make me.”
Then she walks away from me, in the direction of the goddamn classroom I just banned her from.
“Come on, Marie. Let’s do this,” Emmy orders as she leaves me alone in my office, Marie trailing after her.
My stomach lurches, and I think I might actually throw up.
How the hell did my afternoon turn into this?
With legs that feel like they are filled with cement, I force myself out of the room and back to my students. As much as I hate to admit it, Emmy is right. My students need a modeltonight, especially considering the epic fail that was last week. As for the money, I know that’s a load of crap. Somehow she found out about this modeling position, and she deliberately applied just to fuck with me.
Emmy and Marie are standing by the side of the couch, with Marie gesturing at it.
I come up behind them and place a hand on Marie’s shoulder, trying to exude a calm I certainly don’t fucking feel. “Go back to your easel, Marie. Everything’s fine. I’ll get her set up and we can start.”
The worried expression Marie shoots me doesn’t fade as she walks away and takes a seat.
It’s only then I realize I’m still holding the piece of chiffon. Trying to find my calm, I take a deep breath as I place my free hand on Emmy’s lower back and use the fabric-holding hand to gesture at the couch.
“This is called a daybed. It is designed to act as both a couch and a bed. You need to lie down, with your back slightly arched over the cushion, head on this seat behind it, and then you’ll have your leg resting along the top of the backrest where it dips down. I’ll also be draping this fabric over you. You’ll need to hold the position for as long as the class requires.”
She eyes the couch before glancing at the students who will most likely have a view of her pussy if I don’t drape her well enough. The thought of them seeing what’s mine has me fucking murderous, which instantly rules out any thoughts of teaching her a lesson.
Carefully, I take hold of the material of the robe at her shoulders. Lowering my voice and doing my best to gentle my tone, I offer her some guidance. As angry with her as I am, fighting the urge to help her is not something I have the energy for. “Slip out of this and go lie down.”
A shiver runs down her spine, and the fine hairs along her neck and shoulder stand up as she does as she’s told, pulling her arms free and stepping toward the couch. I follow behind, keeping the robe stretched out until she is seated.
Using as much of my body as possible to block the view of my students, I help her lie down until her back is arched over the tube pillow and her head is on the cushion. And then I do the worst thing possible—I look.
I scan her body, savoring every inch of bare skin, darkened nipple, dipped stomach, curved hip, and rounded thigh. The noticeable absence of protruding hip bones and ribs is a sight that makes my heart swell. Her skin glows under the studio lights that Marie must have turned on while we were in the office. My gut heats with lust, and I battle against the need to dive between her thighs and become reacquainted with the taste of her.
With as much care as possible, I work the fabric down her body, starting with it piled in the back corner behind her head. As it slips through my fingers over her collarbone, the backs of my fingers graze over her skin. I vary the thickness, the tips of my fingers working the fabric over and around her breast, brushing over her nipple.
Her quiet gasp sends a bolt of heat straight to my already semi-hard cock, and I know there is no way I’m escaping these next two hours without it being torture.
Continuing to work with the fabric, I make sure to leave plenty of shadowing for my students. Throat tight, instead of covering the breast closest to her audience, I droop the fabric, like it has fallen from her motions. The last yard of the fabric, I position over her stomach and down over her pussy.
I arrange the fabric here and there, until there is a pool of it at her entrance, sufficiently hiding her from view, but offering a hint of depth. Gathering the fabric from between her thighs,I adjust it a little, my knuckles grazing her entrance. Her wet entrance.
I pause, breathing deeply through my nose, and look up the full length of her body. Like the good girl I know that she is, she hasn’t moved, and all I can see is my fabric and her breasts.
One little taste couldn’t hurt, right?
There is a cough, and I snap my hands away and stand.
My jeans are painfully restricting as I go back up to the head of the couch. Emmy’s eyes are closed, her hair is bunched beneath her head, and she is awkwardly holding her arms by her sides. That will not do.
“Raise your head,” I murmur as I crouch down beside her.
With her eyes closed, she raises her head. My heart swells at the trust she is placing in me right now, even though I was an absolute asshole to her only a few minutes ago. I slip my fingers behind her neck and gently gather all her hair, undoing the messy bun, and then scooping it up and fanning it out around her head, allowing some of it to drape down to the floor.
I grasp the wrist that has her bracelet and raise her arm, which is so relaxed that I have to take the full weight as I raise it up and over her head, bending it until her fingers appear to tangle in the back of her hair. I position the other arm but place it so that her bent arm forms a triangle to her shoulder and the backs of her fingers almost press to her lips.
Unable to resist, I cup the side of her face and smooth my thumb across her cheekbone. Her lashes flutter open, allowing me to gaze into those hazel eyes that aren’t quite as focused as they were.
