Page 13 of Working for the Teacher

“Say it. Tell me you want my fingers inside this pretty cunt.”

“I… yes. Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please touch me. Ryder, please.”

His mouth crashes back onto mine at the same moment two thick fingers push into me and every thought in my head disappears.

He curls his fingers and starts fucking me with them in hard strokes. He pins me harder against the counter with his hips, keeping me upright while his hand works between my legs.

“Look at you. Taking my fingers so fucking well already.” He thrusts harder, faster, the heel of his palm grinding against my clit with every stroke. “You come back to this town and what? Did you think you’d end up with my fingers in your pussy? Leaning against your counter while I fuck you open like this?”

Another moan tears out of me. I’m dizzy with it, the world narrowing to the thick stretch of his fingers and the filth of his words. All of my problems outside this kitchen feel distant and unreal.

He adds a third finger, and I cry out, head tipping back. He chases my mouth, biting my lower lip as he keeps pumping his fingers into me.

“That’s it. Let me feel how wet you get when I talk to you like this. You needed this, didn’t you? Needed to get fucked by my hand until you can’t think about anything but how good it feels.”

I’m shaking. My hips rock to meet every thrust of his hand. The climax is already building too fast until I’m almost scared of how much I want it.

“Ryder…”

“I know. I can feel you clamping down on me. You’re gonna come all over my fingers, aren’t you? You can’t help yourself.”

He curls them harder while his palm keeps grinding against my clit. The dual pressure is devastating. My vision blurs. I’m clinging to his shirt, to his shoulders, to anything that might keep me from dissolving completely.

Some distant part of me knows this is dangerous because it already feels addictive. The way he watches every flicker of pleasure on my face and the way he talks to me like he owns the right to ruin me.

But right now I don’t care.

“Come for me,” he orders. “Come on my fingers so I can feel exactly how bad you’ve needed this.”

The command is what does it. My whole body seizes. Pleasure crashes through me so hard my legs give out completely. He holds me up, fingers still moving, working me through every wave until I’m crying out against his mouth and the only word left in my head is his name.

He keeps his fingers inside me until the last tremble fades, then slowly pulls them free. The sudden emptiness makes me whimper. His mouth finds mine again, like he’s sealing whatever just happened between us.

Then he steps back.

He zips my jeans and buttons them with the same unhurried precision he used to take them apart. My legs are still shaking. I have to grip the edge of the counter to stay upright. He watches me with those dark green eyes while he brings his hand to his mouth.

Two fingers, still shiny and wet, disappear between his lips. He sucks them clean, never looking away from me. A low, satisfied sound leaves his throat like he’s tasting something he already knows he’ll want more of.

“Back to work,” he says.

He turns and walks out of the kitchen without another word. I hear his boots on the stairs a few seconds later, heading straight back up to the ruined bathroom like nothing happened.

I stand there, still throbbing. The counter is the only thing keeping me vertical.

What the hell was that?

What am I supposed to say when he comes back downstairs? Thanks for the orgasm, the drywall’s that way?

I’m still trying to catch my breath and he’s already upstairs measuring something like none of it happened.

I press my fingers against the cool granite and force myself to inhale.

It doesn’t help.