Show you...?

~Bonnie

I stayed pinned against the door, back flat to the wood, skirt hiked up just enough that the pink lace must have been showing at the edges.

My breath came short and shallow, chest rising and falling under the tight crop top.

The cleavage he’d pushed up earlier looked even more obscene now, nipples hard against the thin fabric from the cool air, or from him.

Professor Marcellus didn’t touch me yet. He just stood there, inches away, eyes roaming slowly.

Down my bare stomach, over the hem of the skirt, back up to my face. He tilted his head slightly, like he was studying a passage in one of his books.

“You took the long way,” he said quietly. Not a question.

I nodded. “You asked.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I did.”

He reached past me again, same motion as before but this time his forearm brushed the side of my breast as he turned the lock a second time, double checking.

The click sounded final. No interruptions. No escape.

He stepped back half a pace, giving me just enough room to breathe, but not enough to move without brushing against him.

“Turn around,” he said. Voice low. Calm. The same tone he used in lectures when he wanted the whole room to listen.

I turned slowly, palms pressing flat against the door for balance. My ass pushed out a little from the motion, the skirt was so short it barely covered the bottom curve. The pink string would be visible now, thin straps framing everything.

He made a soft sound behind me, almost a hum of approval.

“Hands on the door. Higher.”

I lifted them, fingers splaying above my head. The crop top rode up further, exposing more of my midriff.

“Good girl.”

The words landed low in my belly, same as yesterday. Heat pooled between my legs so fast I had to press my thighs together.

He stepped closer again. I felt his body heat at my back before anything else. Then his hands, both of them settled on my hips, thumbs hooking under the waistband of the skirt. Not pulling it down. Just holding.

“You wore it,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “The pink.”

“Yes, Professor.”

His fingers tightened. “Show me.”

I swallowed. “Show you…?”

“Lift the skirt. Slowly.”

My heart slammed so hard I thought he could hear it. I reached down with one hand, keeping the other on the door and gathered the pleated fabric inch by inch.

The material bunched at my waist, cool air hitting the bare skin of my ass, the thin pink string running between my cheeks.

He exhaled sharply behind me.

“Beautiful,” he said, almost to himself.

His right hand slid down, palm flat against my ass cheek, fingers splaying wide.

He squeezed once, firm, possessively then traced the lace strap with his thumb, following it down where it disappeared.

I bit my lip to keep from moaning.

“You sent the photos,” he continued, voice rougher now. “You knew what you were doing by coming here today.”

“I… wanted you to see.”

His thumb hooked under the string at the back, tugging lightly. Not enough to snap it. Just enough to make me arch.

“And now I want to feel it,” he said. “Every inch.”

He spun me around, quick, controlled so my back was against the door again. Face to face. His eyes were darker than I’d ever seen them, pupils blown wide.

One hand came up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing my lower lip.

“Tell me to stop, Bonnie,” he said quietly. “Say the word and this ends. Right now.”

I looked up at him. I saw the scar along his jaw, the faint line of the tattoo peeking above his collar, the way his beard framed that dangerous calm.

I shook my head. “Don’t stop.”

His mouth crashed down on mine.

Hard. Hungry. No hesitation.

I kissed him back just as fierce, hands flying to his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric.

His tongue pushed past my lips, claiming, tasting like coffee and control. One hand slid into my hair, gripping at the roots, tilting my head exactly how he wanted.

The other hand dropped to my thigh, hitching my leg up around his hip. The skirt bunched higher. His fingers dug into the soft flesh just under my ass, pulling me tighter against him.

I felt how hard he was, thick, insistent, pressing against my stomach through his trousers.

He broke the kiss first, breathing ragged. His forehead pressed to mine.

“The pink,” he rasped. “I told you I’d rip it off.”

His hand slid between us, down the front of my skirt, fingers finding the lace at the front. He hooked two under the thin strip covering me, tugged once, sharp.

The fabric gave a soft rip.

I gasped into his mouth.

He smiled against my lips. “That’s better.”

Then his fingers were there, sliding through the wetness he’d already caused, circling slowly.

I moaned, head falling back against the door.

“Quiet,” he whispered, free hand covering my mouth gently but firmly. “We’re alone… but sound carries.”

His fingers pushed inside, two at once, curling just right.

My knees buckled. He caught me with his body, pinning me harder to the door.

“Stay with me,” he said against my ear. “We’re just getting started.”

And then he moved, slow at first, then faster, working me open while his thumb found my clit and pressed.

I came apart against his hand in under a minute, biting down on his palm to muffle the cry.

He didn’t stop. He just kept going, drawing it out until I was shaking, tears in my eyes from the intensity.

When he finally pulled his fingers free, he brought them to my lips.

“Clean them.”

I opened my mouth without thinking. Tasted myself on him. Salty. Sweet.

He watched me the whole time, eyes burning.

“Good girl,” he said again.

Then he stepped back, just enough to give me air.

“Sit on the desk,” he ordered. “Legs open. We’re going to discuss Bataille properly now.”

I obeyed, legs trembling as I hopped up, skirt still bunched at my waist, torn pink lace dangling uselessly.

He sat in his chair, rolled it forward between my thighs, and looked up at me.

“Start reading,” he said, handing me the book from yesterday. “From where you left off. And don’t stop. No matter what I do.”

I opened the page with shaking hands.

He leaned in.

And his mouth replaced his fingers.

I read the first line out loud, and lost my voice on a moan.

He pulled back just enough to look up at me, lips glistening, eyes dark and locked on mine.

My legs were still shaking from the first wave, spread wide on the edge of his desk, skirt bunched uselessly at my waist, torn pink lace dangling like a ruined flag.

I was dripping, messy, shameless and he knew it.

His mouth returned without warning, harder this time.

He sucked my clit between his lips, tongue flicking fast and relentless, pulling a sharp cry out of me before I could bite it back.

One hand gripped my thigh, holding me open, the other slid up, fingers pressing at my entrance.

Two fingers first, thick, curling deep then he added the third without slowing down.

Three fingers stretching me, pumping hard, fast, the wet sound filling the quiet office.

He didn’t let up, sucking harder on my clit while his fingers fucked into me, curling against that spot that made my vision blur.

I grabbed his hair, hips bucking against his face, chasing the burn.

My moans turned into broken gasps, too loud, too desperate but he didn’t tell me to be quiet this time. He just went harder, sucking and thrusting like he wanted to ruin me for anyone else.

The pressure built fast, too fast. My thighs clamped around his head, body arching off the desk as I came again, harder than before.

I clenched around his fingers, soaking his hand, shaking so violently the books on the shelf rattled.

He didn’t stop right away. He kept sucking softly through the aftershocks, fingers slowing but staying deep, drawing out every last tremor until I was whimpering, oversensitive, pushing weakly at his shoulders.

Finally he pulled back, lips swollen, chin wet. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes never leaving mine.

He stood slowly, fingers still inside me, giving one last lazy curl before sliding them free. I whimpered at the emptiness.

He leaned over me, one hand braced beside my head, the other cupping my jaw, thumb tracing my lower lip.

“Are you a virgin, Bonnie?” he asked, voice rough, low, almost gentle.

I laughed, breathless, shaky. “Not even close.”

He smiled then slowly, dark, satisfied. The kind of smile that said he’d known the answer but wanted to hear it anyway.

“Good,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over my swollen lips. “Because I’m nowhere near done with you.”

He straightened, eyes raking down my body, crop top askew, breasts heaving, skirt still up, thighs slick and trembling.

“Get on your knees,” he said quietly. “We’re not finished discussing Bataille yet.”

I slid off the desk on unsteady legs, dropping to the floor in front of him, heart pounding all over again.

He stepped closer, belt buckle glinting in the lamplight.

“Open,” he ordered.

I did.