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“Say that again.”
“It’s… ah… nothing.”
He releases my hair, but only to spank me so hard my vision sparks, then starts sliding again, faster now.
He lets the head pop over my hole and groans under his breath when I clench. Then he does it again, and again, until I’m straining up onto my toes without meaning to, chasing nothing, fleeing everything.
“Don’t,” I snarl.
“Don’t what?” He slides down, presses, holds. “Don’t make you come?”
“You fucking—”
His grip in my hair returns, and this time it’s ruthless. He uses my whole body as a slick, shaking place to get himself off, cock sliding through the mess he has made of me, spanking me whenever my mouth starts working again. My insults break apart. They come out as breath.
“Come,” he says gently. “You can hate me after.”
“I already hate you—”
My back arches, and I come against the desk as a broken sound is punched out of me into the wood. He slides through it, using the way my body jerks, chasing his own end on the mess of my ass while I’m still spilling.
“That’s it.” His voice frays. “That’s it. Fuck.”
He slams in flush, the head of his cock grinding against my hole, and comes.
Hot stripes paint my ass, my hole, the small of my back. He keeps moving through it, little strokes that smear it into the skin he spanked, holding my head down so I have to take the whole thing.
He stays there, cock still sliding lazily through the mess. Then he kisses the edge of my ear.
“Still nothing?” he asks.
I swallow blood from where I bit my own mouth. “Get. Off. Me.”
He does, and I can feel every filthy inch of him as he goes.
I tuck myself in as soon as I can and wrench past him, nearly slam my hip into the desk on the way out, grab the door, and get into the hallway before my dignity fully leaves my body.
Behind me, I hear an infuriatingly low laugh.
That makes me move faster.
How the fuck did that happen?
How did I go from cornering him to running from him?
No. Better question: how the fuck did I come again and why do I want him to do it again?
I nearly walk straight into a group of students turning the corner and have to veer hard to avoid shoulder-checking one of them into the wall. They glance at me once, take in my face, and decide they value staying alive more than curiosity.
My hand comes up to my mouth again, and I slap it back down instantly.
No.
We’re not doing that.
We’re not touching our lips. We’re not replaying what just happened. It has all been deleted.
Burned. Buried. Murdered.
