Chapter 11 #2
She leans down to read the poem I scribbled on notebook paper—complete bullshit I threw together just to get her alone after school, words that mean nothing compared to what I actually want to write.
But when she bends, her peach-scented skin fills my lungs and I stop breathing entirely.
Just stop. Fuck. I need to write about her.
About peaches and sin and wanting to taste every inch of her body.
About making her drip for me, making her forget every single reason this is wrong.
My cock strains against my jeans, hard and aching and demanding attention I can't give it.
I adjust myself in my seat, shifting slightly to ease the pressure, and my shoulder brushes against her hip. The contact is electric, sending fire through my veins.
She doesn't move away. Doesn't step back. Doesn't do anything to increase the distance between us.
She picks up the paper with fingers that aren't quite steady, continuing to read the absolute garbage I wrote about metaphors and symbolism and other literary bullshit.
While she's distracted by my terrible poetry, I let my right arm fall casually to my side, then bring it to rest against the inside of her knee where she stands beside me. Just a light touch. Testing.
She jumps when my skin meets hers, a visible flinch that makes my heart pound harder.
Then she surprises the absolute hell out of me by closing her eyes and letting out a shaky breath that sounds like surrender.
That's all the permission I need. All the encouragement I'm getting.
I run my hand up the inside of her thigh, slow and deliberate, savoring every inch of warm silk under my palm.
Her skin is impossibly smooth, soft in a way that makes my fingers ache to explore more.
When I reach mid-thigh, she lets her head fall back slightly, lips parting on a silent gasp.
I can't fucking believe she hasn't stopped me yet.
Can't believe this is actually happening, that she's letting me touch her like this, that those careful walls are crumbling under my hands.
I continue moving upward, not daring to speak, holding my breath so nothing breaks this fragile moment of surrender. My heart pounds against my ribs so hard it hurts, adrenaline and desire mixing into something overwhelming.
I reach the edge of her panties and she releases another breath, shakier than the last, but I don't stop. Can't stop. Won't stop. Not when she's responding like this, not when every signal she's giving me says yes even though her mouth won't form the word.
I rub my fingers over the center of her panties and—fuck—they're wet. Soaked actually. Drenched through the thin fabric.
I groan, the sound punching out of me involuntarily, raw and hungry.
She lets out a soft moan that goes straight to my cock, makes it throb painfully against my zipper.
I stroke her pussy over her panties a couple more times, feeling the heat of her through the wet fabric, but I can't stand it any longer. The barrier is too much. I want to feel her. Need to feel her without anything between my skin and hers, need to know exactly how wet she is for me, how ready.
I slip my fingers under the side of her panties and my skin meets silky wet smoothness. Pure heat. She's fucking drenched, slick and hot and so ready it makes my head spin.
I part her lips with gentle pressure, dipping two fingers into her wetness and dragging it up to her clit in one slow, deliberate stroke.
When I make contact with that sensitive bundle of nerves, she whimpers—actually whimpers—and I almost come in my pants at the sound.
Nearly lose it right here in this classroom just from touching her, just from hearing that broken noise of need.
I rub small circles over her clit, steady and slow, building the rhythm she needs.
"Did you do what I said?" My voice comes out low, deep, barely above a whisper. Dark and hungry. "Imagine me when he was touching you?"
"Yes." The word breaks on a moan, confession and surrender wrapped together.
"Mmm." I hum my approval deep in my chest, continuing those slow circles that make her breathing hitch. "Did he make you come?"
She shakes her head, eyes still closed, completely lost in sensation, in what I'm doing to her body.
"Don't worry, Peaches." The nickname falls from my lips without thinking, natural as breathing. "I'll take care of you. Make you come all over my hand right here in your classroom."
She moans again—louder this time—and god, I fucking love the sound of her pleasure. Love knowing I'm the one pulling it from her, making her lose that careful control she guards so fiercely.
"Sorry I'm late!" a voice calls from the doorway, bright and oblivious.
The door shuts behind them with a click that sounds like a gunshot in the charged silence.
We both freeze like someone hit pause on the universe.
That annoying-ass freshman from last Friday walks in, backpack sliding off his shoulder, completely fucking oblivious to what he just interrupted.
I have to physically restrain the growl building in my throat, have to clench my jaw against the violent urge to throw him out of this room.
I slowly pull my hand out of her panties with careful movements, trying not to draw attention to what we were doing, then slide it out from under her skirt with motions that hopefully look casual.
Normal. Like I wasn't just making her drip.
"I think I just want to rewrite the whole thing.
" My voice sounds remarkably normal considering my fingers are still wet with her arousal and my cock is rock hard and threatening to burst through my zipper and I want to murder this kid for existing in this moment.
I'm covering for what we were doing, giving her an excuse, an out, a reason for why we're so close.
She says nothing. Just stands there frozen like a statue, paper still clutched in her trembling hand, chest rising and falling too fast.
"Mrs. Reid." I say her name deliberately, putting weight into it, and that pulls her out of whatever spiral her head is trapped in. Her eyes drop to mine, unfocused and dark with need, pupils blown wide.
"Don't worry about it. I'll just rewrite it." I repeat myself slowly, giving her another chance to gather herself, to remember where we are and who might be watching.
"Oh. Okay... good." She stutters the words out like she's forgotten how speech works, then turns and starts walking back to her desk on legs so shaky I'm amazed she doesn't fall. Each step looks like it takes concentrated effort.
I bring my hand to my mouth and suck her wetness off my fingers deliberately, savoring the taste of her on my tongue. Sweet. So fucking sweet.
She sits down heavily and her eyes lock with mine as I pull my fingers from my lips slowly, deliberately, making sure she sees exactly what I'm doing. Making sure she knows I'm tasting her, savoring her, claiming this moment.
peaches.
She fucking smells like them and tastes sweet like them and I want more.
God, I want to spread her open on top of her desk right now and devour her until she soaks my face, until she forgets her own name, until the only word she can say is my name screamed over and over while I make her fall apart with my tongue.
The freshman drops into a seat behind me with the graceless thud of teenage obliviousness and starts unpacking supplies, pulling out notebooks and pens like this is just another normal Friday tutoring session.
Mrs. Reid stares at me across the classroom, chest rising and falling too quickly, lips parted slightly, cheeks flushed that beautiful pink that tells me exactly how affected she is. Her hazel eyes are dark, dilated, locked on mine like she can't look away even though she should.
This isn't over.
Not even fucking close.