“What? No. I just, uh—” My voice croaks and I clear it, embarrassed by the sound. “You’re going to have to, like… talk me through this. So I don’t suck. Or, you know, do something completely wrong.”
Audrey’s mouth curves at the edges, and the wickedness in her smile makes me dizzy. “Logan,” she says, voice low and dangerous. “The only person who’ll be doing any sucking in the next ten minutes is me. Your job is to just do exactly what you’re doing.”
I don’t think I’ve ever been more turned on in my life. My heart is pounding, my brain is spinning, and every nerve ending is tuned to her like a sensor in feedback overload. She holds my gaze, eyes sparking with mischief and intent, and I let go of her wrists, unsure if I can trust my hands not to shake.
She doesn’t rush. She peels my underwear down slowly, watching every inch of skin revealed like she’s making mental notes for later analysis. My cock springs out, already painfully hard, and for a split second I want to apologize for how eager I am—like I’ve broken some unwritten protocol of restraint and academic decorum. But the look on her face isn’t surprise or judgment or anything but pure, delighted hunger.
She slides her hands up my thighs, nails scraping lightly, and then bends forward and gently kisses the tip. My whole body jolts. Another kiss, this time another linger, then finally her lips part, and the heat and slide of her tongue is a force I have never encountered, never even modeled for. I am nothing but sensation, nothing but the wild, impossible pleasure of hermouth and her hands and the impossible, perfect devotion in her eyes.
Her lips are soft, her tongue clever, and every time I think I can’t possibly feel more, she changes something—pressure, angle, speed—like she’s iterating for the local maximum, optimizing for my undoing. I am unraveling, string by string, and the only thing keeping me from coming apart completely is the urgent need to watch her, to memorize this. To never, ever forget.
She takes me all the way in, pauses, and then hums. Low, satisfied. I let out a sound that would mortify me if I had a single neuron left for shame. I don’t. There’s only the tectonic pressure building in my spine, pulsing through every limb, gathering, unstoppable. I grip the sheets, fighting it, desperate to make this last, but she’s relentless—perfect scientist, perfect predator, determined to document every data point of my undoing.
“Audrey—I can’t?—”
Her only response is to hum and suck me in harder. I lose it. It’s not graceful or contained. I arch off the mattress, stifling a shout by digging my knuckles into my mouth, every muscle in my body locking tight as fireworks rip through me. She holds steady, swallowing every spasm, her hands gentle where they cradle my hips, grounding me.
I’ve never come so hard in my life. I might never come again. She gives me a last, slow lick, then rests her cheek just above my hip bone, looking up at me with an expression halfway between smug pride and tenderness.
“You alive?” she asks, voice rough.
I nod, but it’s a minute before I can find words.
Somewhere in the wreckage of my nervous system, a thought surfaces,I didn’t ruin it.The voice that’s been telling me I’d fail at this, that I’m too defective for intimacy, that she’d find me inadequate and run—it’s quiet now. Not gone. But quiet.
My chest heaves. I’m floating. My legs don’t work right, my hands are trembling, and there’s an aftershock in every nerve that makes it almost impossible to sit up. But some instinct—desire, maybe fusion-powered curiosity—makes me reach for her. I want to kiss her, but more than that I want to repay, to worship, to make her feel even a fraction of what she just gave me.
She flops down next to me half laughing, half panting.
“Good?”
I can only nod, still reeling, grinning like someone who just mainlined pure dopamine. I roll onto my side, trying to string my thoughts back into something resembling language. Her face is so close, cheeks flushed, eyes half-lidded—the smugness in her smile cut with something nervous and naked, like she can’t quite believe it either.
“Holy shit,” I manage. “That was—” I break off and laugh, because none of the words I know are big enough for it. “You’re ridiculously good at that.”
She throws an arm over her eyes, half hiding, and laughs too. “Thank you, Dr. Whitman. I aim to delight and destroy.”
I turn to face her, propped up on one elbow, resisting the urge to grab her and never let go. “I want to—” I stop, embarrassingly uncertain. “I want to make you feel that good. But I don’t… I mean, I need you to show me how. Teach me?”
She turns her head, studying me for a long, tender moment, then slides her palm up my chest.
“Yeah,” she says. “I can do that.”
CHAPTER 17
Audrey
Logan is positioned between my thighs, his glasses slightly askew, his expression a mix of determination and awe as he studies my pussy. I’ve been with men who treated sex like a race to the finish. Men who went through the motions without really seeing me. But no one has ever looked at me like this—like I’m a new branch of mathematics, and he’s desperate to solve the equation.
It should feel strange, being studied instead of doing the studying. I’ve always been the analyst, the solver, the one with the data. And I know what I look like—shorter and rounder than most, no supermodel by any stretch. I’ve never been ashamed of that. But I’ve also never been looked at likethis. Under his gaze, I don’t feel catalogued or measured. I don’t feel like a problem to be solved. I feel like a discovery.
His hands are braced on either side of my hips, featherlight, like he’s learned from the very first point of contact that even the air around my body deserves respect. He skims his fingertips up the inside of my thigh in measured increments—a test, a hypothesis, a small experiment with every brush. My whole bodyis a live wire. I want everything at once and also for this moment to stretch into infinity.
“Does this feel good?” he asks, his voice low and a little uneven, and I realize he’s both self-conscious and devoutly focused. I wonder if he’s dissected this in his head a hundred times—mapped out a procedure, anticipated the sequence of steps—never realizing that the reality would short-circuit all such planning.
“Yeah,” I breathe, shamelessly arching into his touch, inviting more.
“Tell me what to do,” he says, his voice rough. “I want to learn everything.”
