Curveball(8)

I’m still naked, and for some reason, despite having Mark explore every inch of my body, I feel vulnerable, so I fold my arms over my chest to cover myself. That vulnerability also makes me more defensive. “A little too confident now, aren’t we?”

Scooting closer to me on the bed, he reaches between my legs and rubs my clit with his thumb. His breath sends chills down my spine as he whispers in my ear, “Your pussy is mine. Whenever I want it.”

A soft moan escapes my lips, the throbbing at my core too intense to ignore, so I let him keep going even though I know I’ve lost this fight. “Yes,” I hiss, staring into his green eyes.

“Yes what?” he demands.

“My pussy is yours. I’m yours. Just don’t fucking stop.” Possessed by the orgasm brewing inside me, my voice sounds like a growl.

My cheek presses against his, and he pulls me closer with one hand while making me come again with the other.

“Good girl,” he says, plunging his fingers inside me but only for a second. Then, he pulls them back to suck on them before sliding his index finger into my mouth for me to taste. “That’s fucking hot,” he groans as I suck on his finger. Then, he removes it from my mouth, so he can kiss me.

The kiss only lasts a few seconds, leaving me wanting more. After the sex we had, I want him to call. I still haven’t told him my real name. He hasn’t even bothered to ask. Not that he cares about what he calls me. While I hope he will call, I doubt he will bother. This was a hook-up, a one-night stand.

“Well, I have to go to work.” I stand up from the bed and open the closet to retrieve my bathrobe.

Mark stalks toward me. Taking my breasts in his hands, he sucks on one nipple for a second and then the other, tugging on each of them with his teeth, before he looks up at me.

“I’ll call you.” He kisses me one last time.

The passion and intensity behind it makes my toes curl and my ovaries explode.

“Later, Teach.”

And then he’s gone.



Today marks my first official day as a college professor, and I am fucking late already. I just had to take Mark home from the club with me last night. After he’d saved me from embarrassment and stood there, staring up at me with those bedroom eyes, all man and broad-shouldered, I’d wanted to fuck him right there on the dance floor. After waiting what had felt like an eternity to have sex again, I could not resist him. My defenses had weakened with each second I spent around him.

He might have ruined me for all men. I can’t even recall a single detail of the last sexual encounter I had before Mark. But I have a feeling I will remember him for a long time, maybe even scream out his name as I make myself come. Because the sex was highlight-reel, spank-bank-worthy material.

On my way to campus, I stopped at Broad Street Beans for a nonfat latte, but the caffeine is barely helping to keep my eyes open. My legs are still wobbly from all the hammering Mark did between them. My core throbs, but it’s not from the agonizing pain; it’s the promise of having more time with him.

In heels and a pencil skirt, I want to look presentable and professional for my first real teaching job. When an assistant professor slot in the Franklin School of Law at Strickland University opened up and I received a call from Peter Swanson—one of the most respected lawyers in the state and my former teacher at Strickland University—I accepted on the spot.

Law and Ethics was not my first choice especially after my last case, but when Professor Swanson offered me the chance, I jumped at it.

Stumbling into Franklin Hall, I almost fall into a group of outgoing coeds who practically assault me as they push open the doors and knock me off-balance. They laugh and roll their eyes in my direction, as if I were the one who shoved them. I should have brought my emergency flats. My feet are killing me. I can barely walk a straight line. In hindsight, I should have gone home alone last night. Too bad my vagina was doing the talking for me.

By the time I find Professor Swanson’s office, I am ten minutes late and not off to a good start in my teaching career. When I announce myself by clearing my throat from the doorway, he looks up from his computer, a delighted smile on his chubby face.

“Olivia, perfect timing. I was just finishing up with my latest article for the law review.”

Taking a seat in one of the chairs in front of his desk, I mutter, “Sorry I’m late.”

“Your first class starts on Monday. I hope you will be on time for that.”

I fold my hands on my lap and sit up straight. “Of course. Again, I’m so sorry.”

He takes a sip from his coffee cup and sets it down. “No problem. Today, I wanted to chat with you about what I expect for this class. I reviewed the course syllabus you’d handed in. The final project is a great idea, but I wanted to talk to you about it. Will your last case have any impact on how you grade this assignment?”

The thought of the Wissinoming Park Rapist and the smirk he had on his face as he walked out of the courtroom that day is still fresh in my mind.

I choke back the bile rising up from my stomach and feign a smile. “No, I can assure you that I am fully capable of handling this class and any assignment that I give out to my students.”

“As a lawyer, I was proud of you and the case you’d built for your client, but on a personal level, I couldn’t stand to see him get off for what he had done to those women. But you had an ethical and legal obligation to your client—”