“It’s a literary device used to help a reader visualize a work of art in great detail.”
That’s right. How did he get that so quickly?
My thoughts glitch a full frame as my jaw practically dislodges in shock. I’m sweating like we’re already in the height of summer, my vision overexposed thanks to the focus group of hormones that all wager against my imminent undoing.
“You—” My voice collapses into a splutter.
“One sock off.Now.”
There’s a cockiness about Knox I can’t fault. He might claim plausible deniability, but I know secretly, deep down, he just needed a little motivation to push him over the edge. I’ve severely underestimated the monster that I’ve just freed.
I begin to slip off my sock, my nerves auditioning for a starring role. “How did you?—”
“Oh, Ace. I can do a lot when I have the right incentive,” he drawls, completely bereft of his preliminary hesitation and nowthe new proprietor to an endless amount of panty-wetting hubris.
Knox Mulligan is kneeling at the altar of my destruction, and I have no qualms about it. If this is the most effective way he learns, then so be it.
Despite the confiscation of my sock, it feels like my skin is crawling with fire, the sticky lust inside of me fusing to my bones. “You need to get five more questions right.”
His gaze is branding, working double time to mentally account for the terrain of skin he has to familiarize himself with when he inevitably wins his prize. His own pathological need to have me is—well, it’scontagious. Perhaps frightening if I wasn’t trapped in my own throes of pleasure.
“Good, because I’m not going to be able to focus much longer with you looking like the sexiest woman on the fucking planet.”
Sexiest? That seems like a bit of a stretch, but the vote of confidence is nice.
“What is the central theme of Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’?”
Knox errs on the side of caution before answering. Really considers the logistics of the question so he doesn’t forfeit his turn. His face is scrunched in concentration as he slides the cotton of my footwear between the pads of his fingers. At the last minute, I foolishly think he’s about to concede before a textbook-rehearsed response crash-lands between us.
“One of the central themes is how the narrator’s guilt and further disillusionment lead to his ultimate downfall. Through the lens of subjectivity, the narrator struggles with paranoia and ends up denying his own sanity.” His words darken, and the complacency hidden in their syllables has my heartbeat thrumming like an electric guitar riff.
When I slide off his next well-earned trophy, the tremble in my legs dictates a ramp-up in my anticipation—tingles of thenon-garden-variety kind. Lubricious thoughts permeate my mind like a bad leak in mid-rainy season. There go my only buffers. Now any question that Knox gets right will have me teetering on half-nudity.
I have to give him something harder. Not just because I want to test him, but because there’s something satisfying about seeing the lengths he’ll go to have me naked and squirming underneath him.
God, I wish I could just take it all off now. Skip the schoolgirl fantasy foreplay. I want to overdose on him. I want his tongue licking at the corners of my mouth; I want his fingers plugging my embarrassingly wet pussy; I want him swallowing my moans. It’s no surprise that he’s already hard—he was from the second I proposed this alternative teaching method.
His erection looks particularly painful tonight, contained by the unbreathable denim of his jeans. Sometimes I forget how naturally huge he is: a mean, hulking appendage fattened with an insane amount of blood. My hunger begets yet another inquiry.
“What does the green light inThe Great Gatsbysymbolize?”
Knox is so close to me that his cologne and body heat are smudging my sensibility. My self-control is a goddamn sham, and I have to remind myself to cling to my overt motive before it reaches a vanishing point in the barren stretch of my conscience.
The ulterior motive is much more tantalizing.
He’s already divesting me of my long-sleeve top in one fell swoop, all while reciting another answer that fuels our forbidden affair, the press of his hard cock against my belly nearly making me whine.
“The green light symbolizes Gatsby’s idealized future. It’s purposefully far away to comment on how unattainable the American Dream is,” he purrs, taking his sweet time as hewatches inch after inch of skin come into the light, waiting to be bruised and bitten beyond recognition.
I push my chest out to him—my breasts cupped by a sexy, black, lacy bra—and I tumble over myself in a slipstream of adrenaline. He does a terrible job of adjusting the bulge in his pants with any minutia of decorum.
“Fuck, Staten. I’ve been dreaming of this. Taking you on all different surfaces in the vicinity, watching those perfect tits bounce as I bottom into that vice-tight cunt of yours. You have no idea how much I crave you—the little noises you make, the smell of your cum, your unwavering obedience that has me gripping my cock in the shower at two in the morning.”
I roll my hips against the air, feeling the walls of my pussy undulate. The fact that he’s been jerking off to me is a terrible, terrible disclosure of information. I’m already wetter than the Pacific Ocean, and I still have half my clothes on.
“Then hurry up and answer all the questions,” I grit through my teeth.
“Yes, ma’am.”
