“Flatterer,” I manage.
Jacob smiles into the curve of my breast, then kisses his way lower. When his mouth finally finds me, my hands fist in his hairand all coherent thought takes a back seat.
He’s better.
That’s the other thing that’s changed. The first time, he was enthusiastic and attentive but hesitant, second guessing his every move. Now? Now he’s still attentive, still checking in, but there’s a newfound sureness in the way his tongue moves, the way he responds to my breath hitching, to the way my hips jerk.
He makes me come more than once with his mouth, slow and deep, my back arching off the sheets as insistent pleasure rips through me. He doesn’t flinch when I wail and swear loudly enough to probably alarm the neighbors; he just holds my thighs and rides it out with me, humming softly.
When he rolls the condom on, his hands shake hardly at all.
He lines himself up, looks into my eyes. “Still OK?” he asks.
“Yes.” I reach up, cup the back of his neck. “God, yes.”
When he pushes in, my breath catches. He fills me so perfectly that for a second my brain just blanks. All I can feel, all Iwantto feel, is heat, stretch, and the solid weight of his body braced over mine.
He pauses when he’s fully seated, eyes screwed shut, jaw clenched. “Give me a second,” he pants.
“Hey.” I squeeze his hips with my thighs. “Look at me.”
His gaze is glassy with restraint.
“Jacob,” I say gently, “you don’t have to prove anything. If you come in thirty seconds or thirty minutes, I’m not going anywhere. We’ve got condoms for days and I like making you feel good. Thisisn’t a test.”
His face melts with something like gratitude. “You’re going to ruin me,” he whispers.
“Already working on it,” I murmur. “Nowmove.”
He does.
Slowly, at first. Testing. Finding a rhythm that works for both of us. His hand slides under my lower back, lifting my hips a little, and the new angle has me gasping. He watches my face like it’s a map, adjusting, fine-tuning, until he finds the exact thrust that makes me moan without meaning to.
“There,” he says hoarsely. “That’s… yes.”
“Quick study,” I manage, breathless.
He smiles, shaky but so proud, and keeps hitting that spot, a little faster now, a little harder. Our bodies fall into sync in a way that feels shockingly easy. Like we’ve been doing this far longer than we have.
Like we’remeantto.
Dangerous thought. Abort. Abort.
But it’s hard when your whole body is lighting up with pleasure more intense than you could ever have foreseen. When his fingers lace with mine on the pillow, squeezing tight. When he murmurs things in my ear he never would have said a week ago.
“You feel… so good,” he groans. “I think about this all day. About being in you. About you… using me. However you want.”
“Oh, fuck.” I shudder. “Who are you and what have you donewith my shy professor?”
He huffs out something that might be a laugh, then thrusts harder, and that’s it. I go, sharp and hot and sudden, my next orgasm crashing through me in jagged waves. I hear myself cry out his name, feel myself clench around him, and somewhere in the distance I register his strangled “oh,god” as he follows, hips stuttering, burying his face in my neck.
For a few seconds, the world is just white noise.
Then sensation filters back in: the rasp of his breath against my skin; the slick slide of sweat where our bodies are pressed together; the way his hand clasps mine (when did that happen?); the faint hum of traffic outside; the thud of his heartbeat slamming against my chest through his ribs. He’s heavy on top of me, in that delicious, grounding way I’ve come to like. I wrap my legs around him, holding him close, enjoying the aftermath, the warmth, the little tremors in his muscles.
And then, because my brain is an asshole, it decides this is the perfect moment to spin a little movie.
This room, empty. The bed, neatly made. The pillow next to his untouched, nights in a row. His reading glasses where they always are, his book on the nightstand, but no extra mug, no extra bra slung over the back of the chair, no blonde hair in his shower drain.
