Chapter 96 SUMMER TUTOR 3

Chapter 96 SUMMER TUTOR 3
SUMMER TUTOR 3

CHLOE’S POV

The storm clears overnight, leaving the air washed clean and heavy with the scent of wet earth. I wake early, my body buzzing with anticipation I can’t shake. Yesterday’s kiss—and everything that followed—plays on repeat in my mind: Elias’s fingers inside me, the taste of myself on his tongue, the way he stopped just before I unraveled. I dress carefully—a soft white cotton dress that buttons down the front, thin enough that the outline of my nipples shows when the light hits right, and nothing underneath. No bra, no panties. I want him to know I’m ready.

He texts mid-morning: Guest house porch. Bring your laptop.

I walk the short path through the backyard, barefoot, the grass cool and damp under my feet. The guest house is small but private—a living room that doubles as his office, a bedroom in the back, kitchenette. The porch overlooks the woods, screened for privacy.

He’s waiting in a wicker chair, his laptop on the table, coffee steaming beside him. He’s in a faded navy t-shirt and gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips, hisj hair still tousled from sleep. His eyes flick up as I approach, darkening when he takes in my dress.

“Morning,” he says, voice rougher than usual.

I set my laptop down and sit opposite him, crossing my legs slowly so the dress rides up my thighs. “Morning.”

We start with the essay. He’s professional at first—leaning over to read my latest draft, pointing out phrasing, asking questions that force me to dig deeper. But the space is small, intimate. Every time he gestures, his arm brushes mine. Every time I lean in to type a change, my breast grazes his bicep.

The tension builds like the storm yesterday—slow, inevitable.

After forty minutes, he closes my laptop gently. “You’ve got it. This version is strong.”

I meet his eyes. “So we’re done?”

He exhales, leaning back. “We should be.”

I stand, walking around the table to him. “But we’re not.”

He watches me approach, his jaw tight. I straddle his lap without asking, my dress hiking up to my hips as I settle over him. I feel him instantly—hard, thick beneath the soft fabric of his sweats.

“Chloe,” he warns, his hands gripping the chair arms instead of me.

I rock forward slowly, grinding against his length. “Tell me to stop.”

He doesn’t.

I kiss him—soft at first, then deeper, my tongue tracing his lower lip until he opens for me. His hands finally move, sliding up my bare thighs, pushing the dress higher. When he realizes I’m naked underneath, he groans into my mouth, his fingers digging into my ass.

I reach between us, tugging his sweats down just enough to free him. His cock springs up—long, thick, the head already slick with precum. I stroke him slowly, base to tip, feeling him throb in my hand.

He breaks the kiss, his head falling back. “Fuck.”

I rise on my knees, positioning him at my entrance. I’m soaked—have been since I walked over. I sink down slowly, taking him inch by inch. The stretch is perfect, filling me completely. We both moan as I bottom out, my clit grinding against his pelvis.

I start moving—slow rolls of my hips at first, savoring every drag of him inside me. His hands grip my waist, guiding me, my thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts through the dress.

I unbutton the dress as I ride him, letting it fall open. My breasts bounce free, my nipples hard and aching. He leans forward, his mouth closing over one, sucking hard while his hand pinches the other.

The porch creaks under us, birds chirping in the trees like nothing’s happening. The risk—of someone walking by, of being seen—heightens everything.

I speed up, bouncing now, the wet sounds of our bodies loud in the quiet morning. He thrusts up to meet me, hitting deep, making me gasp.

He flips us suddenly—standing with me impaled on him, turning to press me against the porch railing. My back arches over it, my dress hanging open, my breasts exposed to the air. He fucks me standing—hard, deep strokes that make my toes curl.

One hand slides between us, rubbing my clit in tight circles. I come fast—clenching around him, my juices dripping down my thighs.

He pulls out, turning me to face the railing. He enters from behind—deeper this angle, one hand fisting my hair, the other gripping my hip. He pounds relentlessly, skin slapping, my moans echoing into the woods.

I come again, harder, my legs shaking. He follows—pulling out to spill across my ass and lower back, hot ropes painting my skin.

We stay like that, panting, his forehead against my shoulder.

But we’re not done.

He carries me inside to the couch, laying me down. He strips fully this time—shirt off, revealing lean muscle and a trail of dark hair leading down. He spreads my legs, diving in with his mouth—licking his own cum from my skin before focusing on my pussy.

His tongue is relentless—fucking inside me, then sucking my clit until I’m writhing. He adds fingers—three this time, stretching me while his mouth works me over.

I come twice more under his tongue, sobbing his name.

He rises, his cock hard again. This time he pulls me on top, reverse—my back to his chest as I sink down on him. His hands roam—pinching my nipples, rubbing my clit, one finger teasing my ass.

I ride him hard, grinding, the angle perfect. He thrusts up, meeting me, until we’re both sweating, breathless.

My final orgasm crashes through me—I squirt this time, soaking us both. He comes deep inside me, pulsing hot and endless.

We collapse on the couch, tangled, his cum leaking from me as he holds me close.

“Stay,” he murmurs against my neck.

I do—for the rest of the summer.