Chapter 147 Open Your Mouth, Love
ISLA
I knew showing up at Professor Bennett's house was crossing a line we couldn't uncross.
But I didn't care anymore. Not about the risks, not about the consequences, not about anything except the aching need that had consumed me for the past four days since he'd fucked me in that lecture hall.
I'd touched myself every night thinking about it. About the way he'd frozen inside me when the janitor walked in, how his cock had twitched and throbbed while we stayed perfectly still, the terror and arousal mixing into something so intense I'd come just from the memory.
But touching myself wasn't enough. My fingers weren't enough. The vibrator I'd bought in desperation wasn't enough. Nothing satisfied the craving except him—his hands, his mouth, his thick cock stretching me open and filling me completely.
I didn't want gentle anymore. Didn't want sweet or careful or any of the bullshit I'd gotten from boys my own age who treated sex like a checklist to get through.
I wanted Professor Marcus Bennett to use me like the desperate slut I'd become for him. I wanted him to ruin me so completely that no other man would ever come close. I wanted to be his—owned, claimed, marked in every possible way.
And tonight, I was going to make sure he knew exactly what I needed.
I stood on his front porch in the expensive neighborhood where professors with tenure could afford to live, my finger hovering over the doorbell.
I'd spent hours getting ready. Shaved everything. Put on the black lace lingerie set I'd bought just for this—bra, panties, garter belt, stockings. Then I'd covered it all with a long black coat that went down to my knees and nothing else. No dress underneath. No shoes except black heels.
I wanted him to know I'd come here for one reason only.
Taking a deep breath, I rang the doorbell.
Footsteps inside. The lock clicking. Then the door swung open and there he was.
Marcus looked different outside of campus. He'd traded his usual button-down and slacks for jeans that hung low on his hips and a dark henley that stretched across his broad chest. His hair was slightly messy, like he'd been running his hands through it. A glass of whiskey dangled from his fingers.
His eyes traveled over me slowly, taking in the coat, the heels, the way I was clearly wearing nothing else underneath.
"Isla." My name came out rough, almost a warning. "What are you doing here?"
Instead of answering, I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. His house was exactly what I'd imagined—masculine, clean, expensive furniture with dark woods and leather. Books everywhere. It smelled like him, that cologne mixed with something uniquely Marcus that made my pussy clench.
"I asked you a question," he said, but his eyes were already darkening with want.
I undid the belt of my coat slowly, letting it fall open to reveal what I was wearing underneath. His sharp inhale was all the answer I needed.
"I came to finish what we started," I said, shrugging the coat off my shoulders and letting it pool on the floor. I stood before him in nothing but black lace and heels, watching his jaw clench as he took in every inch of exposed skin. "I came because I can't stop thinking about your cock. Because I touch myself every night and it's not enough. Because I need you to fuck me until I can't remember my own name."
The whiskey glass hit the side table with a sharp clink. Then he was on me.
His mouth crashed onto mine in a bruising kiss, one hand fisting in my hair while the other gripped my ass, pulling me flush against him. I could feel his erection already straining against his jeans, hard and thick against my stomach, and I moaned into his mouth.
"You can't just show up at my house," he growled against my lips, even as his hands roamed over my body, squeezing, claiming. "This is insane. If anyone saw you—"
"I don't care," I interrupted, my hands working at his belt buckle. "I don't care about any of it. I just need you."
He grabbed my wrists, stopping me, and the look in his eyes was almost angry. "You should care, Isla. You should be terrified of what we're doing. Of what I want to do to you."
"Then tell me," I challenged, meeting his gaze. "Tell me what you want to do to me, Professor Bennett."
His grip on my wrists tightened to the point of pain, and something dangerous flashed across his face. "You really want to know?"
"Yes."
He released one wrist and wrapped his hand around my throat instead, not squeezing but just resting there—a threat and a promise. "I want to fuck your throat until mascara runs down your face and you're gagging on my cock. I want to tie you to my bed and make you scream my name while I use every hole. I want to mark every inch of your skin so you remember who you belong to. I want to ruin you for anyone else."
My knees went weak. "Then do it."
Something in him snapped.
He shoved me backward against the wall, his mouth attacking my neck, biting and sucking hard enough to leave marks. I gasped, arching into him, my hands finally freeing his belt and yanking down his zipper. When my hand wrapped around his cock, hot and heavy in my palm, he groaned against my throat.
"Fuck, Isla," he muttered, thrusting into my hand. "You have no idea what you do to me."
"Show me," I breathed, stroking him from base to tip, feeling him throb in my grip.
He pulled back suddenly, looking at me with eyes so dark they were almost black. "On your knees. Now."
I dropped immediately, the hardwood floor cold against my knees, and looked up at him. He stood over me, this powerful man I'd fantasized about for months, his cock jutting out from his open jeans, thick and already leaking precum.
"Open your mouth," he commanded, his hand tangling in my hair.