Chapter 5 #2
I let out a breath and ran a hand through my wet hair. I was shaking.
I walked to my dresser and pulled out a dry t-shirt—one of my black ones. Soft cotton. It would hang on her like a dress.
I sat on the edge of my bed, listening to the shower turn on. I listened to the hum of the pipes. I imagined the water hitting her skin. I imagined the steam curling around her.
I was torturing myself.
I waited. Ten minutes. Fifteen.
The water stopped.
"Greg?" Her voice was small, muffled by the door.
"Yeah?"
"I... I forgot a towel."
Of course she did.
I grabbed a fresh towel from my linen closet. I walked to the bathroom door.
"Unlock it," I said.
The lock clicked.
I opened the door.
Steam billowed out, thick and heavy.
Michelle was standing by the sink. She was naked.
Well, mostly. She was holding a hand towel—a tiny, useless hand towel—over her chest. But her legs... her hips... everything else was bare. Her skin was flushed pink from the heat. Her hair was slicked back.
She wasn't hiding. She was looking right at me in the mirror.
My brain flatlined.
"Here," I rasped, holding out the bath towel. I didn't step inside. I stood in the doorway, gripping the frame.
She didn't take the towel. She turned around slowly.
"I don't want the towel," she whispered.
She dropped the hand towel.
She stood there, fully revealed. Beautiful. Soft curves, pale skin, the sharp contrast of her defiance and her vulnerability.
"Michelle," I groaned. "Put the towel on."
"No." She took a step toward me. Her bare feet slapped softly on the tile. "You said I needed to relax. You said I needed to stop thinking."
"This isn't relaxing," I said through gritted teeth. "This is a felony."
"We're both adults," she said. She stopped inches from me. The heat coming off her body was intoxicating. "And I'm tired of rules, Greg. I'm tired of numbers. I want..." She faltered. "I want you to touch me."
It was the "I want" that broke me.
The control snapped. Not slowly. Instantly.
I stepped into the bathroom and kicked the door shut.
I grabbed her waist. Her skin was hot, damp.
I lifted her. She gasped, wrapping her legs around my waist instinctively. I slammed her back against the tiled wall—not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to jar the breath out of her.
"You have no idea what you're asking for," I growled.
"Show me," she challenged.
I kissed her.
It wasn't a sweet first kiss. It was a collision. It was weeks of repressed anger, annoyance, and lust exploding in a single second.
I devoured her. My tongue swept into her mouth, claiming it. She tasted like peppermint and rain. She made a noise—a desperate, high-pitched whimper—that vibrated against my lips and went straight to my groin.
Her hands tangled in my wet hair, pulling me closer. She was kissing me back with a fervor that matched mine. Messy. Needy.
"Greg," she moaned against my mouth. "Please."
I walked us out of the bathroom, carrying her like she weighed nothing, and dropped her onto the middle of my bed.
She bounced on the mattress, sprawling out. She looked up at me, chest heaving, eyes blown wide.
I crawled over her. I didn't take my clothes off. I liked the friction. I liked the weight of my denim against her bare thighs.
I pinned her wrists above her head with one hand.
"Still want to play games?" I asked, looking down at her.
"Yes," she breathed. "Yes, sir."
Sir.
The word hit me like a drug.
I lowered my head to her neck. I bit—gently—at the pulse point. She arched her back, offering herself to me.
"You're a brat," I murmured against her skin, moving my hand down her side. Over her ribs. Over the curve of her hip. "You're a spoiled, chaotic brat."
"I know," she gasped.
"And you need to be taught a lesson."
My hand moved lower. I brushed the inside of her thigh.
She jerked. "Greg..."
"Quiet," I commanded. "Rule number one. You do what I say."
"Yes."
I moved my hand between her legs. She was soaked. Not just from the shower.
I touched her. One stroke.
She cried out, bucking her hips up to meet my hand.
"So responsive," I praised, watching her face. "Look at you. Falling apart because I barely touched you."
"It's... it's been a long time," she stammered.
I frowned slightly. A long time? She was supposed to be the party girl.
I pushed the thought away. I didn't care about her past. I cared about right now.
I circled her clit with my thumb. She unraveled. Her head thrashed on the pillow. Her hips ground against my hand.
"Please," she begged. "More. Greg, please."
"Good girl," I whispered. "Ask nicely."
"Please... touch me. Please make it stop."
I slid two fingers inside her.
She was tight. incredibly tight.
She gasped, her eyes flying open. A look of shock crossed her face.
I paused. "You okay?"
"Yes," she panted. "Just... big. You're big."
I wasn't even fully inside her yet.
I started to move. Slow. Deliberate. Watching her face. Every time I thrust my fingers in, her breath hitched. Every time I circled her clit, she bit her lip.
She was beautiful in her surrender. The brat was gone. There was only Michelle.
"You're mine," I groaned, leaning down to kiss her again. "Right now, in this bed, you're mine."
"Yours," she agreed. "I'm yours."
I picked up the pace. The wet, slick sounds filled the room. The smell of sex was heavy in the air.
She was close. I could feel her walls clamping down on my fingers.
"That's it," I encouraged. "Let go. I've got you. You're safe."
"I can't," she panicked. "It's too much."
"You can," I ordered. "Come for me, Michelle. Now."
The command tipped her over the edge.
She screamed. It was a shattered, beautiful sound. Her body went rigid, bowing off the mattress. She clamped down on my hand, pulsing, spasms rocking through her.
I held her through it. I kept my hand there until the last tremor faded.
She collapsed back onto the pillows, her chest heaving, her skin glowing. She looked wrecked.
I pulled my hand away slowly. I leaned down and kissed her forehead.
"Good girl," I whispered.
She blinked up at me. Her eyes were glassy. She looked… dazed.
I rolled off her, lying next to her on the bed. I stared up at the ceiling, my heart rate slowly coming down.
What had I just done?
I had just fingered the donor's daughter. My roommate. My student.
I turned to look at her. She was pulling the duvet up to her chin, hiding again.
"Michelle?"
"Yeah?" Her voice was a croak.
"You okay?"
She nodded. She didn't look at me.
"That was..." she started.
"Inevitable," I finished.
She let out a shaky laugh. "Yeah. Inevitable."
I reached out and tucked a strand of damp hair behind her ear.
"Get some sleep," I said. "You have a test in the morning."
She looked at me then. "You're leaving?"
"I have to," I said. "If I stay in this bed... we're not going to sleep. And you need to pass that test."
"Right," she whispered. "The test."
I stood up. My body was screaming in protest. I was hard, aching, and frustrated. But I had my control back. Barely.
"Lock the door behind me," I said.
I walked to the door.
"Greg?"
I paused, hand on the knob.
"Thank you," she said softly. "For... the tutoring."
I looked back at her. She wasn't talking about the math.
"Goodnight, Brat," I said.
I closed the door. I heard the lock click.
I walked down the hall to the guest shower. I turned the water to freezing cold.
I stood under the icy spray, gasping.
I was in trouble. Deep, catastrophic trouble.
Because as I washed her scent off my hands, I realized something terrifying.
I didn't just want to tame her.
I wanted to keep her.