Page 14 of Working for the Teacher

4

RYDER

Itake measurements in her ruined bathroom and I’m rock hard, thinking about the way she looks when I make her come. The numbers on the tape measure barely register. I write them down anyway, forcing myself to focus on the structural damage. None of it holds my attention the way Charlotte does. The way she clenched around my fingers. The broken sounds she made. The way she looked at me afterward, wrecked and dazed, still trying to catch her breath while I walked away.

I want to please her more, but I also want her aching for the next time I touch her. So I finish the measurements, wipe off my hands, and head downstairs.

She’s sitting at the dining room table when I walk in. Glasses on. Hair pulled into a messy bun. Grading papers like nothing happened.

Interesting.

“I’m finished upstairs,” I say.

She looks up, casual as anything, and nods. “Thanks.” Then she goes right back to her papers.

No nervous fidgeting or wide-eyed scramble to pretend she’s fine. Just the soft scratch of her pen.

It spikes something in me. This confident side of her. The one that can take what I give her and then sit there grading like the world didn’t just tilt.

I walk over and rest a hand on the back of her chair. “You grading papers again?”

She nods and doesn’t look up.

I lean down just enough that my breath brushes the shell of her ear. “But you didn’t last night, did you?”

“I did.”

I run my fingertips up the bun at the base of her neck, feeling her stiffen under the light touch, but she keeps grading. Eyes on the page.

“Don’t lie. I can tell when you do.”

“How so?” she asks.

“Because your pen is shaking.”

She sets the pen down immediately. The soft click of it against the table is the only sound for a second.

I bend closer. “There’s one thing left to do before I go.”

She shivers.

“What’s that?”

I don’t answer with words. I slide an arm around her waist, lift her clean out of the chair, and she yelps. I set her on the edge of the table and press her back until she’s stretched out across the surface. Papers scatter. The pen rolls and hits the floor.

“I’m not finished with you yet.” I squeeze her thighs with both hands, hard enough that she gasps. “Unless you are?”

Her chest heaves under the soft fabric of her shirt. Then she shakes her head.

“Say it.”

“No. I don’t want you to be finished.”

I pop the button open on her jeans and drag the zipper down. She lifts her hips for me and I work the denim off her legs, then her ankles, then drop the jeans to the floor. I hook my fingers in the sides of her panties and peel those off too, watching every inch of skin I uncover.

I step between her knees and rest my hands on the table on either side of her hips, leaning in close enough that my breath ghosts over her pussy. She twitches and tries to close her legs. I stop her with a quiet sound and a look.

“Stay open for me.”