Page 101 of Academy of the Wicked: Year Three

It’s almost adorable.

But I am old. And I am a dragon. And nothing delights me more than breaking a woman’s expectation—especially when she is certain she’s already claimed victory.

So I start again.

This time, I begin with her breasts. My hands slide up her ribs, cupping the soft weight of them, thumbs rolling over the nipples with slow, circular precision. She’s hypersensitive—her body still echoing with the last orgasm.The first touch makes her jolt. The second makes her whimper. By the third, she’s arching into my hands, desperate for more even as she tries to fight it.

I take one nipple between my lips, tongue flicking fast, then biting down just enough to send a jolt of pain through hernervous system. She gasps. I hear her try not to, swallowing the sound, but it escapes anyway, a ragged little whine that ends in my name.

“Mortimer—”

Hearing her moan my name is dangerous, which is why I switch to the other breast, giving it equal attention, refusing to let her acclimate. I alternate fast and slow, soft and rough, until she’s panting again, claws digging trenches into the desk, thighs trembling like she might come again from this alone.

I release her, licking the bite mark I’ve left, and lean up so I can watch her face. I want her to see me—really see, with her mind as much as her body. I want her to understand what it means to be on the other end of my attention.

“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve done this?” I ask, voice even, casual, as if we’re just discussing coursework.

She blinks up at me, eyes still wild.

“A few months? Maybe before I randomly infiltrated into Wicked Academy ”

I laugh, the sound low and rough.

“Try a few centuries, little Heiress.”

She flushes, her whole face going pink, and tries to roll her eyes, but she can’t hide the way her hips roll toward me, the way her body responds to every word.

“You’re too good at this,” she accuses, voice hoarse. “It’s not fair.”

“Darling, I’m barely getting started,” I assure her, letting the dragon into my tone, letting her feel the weight of my experience. “If I had my way, I’d keep you in this bed for a month. But as it stands, we have an hour at most. So I’ll have to give you the condensed version.”

She shivers—half anticipation, half fear.

“Do your worst.”

I grin, and move down again.

“Don’t you regret being sassy.”

This time I don’t bother teasing. My mouth finds her pussy instantly, tongue pressing flat and broad against her clit before curling in a slow, deliberate circle. She’s already sensitive, slick, and ready, and the contact makes her jerk so hard I have to clamp her thighs with my hands to keep her from wriggling away.

I work her with methodical precision—two slow circles, a flick, a long drag from bottom to top, then a quick, hard suck right on the spot that makes her see stars. I keep my eyes on her face the entire time, reading every twitch, every gasp, every subtle change in breath or tension.

She tries to hold back.

For exactly fifteen seconds, she puts up a heroic fight, biting her lip so hard it bleeds, clenching her fists, shaking her head as if denying reality will change what’s happening to her body.

It’s hopeless.

I slide a finger inside her, crooking it up toward the sweet spot, then add a second, the pressure perfect, the angle engineered from years of practice. Her eyes roll back. Her back arches. She makes a noise—high, desperate, totally involuntary—that reverberates through my bones.

She’s so close.

I slow down, just to be cruel, then speed up again, knowing it’ll tip her over. I want her to come on my tongue, want her to scream my name loud enough that the whole twisted Academy can hear.

And she does.

It hits her like an avalanche—one second she’s straining, the next she’s shaking apart, muscles convulsing, breath gone in a rush. Her thighs clamp around my head hard enough to bruise, but I just keep going, tongue and fingers working her through it until she’s limp and wrecked and totally, beautifully undone.