Chapter 95 SUMMER TUTOR 2

Chapter 95 SUMMER TUTOR 2
SUMMER TUTOR 2

CHLOE’S POV

The next afternoon drags like molasses. I spend the morning pretending to read on the back porch, but my eyes keep drifting to the guest house path. Every rustle of leaves makes my pulse jump, imagining Elias walking over early. He doesn’t. He’s disciplined like that—always on time, never early, never late.

At exactly three o’clock, the sliding door opens and he steps into the kitchen carrying his notebook and a fresh mug of coffee. Today he’s in a light gray button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and dark jeans that hug his narrow hips. His hair is still damp from a shower, curling slightly at the ends. He smells clean, like soap and something woodsy.

“Ready?” he asks, setting his things on the island.

I nod, already seated with my laptop open. I’ve changed since yesterday—into a pale blue sundress that skims my thighs when I sit, thin straps and no bra because the heat is unbearable. My hair is up in a loose knot, a few strands framing my face.

We dive into the essay I started. He sits closer this time, our thighs almost touching under the counter. He reads my new paragraphs aloud in that low, steady voice, pausing to point out strong lines or suggest sharper words. His feedback is precise, encouraging, but every time his arm brushes mine or his breath fans across my shoulder, I lose the thread.

After an hour, thunder rumbles in the distance. The sky darkens quickly—summer storm rolling in fast. Wind picks up, rattling the windows.

“Looks like we’re in for it,” he says, glancing outside.

I save my document. “We can stop if you want to head back before it hits.”

He hesitates, looking at me. “I’m fine here.”

The first fat raindrops hit the roof. Lightning flashes, followed by a crack of thunder that makes me jump. The power flickers once, then steadies.

I laugh nervously. “I hate storms.”

He turns his stool to face me fully. “Why?”

“They make me feel… small. Out of control.”

His eyes soften. “Storms pass.”

Another boom, louder. The lights flicker again and die, plunging the kitchen into gray half-light. Rain lashes the windows now, a full downpour.

“Guess we’re stuck,” I say, my voice barely above the storm.

He stands, walking to the window to watch the rain sheet down. I follow, standing beside him. Our reflections ghost in the glass—him tall and solid, me smaller, the sundress clinging slightly from the humidity.

Lightning illuminates the yard, thunder immediate. I flinch, instinctively stepping closer to him.

His arm comes around my shoulders without thinking, pulling me against his side. “It’s okay.”

The warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart under my ear—it calms me more than it should. I don’t pull away. Neither does he.

Minutes pass like that, rain drumming, occasional flashes lighting us up. His thumb starts tracing slow circles on my bare arm, absent at first, then deliberate.

I tilt my head to look up at him. His eyes are on my face, intense.

“Chloe,” he says quietly, like a warning.

I don’t heed it. I rise on my toes, pressing my lips to his.

For a heartbeat, he freezes. Then his hand cups the back of my neck, and he kisses me back—slow, deep, controlled. His mouth is warm, tasting faintly of coffee. His tongue strokes mine gently, exploring, teaching.

I melt into him, my hands sliding up his chest, feeling the hard planes under his shirt. He groans softly, backing me against the counter until I’m trapped between it and his body.

His hands move—one tangling in my hair, tilting my head for better access, the other sliding down my side, thumb brushing the curve of my breast through the thin dress. My nipple hardens instantly, aching for more.

He breaks the kiss, breathing hard, forehead against mine. “We shouldn’t.”

I arch into him, feeling his hardness press against my stomach. “But we are.”

Thunder crashes again. He kisses me harder this time, lifting me onto the counter. My dress rides up as my legs part for him, wrapping around his hips. He steps between them, his hands gripping my thighs, pulling me to the edge so I feel him—thick, insistent—through his jeans.

His mouth moves to my neck, sucking lightly, teeth grazing. I moan, my head falling back. His hand slips under my dress, tracing the edge of my panties, finding me soaked.

“Christ,” he mutters against my skin, his fingers sliding beneath the fabric, stroking my slick folds.

I gasp, my hips rocking into his touch. He circles my clit slowly, then dips one finger inside me, then two, stretching gently. His thumb presses my clit while his fingers curl, finding that spot that makes my thighs tremble.

The storm rages outside, matching the one building inside me. He pumps his fingers steadily, his mouth back on mine, swallowing my moans.

I’m close—so close—when he slows, edging me.

“Please,” I whisper against his lips.

He withdraws his hand, bringing his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean while watching me. The sight makes me throb.

He kisses me again, letting me taste myself on his tongue—salty, intimate.

Then he steps back, adjusting himself with a pained expression. “Not like this. Not rushed.”

I slide off the counter, my legs shaky. “Then when?”

He cups my face, his thumb brushing my swollen lips. “Soon. When it’s right.”

The power flickers back on as the storm eases to a steady rain. He grabs his notebook, looking torn.

“Tomorrow,” he says, his voice rough. “Same time.”

He leaves me standing there, my dress rumpled, my lips tingling, and my body humming with unspent need.

Tomorrow suddenly feels like forever.