Page 39 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Three (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #3)

She’s pure magic, sweet and sharp, the flavor of her a blend of wildness and want that makes my head swim. I work her with tongue and teeth and fingers, using every trick I’ve learned in a century or more of careful, scholarly observation.

She comes apart fast— too fast, almost, but she’s been building toward this for a long, long time. When she comes, it’s with a scream, loud enough that the books shudder on their shelves, the sound of her pleasure echoing in the endless, impossible walls of this floating paradise.

A perfect sweet fest for me.

I lap up every drop, then move up her body, gathering her into my arms, pressing my mouth to hers so she can taste herself on my lips. She clings to me, breathless, dazed, so undone that for a moment I think she might have passed out.

But she opens her eyes, and the look there is nothing like submission. It is challenge, pure and simple, with the faintest glimmer of gratitude.

“Good lesson,” she whispers.

I laugh, low and rough.

“Darling, the semester has only just begun.”

She bites my lip, hard enough to draw blood, and I know that the fire I’ve lit in her will burn for a long, long time.

She thinks she’s won.

For half a second, there’s this smug little smile—Gwen sprawled on the floating desk, breath coming in gasps, marked and bitten and wild with post-orgasmic haze.

Her silver hair is a mad halo, her skin mapped by my mouth, every inch of her radiating heat and challenge.

She’s beautiful. She’s sated. She’s convinced I’ve given her all the lessons I have to offer.

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 her nervous 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.

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.

“Gwen—fuck—” I snarl, but she just tightens her grip, swallowing around me, sucking every drop like she’s starved for it.

The orgasm is blinding. Dragon magic floods my system, burning through my veins, and for a second, I’m afraid I might hurt her with the force of it. But she doesn’t flinch. She takes it all, then lets me go with a long, slow lick up the shaft, tongue cleaning up the last bead of seed.

Fucking extraordinary…

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes glassy and triumphant. “Not bad for remedial coursework,” she says, smirking.

“But I’m still waiting for the real test.”

My knees almost buckle, but I manage to stay upright, every muscle trembling with aftershock.