“Ohhhh, stop,” I hiss.
The feather lifts from my skin, and his hot hands cup my breasts instead. “Do you really want me to stop?” he murmurs.
I bite my lip as my nipples harden under his grasp, and gasp faintly as he flicks one of them, and rolls the other between his finger and thumb. When I can think straight enough to move, I shake my head hard.
“Well then.” The hands leave my chest, and in a moment the feather is back, tracing over my thighs. “Open your legs.”
I swallow hard and uncross my legs, spreading them before him. He’s slow, methodic. Torturous. He brushes me from one ankle all the way up to the top of my thigh and right across my clit, which makes me bite my tongue to keep from groaning aloud, and then slowly down my other leg, all the way to my ankle.
He repeats the motion with his fingers now, hotter and harder a sensation, but just as painfully stimulating: the feel of his skin against mine, and being completely unable to do anything about it, unable to pull him closer the way I want—no, need.
I’m waiting on tenterhooks for the sound of his belt buckle unclasping, his jeans hitting the floor. I’m so focused on that, so concentrated on when he’ll finally thrust into me and fuck me to a climax, that I am not at all prepared when his mouth presses to my ankle. This time I do gasp, only lightly, but it makes him pull away and slap the inside of my thigh, just enough to make me jump.
“No sound.”
I swear the bastard is enjoying this far too much. I grit my teeth to keep my mouth shut, but it’s hard when he’s licking higher, higher, at my thigh, now the top of it, alternately sucking at my skin and lapping at me as he moves. Just when I think I won’t be able to stand it anymore, that I’ll have to beg him to take me already, his tongue slides deep into my pussy, curling against me, sending sparks of bright red flaring behind my closed eyelids.
My body arcs up into him, and my hands curl involuntarily around the fabric of my dress, my nails digging into my palms through it. I can’t make a sound to let him know how I feel, so I let my body do the talking for me.
His tongue delves deeper into me, tasting every inch of me, and my legs quiver beneath him, my stomach trembling where he rests a hand to brace himself against me. I’m close to finishing, my hips bucking of their own accord now, my breath sharp and fast, my mouth clamped shut to keep any accidental moans from slipping out.
And then he pulls away, and my whole body screams in agony for release.
“So not fair,” I hiss through clenched teeth, and I expect him to slap me again for that.
Instead, he grips my knees, pulls them far apart, and we both gasp as he shoves his cock into me.
“You like that, you dirty girl?” he grunts. “You like my cock in your wet, hot pussy?”
He doesn’t wait for a reply. He holds me like that, legs splayed, and thrusts so hard my hips buck up off the floor. Every time he pulls away I want to scream for more, and every time he slams back into me I have to fight back my groans.
I clench around him, the only thing I can do from my prone position. He hisses, and then he fucks me in earnest. Every thrust splits me open, plunders my body as he claims every inch of me.
It’s not long before we both quake against each other, him suppressing a soft grunt under his breath, and me unable to help the low moan that escapes my lips as we finish as one, the climax rocketing through my entire body, sparks flying along my nerve endings.
When he pulls out and slides my dress back down over me, then reaches up to untie the blindfold and free my hands, neither of us speaks. We stare at one another, savoring the sensations we’re both feeling right now, the sense of total completeness.
When I’m free, I sit up, and he draws me into his arms, eyes still fixed onto mine. I sink into his kiss, melt into his embrace, lose myself entirely, for one long, endless minute, that’s somehow over far too soon. Because after a moment, someone knocks at the door.
#
“My house at seven,” is all Jack has time to hiss in my ear before I finish fastening my thick winter coat around me. We’d scattered enough papers across his desk to make an excuse for our delay in answering the knock. (The carpet he just fucked me on, a cozy shag rug that looks like something out of a ski lodge with a warm fire, we stuffed under a bookshelf in the corner.)
Then I’m smiling blandly at the male student who steps into the room, praying that the perfume I spritzed, panicking, would cover up enough of the heady scent of sex that hung in the air.
Jack waves the student in with a “How’s it, Keith?”, ignoring me altogether as I shut the door behind me. But I don’t mind. My heart pounds the whole way back to my dorm, replaying every second of what we just did.