Chapter 20 20
POV Elliot
I could see her nervous, sitting in front of me with that book open like it was a shield.
She wasn't looking me in the eyes, not directly, just sideways glances when she thought I wouldn't notice. She'd ask something about the rhythm of a verse and lean in a little, but not too close. She seemed relaxed, with that soft voice explaining metaphors like nothing happened, but she wasn't.
I noticed it in the way she bit her lip when she paused, in how she crossed and uncrossed her legs under the table. Her cheeks had a flush that wasn't from the morning sun. I was enjoying it, every second.
The hours had flown by for me, as if time was conspiring to steal her away soon. It was almost lunchtime, and I already wanted to stretch this out, stay here all day, all week, all I could.
I liked catching her looking at me. A quick glance at my hands while I wrote, or at my mouth when I drank water. We hadn't talked about yesterday, not a word, but this table already had a different meaning.
I knew how wet she could get, how my name sounded between her lips when pleasure gripped her, that choked "Elliot" that came out like a secret. I remembered her contractions around my fingers, how her pussy clenched and released, sucking me in as if it didn't want me to leave.
And the taste... fuck, the taste of her folds, salty and sweet, the inside of her walls squeezing my tongue. Could she be more beautiful? She was beautiful, in that discreet way that catches you off guard: soft curves, skin that blushes easily, eyes that say more when they're silent.
I wanted to kiss her right now, put her against the table again and bury myself in her until I got lost, hold her while I filled her until she dripped, whisper in her ear that not even the devil himself could take her from me. But I stayed calm, just listening while she taught me about internal rhymes and symbolism. I nodded, took notes, pretending the poem mattered to me as much as she did.
Today she was more covered than ever. The shirt buttoned all the way up, as if that could erase the shape of her tits from my head, that round weight that fit perfectly in my palms. The longer skirt, covering her knees, as if she wanted to hide the legs that yesterday spread for me without thinking twice. She was trying to cover up more, put up barriers, because she knew she wasn't strong enough to say no if I touched her. And I knew it too. That got me harder than the verse she was reading aloud.
"I understand," I said when she finished an explanation, closing the notebook calmly. "Lunch?"
She nodded quickly, as if she'd been expecting it.
I ordered the usual: pasta with something light.
We ate at the small table, her with the fork in hand and me watching her eat, noticing how she licked her lips after every bite. We talked about nonsense: the weather, a book she mentioned, nothing that touched yesterday. But the air was thick, like the ghost of her taste followed me everywhere.
We finished.
Back in the study room, the hours started to drag, and I was grateful. It was better that way, stretching every minute by her side. The scent of her hair reached me when she leaned in to show me a page, vanilla and something floral that made my cock stiff. Her shoulder brushed mine, warm through the shirt, and I moved a little closer, as if the book demanded it. I left my hand on her thigh then, casual, like it was resting there. She went still, the pencil hovering in the air for a second. She didn't say anything, didn't pull it away. She kept talking about the author, his life, with her voice a little lower. My thumb brushed the fabric of the skirt, rising a centimeter, feeling the heat of her skin underneath. She swallowed, but continued, the words coming out haltingly. Fuck, that felt so good. Her body remembered mine, and mine remembered hers.
"Mrs. Ellis, I'm a little thirsty," I said after a while, when her voice really started to tremble.
She pulled away fast, standing up as if the air burned.
"I'll get you some water," she murmured, and went out to the hallway, cheeks red.
I stood up quietly, without making noise, and followed her. She stopped in the kitchen, back to me, breathing deep as if she'd just run.
I saw her lean her hands on the counter, close her eyes for a second. Then, one hand rose to her chest, pressing over the shirt, brushing a nipple through the fabric. She was aroused, just from being near me. Her body betrayed her: nipples hard showing through, legs pressed together as if trying to calm the pulse between them. She remembered yesterday very well, how my tongue had made her gasp, how her pussy had sucked my fingers. I approached from behind, slow, until my chest brushed her back. She tensed, but didn't turn. I wrapped an arm around her neck, firm, lowering my hand to her breast. I tugged at the damn buttons, one by one, teeth clenched. The fabric parted, revealing the white bra, simple, and the curve of her tits rising and falling fast.
"Elliot..." she whispered, but it was weak, like a disguised moan.
I pushed her against the counter, not gently, but with the weight of my body. She put her hands there, arching her back without meaning to, her ass pushing back against my cock, which was already hard as a fucking rock. She gasped, loud, and I growled low, grinding against her, feeling the heat of her crack through the skirt. I couldn't take it anymore. Yesterday I didn't penetrate her; I stayed with the taste and the smell, with her contractions around my fingers. But today... today I needed to bury myself in her, break her, fuck her until she screamed my name and came squirting.