Chapter 57: Soaked for your professor (18+)

Chapter 57: Chapter 57: Soaked for your professor (18+)

Alexander’s lips were a brand, searing a trail from her jawline down to the sensitive hollow of her throat, then the curve of her collarbone, his mouth travelling south with a patience that felt designed to dismantle her.

Every press of his mouth felt like a claim, a slow-burn heat that pooled low in Iris’s belly and made her thighs instinctively tighten around his hips.

When he reached the place where her neck met her shoulder....where the mark lay, that strange wolf-shaped thing she hadn’t yet found a satisfying explanation for...the heat that bloomed outward from his lips was different from the rest. Deeper. She filed that away for later.

"Mmm." His mouth moved against her skin, breath warm, voice low and private. "You smell like you belong to me."

It should have annoyed her but It didn’t. She tilted her head back instead and let him have more of her throat.

He didn’t wait for an answer. His hands moved with a practiced, clinical efficiency that should have been cold but was instead electrifying as he worked the clasp of her bra.

The fabric gave way, and the garment was tossed aside, forgotten. When his mouth moved lower and closed over her breast, taking the peaking nipple into the heat of his mouth, and when his tongue curled around her nipple with slow, deliberate precision—Iris arched her back, a sharp, unrestrained sound escaping her.

"Ah! Oh, god..."

Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, her breath coming in shaking, shallow exhales. He was thorough. He was patient.

Her head dropped back. He divided his attention between her breasts with the same focused, systematic care he brought to everything, and Iris thought, half-delirious, that she would never be able to sit through his lectures again without this specific memory surfacing and destroying her concentration entirely.

He treated her body like a text he intended to memorize, his tongue and thumbs working in a coordinated dance that cataloged every gasp and shiver.

He moved to the other breast, swirling his tongue around the areola before sucking hard, creating a vacuum that sent jolts of electricity straight to her core.

Iris felt the friction of her printed skirt bunched up around her waist, her skin humming.

"Alexander," she breathed, her voice trembling.

He paused, looking up at her from where he’d been conducting a thorough study of her left breast. His blue eyes were blown wide, pupils swallowing the iris, his hair a disordered mess from her grip. In this light, he looked nothing like a professor or a CEO; there was only a man driven by a hunger that mirrored her own.

"Tell me," he rasped.

"I need—" She reached down, grabbing his hand and guiding it toward the damp lace of her panties. "More. Now."

Alexander’s lips curled into a smirk. He didn’t hesitate, his palm pressing firmly against her center, feeling the heat radiating through the fabric. And then his fingers moved, sliding slowly across the damp fabric.

His thumb found her through the lace and rubbed a slow circle, and the sound she made was embarrassing and she didn’t care.

With a sudden, violent tug, he tore the lace aside. And a riping sound echoed in the room. He groaned at the sight of her—glistening, dripping, and aching for him. His gaze moving over her with an intensity that felt tactile—he made a sound low in his throat, something rough and unfiltered.

"Look at you." he hissed, his voice guttural. His voice had dropped an octave. He stroked along her folds with two fingers, parting her gently, finding how wet she already was. "Soaked for your professor."

Iris gasped, her hips jerking forward as his fingers stroked her swollen folds. "Hnn... please..."

The rhythm of his hands quickening inside her until Iris was moaning wildly, her head trashing from side to side. Her heartbeat sounded so loud in her ears. Her toes were curling from the pleasure and wildness he had aroused.

‎The movement of his hand soon turned faster, and the more friction his finger left against her wet folds, the more her head started to feel faint, leaving her eyes unfocussed.

He undid the zipper of her skirt in one fluid motion. She slid off the desk long enough for it to fall, stripping the garment away. He guided her back onto the mahogany desk, the cool wood a sharp contrast to the fire in her blood.

Iris watched as he stepped back and looked at her—bare from the waist down, her blouse open and still half-on, perched on the edge of his desk with her thighs open wide, exposing her completely.

His gaze was the kind that made a person feel genuinely visible, and it sent heat crawling up her chest and throat.

Then he sank to his knees and Iris’s breath left her body. The visual of him was something she was not emotionally prepared for: Alexander Grant, fully dressed in his suit, composed and unhurried, on his knees in front of her on the floor of his own office—made her stomach flip.

He lifted her right thigh over his shoulder with the calm efficiency of someone who knew exactly what he was doing and had no intention of rushing it

He looked up at her from the floor. "Hold the desk," he commanded.

Iris leaned back, gripping the edge of the desk until her knuckles turned white. Then, his mouth hit her.

"Ahhh! Oh!"

The first touch of his mouth against her core, made her head drop back and a sharp, helpless sound escape her throat that she didn’t attempt to regulate. The room was soundproofed. He had told her. She was going to take him at his word.

He was deliberate, moving in slow, confident strokes that mapped her pleasure and angle and rhythm that made her hips rock forward and then applying it with focused, infuriating patience.

He licked deep into her, his hands holding her thighs wide, controlling the pace with a quiet authority that left her feeling utterly undone—the sense that he was managing her pleasure with the same quiet authority he brought to everything, that he would not be rushed, that he intended to be here for as long as it took.

He was as good at this as she’d spent two weeks trying not to remember how he handled her with just his mouth and tongue. His lips nipped the bud, playing with it and replaced it completely with his mouth.

Probing her entrance with his tongue, while lapping the juices that had come to form on the bottom of her wet lips. He sucked as hard as he could and the more he did it, the more she cried out.

"There—" Her hand dropped from the desk to grip his hair, pulling him tighter. "Right there! Mmgh!"

He didn’t move. He stayed exactly on that spot, adding the rhythmic pressure of his thumb in a slow circle. The dual sensation building a deep, rising pressure that started at her thighs and climbed her spine and tightened at the base of her skull.

He held her open with his hands, and Iris rode his face, all decorum forgotten, and no apology, because why would she apologise, because his mouth was doing something with rhythm and pressure that was pulling her apart at the seams.

Her breath coming in ragged screams until her knees buckled. She came with a violent intensity, her body shaking in waves of sensation that buckled her knees and made her cry out and made her grip on his hair hard enough that she’d be sorry about it later.

The only things keeping her upright were his hands and her grip on the desk and she didn’t care about either. He held her through it, his mouth gentling but not withdrawing until the shaking had passed and she was boneless and breathing in long, ragged pulls.

He placed a soft kiss to the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Then he sat back and looked up at her.

She looked down at him. "You look strained," she said.

"Yes," he agreed. He stood, straightened his cuffs with two smooth motions that were deeply unfair, and kissed her before she could say anything else.

She tasted herself on his mouth and felt a fresh bolt of heat move through her that she would think about philosophically at a later date, when she had the cognitive capacity for philosophy.

Iris scrambled for his shirt buttons, her fingers clumsy with haste. He remained still, allowing her to undress him, though she could feel the controlled tension in his muscles—the effort it took not to simply rip the clothes off himself.

She shoved the shirt off his shoulders, revealing a torso of hard, toned muscle and a set of abs that looked carved from granite.

God...this is the same body that she had been trying desperately not to think about for two weeks. Toned and broad-shouldered, the kind of body that looked like it had been built rather than maintained, the kind that made a person feel the difference between looking at a photograph of something and standing in front of the actual thing.

She spread both hands across his chest, slowly, and felt his breath change beneath her palms.

Moving lower she reached for his belt. He let her manage it. Let her work through belt and trousers and everything else, watched her face when she freed him and took him in hand.

He was pulsing, heavy and hard. Iris wrapped her hand around him, stroking the length of him and watching his jaw clench. She stroked slowly.