We groaned together. Her pussy clamped tight, hot and messy, and I nearly lost it right there.
“Fuck, baby,” I gasped, gripping her ass as she locked her legs around me.
“Harder,” she demanded, nails raking my back.
So I gave it to her—rough, filthy strokes that had her head thudding against the wall, her cries spilling into my mouth. She clenched hard, wet and greedy, milking me until I was growling against her neck. I spilled inside her with a curse, both of us shaking through it, wrecked and panting.
We stripped the rest of the way and collapsed into my bed, her hair loose, my shirt buttons hanging. Sleep found us tangled and bare.
She slept facedown, one leg bent, one arm stretched over my stomach like she’d claimed the territory in her sleep. My hand found her back, warm and smooth, tracing her spine. She stirred, mumbling something about me watching her. I didn’t deny it. I couldn’t. She was the kind of sight that quieted everything else.
She rolled toward me, hair loose and wild, eyes heavy. I kissed her shoulder, then her mouth, and just like that, the night started again.
She pulled me in with a sleepy sigh, guided me inside her with a soft curse. We moved slow, deliberate, short strokes that went deep, every one of them carrying lastnight’s wreckage into something tenderer. I counted out of habit—one, two, three, four—but her moans broke me off beat, her hips rising like she wanted me lost. She came first, tight and shuddering under my hands, and I followed, groaning into her neck, spilling deep.
After, she lay quiet, chest rising under my palm.
“You hungry?” I asked.
“For food?” she teased.
“For anything.”
“Pancakes,” she whispered, biting my lip.
In the kitchen, I moved like I’d done it a hundred times. Coffee. Batter. Pan. She sat on the counter in one of my shirts—bare legs swinging, hair all over the place like I loved it. She watched me over my Penn State mug like she was memorizing my face. It made me stand a little straighter.
We ate on the couch, plates balanced on knees, TV murmuring nonsense. Conversation stretched past banter, into the places you don’t usually hand someone in week one.
She told me about her mom. How after the divorce, things between them frayed. “She looked at me and saw herself,” Rayna said, eyes on her plate. “Saw the pain. I didn’t know why it was different with my dad—maybe because the way he related to me gave him something back. I wasn’t big on dolls and makeup like her. I wanted to hang with him. Tools, wire, breakers. He showed me things that helped both of us. Diffused the pain.”
Her voice was even, but I heard what lived under it. A kid caught between parents, trying to carry both their griefs without breaking.
“Darren wasn’t into that?” I asked carefully.
She shook her head. “Nah. He went his own way—security, uniforms, routine. But me…I followed Daddy. Electricity made sense. Pain you can fix with wire and clean connections.” She lifted her eyes to me. “People? That’s harder.”
I didn’t push. Just nodded, because I understood it too well. People break in ways no meter can measure. But hearing her talk about it—about what shaped her, what hurt her—hit me deep.
I wanted more than her laugh and her pussy and her fire at the pool table. I wanted the parts she didn’t hand out, the parts she thought nobody could hold.
We kept trading truths—her superstitions at the table, my hate for driving through tunnels with no music playing, the secret movies we’d never admit to anyone else. She kissed me with syrup still on her tongue, and I thought, this is it. The edge. The point where I stop pretending I can pace myself.
Later, shower steam blurred the glass while she pressed me to the tile, mouth greedy on mine. Later still, we sprawled on the bed, arguing over music.
“Maxwell over D’Angelo?” she said.
“Different weapons,” I said. “Maxwell’s the long game. D’Angelo when you don’t want to play.”
“Whatever you say, Professor?”
I loved the mix betweenTeacherandProfessor. She used the latter when I was putting her onto a new way of thinking, I noticed.
My phone buzzed. Malik clowning with eye emojis.
Then another…
Grandma: Cobbler’s done. Bring that girl tomorrow if she not scared of me.
