Page 19

Any ability to put air where it rightfully belongs is once more stolen.

“Right here…” Hogan proceeds with his salacious taunting, whispered words convincing my eye lids to grow heavy, chest to heave, “at her desk?”

Shivers shoot themselves down my spine.

“Will you, Miss Owens?” The callous tips of his digits feather their way along my inner thigh towards the laundry day panties I’m cursing myself for wearing. “Will you let me finger fuck you right here at your desk?” One unexpected tap is delivered to my underwear covered clit causing my mouth to crack open. “Do I get extra credit if I make you come, teach?”

While one soft spank was enough to send my jaw to the floor, two has my fingers absentmindedly abandoning the piece of paper I was holding onto and clumsily grabbing a fistful of his leather cut, convincing him he not only has permission to slip his tongue against mine but slide his finger around the edge of the damp barrier to stroke the very area he was just punishing.

I wanna believe the sounds that leave me are sexy and seductive and worthy of hearing; however, in reality I know they’re most likely none of those things.

Just because I’m not a virgin doesn’t mean I’ve had a ton of experience or opportunities to make these sounds let alone get any feedback on them.

Like all the other aspects in my life, this area should be circled with my pink pen of improvement.

The arm that’s slung on my chair suddenly relocates to being around my neck, capturing it.

Trapping me.

Leaving Hogan all the power to overwhelm my anxious tongue on each twist.

Trace.

Thrash.

Lash.

I gawkishly attempt to match his movements yet the tightening around my throat seems to insist that’s not the right answer.

That he isn’t looking to spar.

Or fix whatever’s broken.

No.

He just wants whatever’s here.

To just…have me.

Without care or concern how sloppy this looks, or how inexperienced I may come across, I feverishly whirl my tongue around his.

Accidentally gnash our teeth.

Needily chase after it again and again and again, moaning any time so much as our tips manage to touch.

My moans elicit sharp groans out of him and those groans grate themselves across every nerve ending, sending my hips up to rub against his stilled finger, his stilled finger that’s just been gently pressed to my swollen nub, waiting for approval and acknowledgement and direction.

Hogan strengthens his hold, choking the tiny bit of breath out of me, forcing my lips to fumble off his, leaving them vulnerable and bobbing and wordlessly begging to be touched.

Licked.

Sucked.

“Open wide for me, teach,” he instructs between nips of my bottom lip. Chin. “Give me room to earn that A plus.”

Not how this course works.

Not that I care.