Page 102 of Academy of the Wicked: Year Three

When she comes down, I crawl up her body, licking my lips, grinning at her like a villain who knows he’s won. She’s flushed, spent, still trembling, her hair plastered to her forehead, her chest heaving with effort.

I kiss her, long and slow, letting her taste herself on my lips, letting her know exactly who just ruined her so thoroughly.

She melts into it.

For a second, she’s soft and pliant and helpless, no fight left at all.

But then she pulls back, eyes sharp again, voice slurred but defiant.

“You’re—horrible,” she pants. “You—absolute—bastard.”

I bite her bottom lip, then soothe it with my tongue.

“You like challenges, don’t you?”

She glares at me, but there’s no heat to it, only delight and hunger and something perilously close to admiration.

“Yeah,” she breathes. “I do.”

Good.

Because the next lesson is the real test.

She props herself on her elbows, watching as I stand and peel off the last of my clothes. There’s no hiding what she’s done to me: I’m fully, painfully hard, the head of my cock flushed almost purple, every vein standing out like a map of the constellations I’ve left across her skin.

She doesn’t look away. She doesn’t even blink.

“Show me what you want to test me, Professor,” she says, her voice teasing, but there’s something raw in it, like the dare is more for herself than for me.

I don’t waste time with pretense.

I grab her by the hair, gentle but unyielding, and pull her up to her knees on the desk so we’re face to face. The heat of her breath ghosts over my length as she stares, wide-eyed, at what I’m offering.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” I taunt, letting a little of the old professor into my tone. “I could assign remedial coursework. Or…extra credit.”

She snorts—actual laughter, not nervous, but delighted, as if my arrogance is a challenge she intends to obliterate.

“You think I haven’t seen a cock before?” she scoffs, but the way she licks her lips betrays the tremor of anticipation. “You’re not going to break me, old man.”

“On the contrary,” I reply, voice dropping low. “I intend to do exactly that.”

She reaches for me, fingers wrapping around the base, and for a second, even I’m surprised by how big I feel in her hand. Dragons run large—myth and biology both conspire to make sure of it—but she’s no delicate flower, and the look she gives as she lines me up is pure challenge.

She runs her tongue up the length, slow and deliberate, eyes never leaving mine. The sensation makes me hiss, sharp and involuntary, and her grin widens. She licks again, faster, swirling around the head, and I’m shocked at how sensitive I am—how little it takes to make me twitch, to make my control fray.

Then she opens her mouth and slides down, inch by inch, more than should be physically possible, until I hit the back of her throat.

She gags once, then breathes through her nose and swallows, and I nearly lose my mind.

No one has ever done that to me. Not in a hundred years. Not in five hundred.

She’s greedy, and clever, and relentless.

She sucks hard, then pulls back to flick her tongue around the tip before plunging down again, taking even more of me than I thought she could.

My hands tangle in her hair, not to force but to steady myself, to keep from shaking apart at the seams. The sight of her—cheeks hollowed, throat bulging, eyes wet and wild and daring me to break—is enough to shatter any pretense of control.

I try to warn her, to give her a chance to pull back, but she clamps down, refuses to yield, and when I come it’s so sudden and violent I nearly black out.