“And after you come, I’m going to taste you from my fingers and decide whether you’ve earned my cock.”
I whimpered, knees nearly giving out as one of his hands slid to my lower back, anchoring me.
“You’re a good girl, aren’t you?” he whispers, his voice a low rumble in my ear. I shiver, my breath hitching as he runs a hand down my spine, tracing the curve of my back.
I nod, my voice barely a whisper, “Yes, Sir.”
He smiles, his fingers trailing down to my ass, squeezing gently before moving to my thighs and I can feel the heat radiating from my pussy.
“Already so wet for me,” He runs a finger along my slit once again, feeling my juices coat his skin. “Such a good girl, indeed.”
He pushes a finger inside me, feeling my walls clench around him. I gasp, my hips bucking back against his hand.
He chuckles, leaning in to whisper in my ear, “That’s it, princess. Fuck my fingers like a good little slut you are.”
I start to finger fuck myself, his fingers moving in and out of my pussy in a steady rhythm. I moan, my legs shaking as he hit that sweet spot inside me. I can feel my body tensing, my breath coming in short gasps.
He leans in, his teeth grazing my ear as he whispers, “Don’t cum yet.”
He adds another finger, stretching me wider as he continues to fuck me and I moaned. “Mmhhh…”
He reached around with his other hand, his fingers finding my clit. He rubs it in slow circles, feeling my body tremble beneath his touch.
He then reached up, his hand wrapping around my throat. He squeezed gently, feeling my pulse flutter beneath his fingers.
“Cum for me.”
And just like that my walls clenched around his fingers and I came undone.
I needed this outing like I needed oxygen.
My brain had been stuck on repeat for three days straight-Lewis’s hands, his voice, the way he’d completely rewired my understanding of power dynamics in about thirty seconds flat.
Vaughn’s warning glares across campus weren’t helping either. Neither was the fact that I kept catching myself checking my phone every five minutes like some kind of Pavlovian disaster.
The city air was sticky and loud, and Cleo’s voice had already drowned out my inner monologue before we even hit the first store.
“Explain to me again why you own twenty-nine identical plain black shirts,” she groaned, holding one up like it personally offended her ancestors. “You’re not Steve Jobs, babe. Try color. Try literally anything that suggests you have a pulse.”
“I like black,” I said, folding my arms. “It’s reliable.”
“So is death. And taxes. And my vibrator when the batteries are fresh.” She tossed the shirt into her growing reject pile. “You need something sluttier. I’m thinking red. Maybe leather. Maybe… crotchless.”
“Cleo!” I hissed, glancing around. “We’re in Zara!”
“Exactly. Time to spice up the polyester.”
I rolled my eyes, but honestly? This was exactly what I needed. Cleo’s beautiful, chaotic energy. Her ability to make everything feel lighter, more manageable.
Her complete inability to take anything too seriously, including my obvious mental breakdown.
The problem with Cleo is that she also has this supernatural ability to spot trouble from three zip codes away.
“Uh-oh,” she said, voice going flat. “Red flag ex alert. Ten o’clock.”
I turned my head and immediately regretted it.
Ethan walked toward us like he still had rights. Hoodie half-zipped, fake regret painted on his face, hands shoved into his pockets like he was trying to look harmless.
“Sophie,” he said, slightly breathless, like seeing me was some kind of cardio. “Can we talk?”
“Absolutely fucking not,” Cleo answered before I could even process the question. “She’s got better dick now. Bye.”
“Cleo-” I groaned.
Ethan frowned. “I wasn’t talking to you, loudmouth.”
Cleo took a step forward. “And yet I’m still the one about to break your nose. Funny how that works.”
I stepped between them because I know Cleo, and she’s absolutely not bluffing about the face-rearranging thing.
“What do you want, Ethan?”
“I just…” His gaze swept over me, and something bitter flickered across his expression. “I miss you. I know I fucked up, but you don’t have to punish me by throwing yourself at whatever creep is feeding you lines now.”
I crossed my arms. “I’m not interested. You were too late. That’s it.”
He scoffed, and that’s when his mask slipped completely.
“Oh, so what now? You’re into that whore shit like-what? Choking? Whipping? Is that your new thing?”
I froze. My skin burned. My mouth opened, but before I could even form a word-“Is he harassing you?”
Adrian materialized behind us-all sharp angles and controlled danger, his storm-gray eyes locked on Ethan like he was calculating which bones to break first. And honestly? From the look on his face, he was definitely running those calculations.
“Professor-” I started.
Lewis didn’t even glance at me. His attention stayed laser-focused on Ethan, who had gone approximately three shades paler.
“Is he bothering you, Ms. Hale?”
The formal address in public. Smart. Professional. Completely at odds with the barely contained violence radiating off him.
Ethan raised his hands. “Hey, no problem here, Professor. Just talking to my ex. No big deal.”
“Ex-girlfriend,” Lewis said, stepping closer. “Which means you’ve lost access. Permanently. I suggest you leave while you still have all your original teeth.”
Cleo let out a low whistle behind me. Even she looked impressed, and Cleo’s standards for intimidation are pretty fucking high.
Ethan muttered something unintelligible and practically sprinted away.
Lewis turned to me, voice dropping to that controlled tone that made my stomach flip. “Come with me.”
He led me toward the alley beside the caf?, away from Cleo’s undoubtedly fascinated stare. I followed because apparently my brain had temporarily relocated to my feet.
“What were you doing here with him?” he asked once we were out of earshot.
“I wasn’t with him. I was shopping with Cleo. He ambushed us.”
“You didn’t tell me you were going shopping.”
I blinked. “I didn’t realize I needed permission.”
His eyes narrowed-not angry, exactly. More like recalibrating. “You don’t need permission. But if you’re going to be in public with exes who talk to you like that, I want to know where you are.”
“It wasn’t planned. And I was handling it.”
“No,” he said, voice dropping another octave. “I handled it.”
Silence stretched between us, loaded with about fifteen different kinds of tension. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to tell him off or climb him like a tree.
Probably both.
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow,” he said finally. “Same place. Five sharp.”
I nodded because my vocabulary had apparently shrunk to single syllables.
“And Sophie?” He leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “Wear something red.”
