“Say that again,” he groaned against my breast, the vibration sending shivers of pleasure up my spine.
“Thomas.”
He raised his head, and lifted his torso so that he was staring down at me, his eyes the color of blue flame. “Again,” he said, yanking my head back by my hair, fluttering wet kisses along the column of my throat.
My fingers trembled and reached for his glasses. Slipping them from his face, I dropped them to the floor.
“Thomas,” I whispered.
His lips crushed mine, his tongue sliding into that hot, wet hole as one long elegant finger mirrored the movement, circling my entrance before sinking deep inside. He moved so slowly, so achingly, torturously slow that I bucked against his hand and tried frantically to move his heavy muscled frame to my whim, to hasten his pace. He broke the kiss and laughed. Pushing up on one hand, he towered over me, watching my face. He drew back his hips, then pushed forward sending a second finger inside me, to join the other.
“Fu…,” I cried, and nearly wept he felt so good.
He drew back again, and pushed forward again, his erection thick and hard against my thigh, his fingers curling inside my sex.
“Goddammit,” he ground out as his mouth crashed down to mine, his tongue plunging into my mouth as his pelvis drove down hard. He curled his fingers again, and flexed them, searching for that special spot deep inside, the one he knew would make me scream. His hand worked with his hips, his hips synched expertly to his mouth, his entire body thrusting, filled and laid claim to tight wet holes until all I could feel was him, over me, around me, inside me. My orgasm came over me like a summer thunderstorm, crashing through my limbs until I shattered underneath him. I cried out, and again he took the sound from me, swallowing my passion, consuming it like a holy sacrament. I held him as he fell, his face buried in my hair as his release shuddered through him.
“Jane, sweet Jane,” he whispered. “I want to hear it again,” he pleaded. “Say my name again.”
So I did.
* * *
“I think I’ve called you by your first name now nearly as many times as I’ve called you Professor since I’ve known you.” I smiled at him as I led him down the hallway to my bathroom.
“And it’s music to my ears.” He smiled.
I opened the door to my shower and turned on the water full force. When I turned back to face him, he was staring at me.
“God, you’re exquisite,” he said, taking a step towards me, threading his hands through my hair, strands cascading from his fingers like silk.
“I was thinking the same thing,” I said softly.
“Really?” he asked. Taking my hand he led me into the shower and turned my back to his chest, folding me into his arms and guiding us under the spray together. “That’s astonishing. So you too, were thinking that your hair looks like a curtain of dark chocolate silk?” his fingers massaged my scalp, tilting my head back to rest against his chest. “That your skin is reminiscent of fresh cream?” His hands glided down my neck, and over my shoulders, setting my skin on fire, a blush raising in my cheeks. “That when you’re aroused your breasts look like that cream has been poured over strawberries?” His hands moved to cup me, lifting and massaging the heavy weight of my breasts as his thumbs brushed over the swollen pink tips. “You were thinking all those things too?”
“Well, not those exact words.” I laughed.
“What words, then? Hmmm?” he said, his lips nuzzling a magical spot just below my ear.
“No, no, please continue—I don’t want to interrupt this soliloquy.”
“I cannot decide which parts of you are my favorite,” he said, his fingers rubbing lazy circles over my nipples. “In fact limiting my praise to mere parts seems reductive, as I confess I am an ardent admirer of the entire package.”
“Oh, but you were on a roll.” I sighed, relaxing into his chest.
He tilted his head to look at me. “I wouldn’t want to objectify you, darling.”
“Please, objectify me. I’m begging you.”
“Very well,” he said, and lifting my chin with a fingertip, he pressed a soft kiss to my mouth. “These lips, so full and red, I’d often wondered would they look the same after kissing you, or would they swell further with attention?” He reached for the bottle of body wash on the shelf of my shower and poured some in his hands.
“And what’s the verdict?” I asked.
“You look manhandled,” he said, his brow furrowed. “Lips plump and bruised, like some lusty brute was abusing your mouth.”