“…and because the lymph-node swelling was so extreme, surgeons actually started experimenting with crude drainage tubes—”
“Min,” I say against her ear, low enough that only she hears it.
She falters mid-sentence. “Hmm?”
Her thighs press together for half a second before she catches herself. She’s getting braver about wanting things—me included.
“Keep talking, baby. I missed this voice.”
It steadies me. Christ, I didn’t realize how much until right now.
My hands are already sliding under the hoodie, over the warm skin of her belly. She sucks in a breath but soldiers on, valiantly trying to stay on topic while I hook my fingers in her waistband.
“…which is why we see the first documented above-knee amputations in the 1360s—”
I tug. The leggings and her panties peel down in one slow drag over the perfect little curve of her ass. She squeaks, notebook tumbling out of her hands.
“Tristan—”
“Shh. Plague facts. I’m listening.”
I ease her forward onto her hands and knees right there on the rug, papers crinkling under her palms. Kepler skids to a halt, gives us one judgmental blink, then sprints off again like he’s seen too much.
She tries—God, she really tries—to keep lecturing.
“So… so the mortality rate—”
I spread her with my thumbs and lick a hot stripe straight up her center. Her voice cracks into this tiny, shocked moan.
“Fuck, there it is,” I groan against her. “Missed this pussy so much I almost cried in Detroit.”
I don’t give her time to be shy. I bury my face in her, tongue pushing inside, nose pressed to her clit, one big hand splayed across her lumbar spine to keep her exactly where I want her. She’s already dripping, rocking back into my mouth on instinct, mewly punched-out sounds mixing with half-finished sentences about Yersinia pestis.
“Well, Detroit can do that to a person.” A little moan comes out of her on the last syllable.
I pull back only long enough to rasp, “Don’t stop talking, baby. Tell me about the prosthetics,” then dive back in, sucking her clit until her arms shake.
She lasts maybe ten more seconds.
“The—the peg leg—oh, God—early designs were—”
I slide two fingers into her and curl. She drops to her elbows, ass high, forehead on her stacked notebooks, babbling nonsense Latin while I tongue-fuck her through the first orgasm. Her thighs clamp around my ears; I just spread them wider and keep going until she’s dripping down my chin.
Fishing a condom from my pocket, I tear the wrapper with my teeth and slide it on. When she’s trembling too hard to hold herself up, I flip her hoodie higher, line up, and push inside in one slow, relentless thrust.
She cries out—my name, maybe a prayer, maybe just noise. I bottom out and have to white-knuckle her hips to keep from coming on the spot.
“Fuck, Min. Days without this sweet little cunt and I’m already losing it.”
I lean over her, one arm banded under her tits, the other hand slipping around to rub circles on her clit.
“Keep going,” I growl against her neck, starting to move in short, filthy strokes. “Tell me about the Black Death while I fuck you on your own research.”
She can’t. She’s reduced to broken gasps every time I fill her, body shaking under me, fingers clawing at the rug. I don’t last long—can’t when she’s this tight and warm and mine.
I slam deep one last time and come with her name on my tongue, feeling her clench around me in a second, quieter orgasm that leaves her boneless.
After, I pull out gently, fix her leggings just enough to be decent, dispose of the condom, and collapse onto my back. She flops half on top of me, glasses completely fogged, hair wild, cheek against my chest.
