11. Jasmine #2
She leans in, brushing invisible lint off my sleeve like she hasn’t just short-circuited my entire nervous system. “We don’t have time for that conversation right now. You’ve got—what? Twenty seconds to make it to class?”
My eyes widen. “ Oh shit! ”
I surge forward and kiss her. Quick. Firm. Electric.
“I’ll pick you up at eight on Saturday!” I call over my shoulder as I sprint toward Thomas Hall like my life depends on it.
I reach the door just as Professor Kilgore starts up the steps and slide into the back row beside Landon, my chest heaving from the run—and, okay, maybe the kiss too.
Landon doesn’t look at me right away. He waits a beat, then tilts his head with that slow, maddening grin. “So,” he murmurs, voice low and full of amusement, “how’s the girlfriend doing?”
I give him a sidelong glance and tug my backpack into my lap. “Nothing the side dude should worry about.”
He chuckles, deep and dangerous. “Damn. That mean I still get Tuesday nights?”
“Only if you bring snacks.”
“ Peach, ” he purrs, leaning just a little closer, “I am the snack.”
I roll my eyes, biting back a laugh—and that’s when Professor Kilgore clears his throat.
“Miss Rivera,” he says sharply, gaze flicking toward me like he’s already counted how many times I’ve blinked since entering the room. “Since you're clearly wide awake , perhaps you can tell us what factor most often compromises the integrity of trace evidence at a crime scene?”
I don’t miss a beat. “Improper handling—usually by first responders or poor collection techniques. Fibers and residue can be lost with a single misstep.”
Kilgore’s brow lifts, and for a second—just a second—I swear the corner of his mouth almost twitches. “Correct.”
I bask in that for all of three seconds before I feel a warm breath hit my ear.
“Think Kilgore likes you,” Landon whispers, low and teasing.
“Fuck off,” I mutter under my breath.
He grins wider. “You’ve got a dirty mouth, Peach.”
I keep my eyes on the front of the room. “And you’ve got a death wish.”
“I could prove it,” he says, and before I can fire back, his hand brushes the inside of my knee.
I freeze.
His fingers trace slowly, teasing up the bare skin beneath my dress—light enough to drive me insane, heavy enough to be very, very intentional.
“Landon,” I hiss, barely audible.
He hums like I just complimented him. “Shhh…I’m proving something.”
My legs clamp together instinctively, trapping Landon’s wandering hand between my thighs like a fucking vice. He chuckles—a deep, vibrating sound that travels straight to my clit—and nips at my earlobe.
“Careful, Peach. You’ll break my fingers before I even get to the good part.”
His thumb circles clockwise over the thin cotton of my underwear. The friction’s insufficient through the fabric, yet I feel my hips twitch forward. Landon makes a satisfied noise against my neck that has me digging my fingernails into the scratched desktop.
“Miss Rivera, the Cole case,” Kilgore’s voice slices through the building tension between us.
I snap my gaze forward to find him staring right at our row. Thirty heads swivel in our direction. Landon’s finger drags upward through my dampening folds as he leans back in his chair, all casual innocence.
“Mr.Cole t-thought draining his wife of blood would help cover up the crime,” I whimper, as Landon’s finger slides across my clit.
“Very good,” Professor Kilgore hums, his eyes locked on me as he calls on another student and continues to discuss the case. His eyes burn into me like flames.
My eyelids flutter as his middle finger breaches the lace edge of my panties, calloused pad grazing the bundle of nerves. Jesus Christ. I force a cough into my fist while Landon murmurs, “You’re dripping through these already. Embarrassing.”
Kilgore clears his throat. “As I was saying—” The words blur as Landon’s knuckle brushes against my clit.
A sharp jolt fires up my spine, every nerve ending flaring to life.
“—the primary distinction between class and individual characteristics in forensic evidence,” Kilgore continues, voice maddeningly steady, “lies in the ability to match evidence to a single source. Thus forensic evidence is not all about the blood.”
My breath catches when Landon presses down harder, the heel of his palm grinding against the edge of the seat in just the right angle. The old metal desk chair creaks beneath me.
Two rows ahead, a blonde girl in thick glasses glances over her shoulder, frowning.
I meet her eyes and mouth, Don’t.
But my legs drift open another inch.
The air in the lecture hall is stifling—too warm, too still—and sweat beads beneath my breasts, sliding beneath the neckline of my dress like sin in slow motion.
My hand curls around the edge of the desk as I try to keep my face neutral, normal, innocent , even as Landon drags the tip of his finger in one slow, deliberate circle around my clit.
“You’re not even paying attention,” he whispers against my ear, smug and low.
“I know the difference between shoe tread patterns and semen stains,” I whisper back, jaw tight, “so you can fuck off. ”
His breath grazes my neck. “God, you’ve got the filthiest mouth.”
My entire body trembles like a plucked guitar string.
I fumble for the textbook, knocking pens to the floor in a clatter that makes half the class jump, and Kilgore’s eyes lock on my tense body.
His voice trailing off mid-sentence. Landon seizes the distraction, hooking two fingers under my underwear’s waistband. The elastic snaps against my hip bone.
“Naughty fucking girl,” he breathes against my ear. The words send hot shivers cascading down my neck. “Getting all hot and bothered for your professor. Distracting him in class like the temptress you are.”
His fingertips dip lower, grazing the soaked lace between my legs. My vision blurs. Kilgore’s voice rings in my ears as he discusses the use of hair DNA to convict Mr.Cole back in 2008 for the murder of his wife.
“What do you think he’d do?” Landon’s teeth catch my earlobe, tugging. “If he knew his precious student was getting fingered in the back row? If he saw how pink you are right now?”
The pad of his middle finger finds my entrance. I choke on air.
“Eyes front,” Landon orders, low and rough. My gaze snaps to Kilgore’s back as he underlines something in red marker. Landon’s finger pushes in just past the first knuckle. My inner muscles spasm, greedy.
“There she is,” he croons. “Fuck, you’re tight.” His thumb resumes its assault on my clit while his finger works shallowly in and out. The slick sounds would be audible without the droning lecture. Heat floods my cheeks.
Professor Kilgore turns, catching my glassy stare. His Adam’s apple bobs.
A cold wave of panic washes over the burning arousal. Landon crooks his finger, hitting that spongy spot that makes stars burst behind my eyes. My hips jerk upward, slamming the desk’s underside. A male student turns to look back at me.
“Eyes up front, Mr. Jackson !” Kilgore snaps, voice like a whip.
Jackson whips his head forward like he’s been physically struck.
Kilgore lingers a beat longer, staring directly at me.
Then—sharper than usual—he pivots back to the board.
Beside me, Landon’s mouth curves into a smirk I can feel against my skin.
“Good girl,” he whispers into the shell of my ear, smug and slow.
His fingers move deeper, sharper now, while the heel of his hand grinds with surgical precision.
“Bet he’s imagining this. Bet he’s picturing you spread across his desk, skirt rucked up.
Do you know what I would give to watch that, pretty gir? . ”
The image detonates in my brain—dark, brutal, shamefully hot.
My composure shatters.
My back arches. The front legs of the chair scrape and lift off the floor. I gasp, barely stifled—until Landon’s free hand clamps over my mouth. Kilgore turns back around with those empty eyes on me, the normal clear so dark I almost whimper like a kitten purring for forgiveness.
When he leans over the standing desk, licking his lips with a nod. It hits. Hard. Like my body was waiting for his approval.
The orgasm crests in slow, vicious waves, pulling a whimper from my throat that dies against Landon’s palm.
I bite down, tasting salt and metallic. He doesn’t flinch—just keeps moving, guiding me through every last pulse, every twitch of overstimulated muscle until my thighs tremble from the effort of staying upright.
I sag back into the seat like a ghost in my own body.
Landon chuckles beside me, the sound low and satisfied. He stretches out, casually leaning back in his chair with one arm draped lazily over the back of mine, a smug look carved across his face.
“Well, will you look at that,” he hums, nodding toward the front of the classroom.
I follow his gaze—and freeze.
Professor Kilgore stands rigid behind the lectern, voice continuing like nothing’s wrong, but his body tells a different story. His neck is flushed a soft pink, blooming just beneath his jawline and climbing toward his ears.
But that’s not what stops me. His hand—gripping the edge of the standing desk—is bone-white, knuckles strained, tendons twitching beneath skin.
The rest of class drags like a fever dream.
Landon scrolls through his phone with one hand while the other stays parked high on my inner thigh, fingers warm and possessive.
I keep my head down, hiding the flush burning across my cheeks, pretending I’m taking diligent notes when all I’m doing is surviving minute to minute, because I was just fucking fingered in the back of my fucking forensic class like a goddamn hornied up teenager.