Page 10 of Wild Skies (Rugged Loners #3)

Nine

Maren

I t’s happening. It’s happening. Professor Gregory Carter has me pressed against his locked office door, grinding our hips together. He groans against my mouth; slips his tongue past my lips.

It’s like one of my daydreams. Better than one of my daydreams, because this is real.

We’re both salt-crusted and windblown from two weeks in the mountains, and we both have shadows under our eyes from barely sleeping last night.

Our clothes are scuffed and dusty, and my nose is pink from a light sunburn.

When the professor kisses me deeply, his five o’clock shadow rasps against my cheeks.

I want to live in this moment forever.

“Do you really mean it?” I can’t help asking between kisses, hands roaming greedily over his chest, his shoulders, the nape of his neck. He’s so strong, so sturdy, so muscular beneath his clothes. “Are you sure?”

Greg gives me a crooked smile without leaning back, his mouth slanting against mine. “Maren,” he says, his voice tingling against my lips. “I’ve never been so fucking sure in my life.”

Sparks of pleasure heat my insides, and I clutch at the professor’s plaid shirt and suck on his tongue. He groans like a tortured man, rubbing his hips into mine.

God.

Need twists through my belly, my pulse pounding between my legs.

And… that bulge feels awfully large where it’s grinding against my core. Intimidatingly large. How the hell am I gonna fit that thing inside me?

The cowardly part of me whispers that I should find out another day; that I should go home and do some research, some prep, some personal grooming. That I should face down my first time like a soldier prepped for war, with minimal risk of embarrassment.

But a far bigger, far louder part of me screams that if I don’t feel this man push inside me in the next few minutes, I am going to lose my ever-loving mind. Screw research and game plans; screw shaving my bikini line. He loves me. He’s quitting his job for me.

I trust this man with everything.

“Please, professor, I want—”

My fingers are clumsy against his shirt buttons, and I cut off with a huff, leaning back to scowl at the fiddly little discs.

They come apart so slowly, his magnificent chest revealed one tiny sliver at a time.

And I’ve seen this all before in the river, but the sight still makes my thighs flex around Greg’s waist.

“I want… shoot.”

Stifling a laugh, the professor catches my hands and presses them against his bare chest, holding them still. His heartbeat thuds against my knuckles, and he waits for me to meet his gaze before he speaks, mouth curving up with amusement.

“What do you want, Maren? Tell me.”

My throat is dry as I swallow. He watches and waits, so kind and patient.

Why is this so hard to say?

“I want… you know.” My thighs squeeze his waist once more, our bodies brushing together. The professor’s expression doesn’t change, but I feel the way his cock twitches, straining toward me inside his jeans.

“Maybe I don’t know,” Greg murmurs, winding a wispy lock of blonde hair from my hairline around his knuckle. “Maybe I want to hear you say it.”

Arousal simmers in my veins, and the slickness gathering between my thighs is maddening. So distracting, so tickly, so wet.

“I want…” I mumble.

Greg nods, still playing with that escaped tuft of hair. “Go on.”

“I want you to…”

He rolls his neck when I trail off again, inhaling sharply. Like I’m fraying the last shred of his patience, tormenting him too. He tugs lightly on my hair.

“Say it, Maren.”

Oh, god. Here goes.

“I want you to fuck me, professor.” The words tumble out of me, loud and clear in his empty office, and now they’re out there. Can’t take them back, can’t pretend I never said them. My cheeks burn red, but I push on. “I want you to be my first.”

The professor’s nostrils flare at that, and his eyes darken—like it had never occurred to him that I might not have done this before. That I’m untouched.

He can’t speak for what seems like a long stretch of time, though his hips roll against me rhythmically the whole time, his body making its own statements. I cling to his shoulders and grind back, needy and breathless.

“First and last,” the professor says eventually, his voice pure gravel, and then he’s gripping my braid and tugging my head gently back; he’s kissing me with such filthy, shameless ownership that my toes curl in my hiking boots.

I gasp, clinging on for dear life, and yank at the sides of his shirt like I could actually tear the final buttons off with my uncoordinated hands. The professor snorts when he realizes what I’m doing, breaking our kiss only to yank his own shirt open, popped buttons flying across the office floor.

Outside in the hallway, distant voices float past the door.

This building isn’t empty; it’s not even dark outside.

It’s a regular Friday on campus, and the natural sciences building is full of professors and students all going about their day—completely oblivious to the rules we’re breaking in this fancy corner office.

“My leggings,” I whisper, and after frowning down at our bodies, Greg reluctantly sets me down.

He doesn’t step back, though, and keeps me caged against the door as I kick off my boots, shove my leggings down my legs and onto the floorboards, then leap back up into his arms. My ankles cross behind his back once more, and the rough scrape of his jeans against my most sensitive area makes my body flush hotter than an inferno.

“No underwear, Maren.” The professor sounds pained. “Have you been like that all week?”

I shrug, winding my arms around his neck. “Whenever I wore leggings, yeah.”

Greg groans, resting his forehead against mine for a long moment… then he juggles my ass onto his left forearm, and his right hand begins to roam.

My ass cheek: squeezed. My hip: stroked. When those fingers slide along my seam, it’s like the river all over again. Maddening and perfect. I squirm in his hold, biting my lip to stifle my cries, and soon I’m bucking against him, hips rolling to chase his touch.

The professor rubs a thumb over my clit, then presses a single finger inside me. Just to the second knuckle, but this is new. It’s new, and it steals my breath.

“Oh,” I murmur, head flopping down to rest on his shoulder. “Oh. Okay.”

“Feels good?”

That finger works its way deeper, gentle but determined, pressing inside my virgin body. The professor’s low voice reverberates through my whole torso, tingling all my nerve endings, and I nod weakly.

“Uh-huh. So good.”

But how the hell will I ever fit more?

Turns out I should have more faith in biology, because two minutes later I’m fucking myself on two thick fingers, both of them sliding as deep as they can go, hooking inside me to press at my most pleasurable spots.

There’s a faint flush on the professor’s cheekbones, and he’s watching me like I’m a miracle.

Like I’m more fascinating than any meteor shower.

“That’s it,” Greg mutters, twisting his wrist to rub my clit with his thumb. It’s slippery with my arousal, and we both groan at the sensation. “That’s it, sweetheart. Fuck, you’re perfect.”

I mewl, too far gone for words. And when I seize up then shatter in his arms, waves of sensation wracking my body, the professor presses me against the door even harder and kisses me to muffle my cries.

“I can’t wait any longer,” he scrapes out as soon as I float back to myself, pulse racing and cheeks hot.

Greg yanks at his belt and pops the button on his jeans; he yanks his zipper down with unusually jerky movements.

He’s normally so graceful, so elegant, and seeing him overcome with arousal for me is one hell of an ego boost. I laugh faintly and preen in his arms, like I really am the perfect angel he says I am, and not a sweaty, flushed mess.

“Maren.” The head of his cock notches at my entrance, my body already twitching in response. My channel clamps down on nothing, like it’s trying to suck him inside. “Are you sure?”

Am I sure? What kind of crazy question is that?

Every cell in my body has craved this man non-stop since the very first day of class.

I’ve tossed and turned so many nights, feverish with longing, trying to imagine how the professor would feel pressed up against me.

My heart stopped every time he stared at me in the lecture hall, and I nearly went mad with hoping and wishing that he felt the same way.

Now his long, thick cock is pressed against my entrance, and he wants to know if I’ve changed my mind?

“Do it.” My nails dig into the muscle at his shoulders, hard enough to leave little pink half moons on his skin. “ Please , professor. I’ve wanted you for so long.”

He curses quietly, shaking his head, then presses forward. Inch by inch. Stretching me open, claiming my body in a way no one else has. And all the while I pant and squirm and pepper kisses against his chest, his throat, his jaw.

“That’s it,” Greg mutters, hips rocking into mine now. Fucking his way deeper and deeper. “There you are, sweetheart. So tight and wet. Christ.”

Faint noises float from where our bodies join, so primal that I blush even harder. Outside in the hallway, anonymous people walk past, chatting together. Oblivious.

A bead of sweat rolls down my spine, and I arch against the professor’s chest. He’s all the way inside me now, gripping my hips hard enough to leave fingerprint bruises. I hope he does.

“This,” Greg clips out, fucking me harder now, faster, “is worth any job. Any price. God, Maren, I’d give anything for this. For the way you feel.”

Moaning, I squeeze my thighs tighter around his waist and lean forward to scrape my teeth over his throat. The professor’s skin tastes salty, with the faint scent of pine from our stay in the mountains. Will we ever go back there? Maybe the two of us could go alone and watch the meteors together.