English 2352 {DearestDarling & Dane Stalling}

She didn't know what to expect of the lines he'd promised her. A chill crept down her spine, and her hands clenched around his thighs in an attempt not to tremble with it. She wouldn't tell Jessica. She couldn't tell her. Not because she cared much to protect Luke's reputation-- he didn't seem to guard it much, why should he? No. It was too intimate, too personal. It made her feel twinges of emotion that she would rather have trampled.

He exposed her. She exhaled slowly as he spoke, licked her lips, withheld a shiver as both a breeze and his uncanny way of laying out her intentions before her. Did he know that half of her wanted to run for the hills when he looked at her like that, his gaze too avid, too fucking intense? Her nails skated down his thighs and she withdrew her hands from his body, resting them on her knees. He talked about his marriage as though it were past tense. Maybe it was. Did she do that, or was she just a catalyst, a lit match to his stick of dynamite?

"Do you think I would be here if I didn't really want to be? Do you think I'm here because I'm obligated to be, because you lured me here? You have it wrong. This isn't what I planned, but it's what I want." She looked away quickly, needing a drink, a break from the way he looked at her, as though her skin were translucent and he could read the words on her heart. It made her uneasy, and her chuckle revealed it. "You know I didn't even try to read the poem? I could've looked in the mirror, or have Jessica read it, but I didn't. I waited till you left your office, I broke back in and I touched myself with that pen. Then I went home and took a long, hot shower, washed the words away, thought of your head between my thighs and I came harder than I ever have. I liked the game, it was fun. That's what games are supposed to be. I asked you for the lines and you wanted to trade."

For once, she was shooting straight with him.

Slowly, careful to maintain the balance of the canoe, she eased towards him until she was settled between his legs, and then leaned up to kiss those lips that seemed to never stop moving. "You think too much." She wasn't teasing; there was a touch of pity that colored her voice. "I could leave you now. I wouldn't feel guilty-- there hasn't been a moment tonight where I would've. I took you here because I wanted to. There is no picture that this little excursion substituted, Luke. You wanted to believe it existed, and I let you." She trailed her fingertips up his thighs, dancing towards his straining shaft, and then away again. His legs encased her in heavenly heat. She smiled, sliding one fingertip against the length of his cock, his skin so soft, so warm.

"If I didn't want to bring you here, we wouldn't be here. You think you coerced me, or I coerced you?" She wrapped her hand around him, squeezing gently, her eyes not leaving his face. "I mean, maybe, but we were both willing victims. I could flip this canoe in the next second, leave you here without clothes or your phone, call the police and tell them I suspect a trespasser out here... I wouldn't feel guilty. But I'm not going to." She eased her fist down his length, cupping it tenderly, then slowly back up again as she spoke. Up, and then down again.

"But no more games, if it's not fun." Did she mean it? She herself wasn't quite sure. Maybe. "I had so many more I wanted to play with you, but..." She toyed with him, smirking to herself. She glanced behind him as the little boat glided directionless on the water, catching the great, dark house on the shore in her sights. "You know, for all the times I've been here, I've never checked out the house. Could be fun... As much as fun as fucking you in a canoe might be, I'm pretty sure we would tip it. There's not enough room for what I want to do with you." She flashed him a smile, her teeth pearly in the moonlight, Cheshire-esque.

"Or I could just jerk you off here and be done with it." She shrugged a milky shoulder, as if it were all the same to her. "Then I'll take you home... Or wherever you want to go. Where are you going to go, by the way?" She wondered if he was going to suggest her apartment. Half of her wanted him to, the other half dreaded it. She didn't bring boys home. Ever. But then, he wasn't really a boy.

Luke started to lose track of the conversation. He was sure she was right. At least, when her fingernails dragged across his skin, she felt right. The memory of her flavor, of the way she had squirmed on his desk kept coming back to him. She had reminded him of it. She wanted him then, she wanted him now. And still, she teased, slipping her fingers close to his cock, then drifting away. His hands tightened on the sides of the canoe. When she did finally touch his cock, it bounced.

“I… I…” he started, then her hand wrapped around him and he hissed with the sensation, with the warmth against the cool air and wet skin, the softness of her body between his thighs. He had been thinking too much again.

No more games. Did he want that? If he had been thinking, he would have had something to say, but all that seemed to exist now was just the heat and the cold, the pleasure, the freedom, the canoe, and the threat of tipping into the water.

“Maybe you can be the first woman I screw in a canoe the next time,” he said, when he could breathe, “This time, though, let’s find somewhere comfortable. Really comfortable.” If Rosalie needed room to do what she wanted to do with him, by god, he’d find a place with plenty of room.

He put the oar in the water and turned the boat toward the big dark house. He rowed in silence, the moon behind them casting their shadows onto the dark surface of the lake.

He was too much of an idealist. He wanted things to be good and noble or completely evil. The world wasn’t like that, of course. He detested manipulation in earnest, but hadn’t it been fun in jest? Everything was always mixed up and maybe there could be some fun in those grey areas. He would put that to the test, maybe even tonight.

Where would he go? He hadn’t thought about it.

“I went through Isobel’s phone once,” he said as he rowed. “She had all her friends as contacts, all the people I would expect, but only one of her friends’ husbands. As far as I know, she hadn’t even met him outside of some ill-concieved cocktail party where they crammed us all into one uncomfortable house for an evening. He’s a divorce lawyer. It’s entirely possible that when I turn that damn phone on again I’ll have been served signed papers. You don’t keep a divorce lawyer on speed dial for nothing."

He stepped out of the canoe in shallow water and walked it to the little beach in front of the house. They gathered their clothes and carried them up the silent white steps. The face of the big house still radiated a little warmth from the day and Luke could see, peering through the big glass rolling door that it was furnished. Someone’s vacation home, no doubt. It must have been nice…

“So you can pick the padlock at the gate- what can you do with a sliding glass door?” He hoped she didn’t throw a rock through it.

She continued to stroke him as he dipped the oar in the dark water, her pace slowing and synchronizing with his own movement. She couldn't imagine how he might've been feeling, but if she could make him come just by sending him a few choice texts... His skin was wet from her hands and she loved the feeling, the way she rendered him speechless as she gently squeezed his cock. She watched his face, sliding her grip over the tip, holding it there for a long moment, and then slowly down again, hardly allowing enough space in her grip to accommodate his thickness. "Is this how you want it, Luke? Achingly slow? So tight you can hardly stand it?" She giggled then, but she wasn't unaffected; she was burning inside for his touch, his hands and his tongue... She exhaled, her face inches away from his trembling flesh, warm breath sweeping over where her hands didn't cover.

Then he spoke again, and it wasn't about her, but the wife... It seemed rude, given their current state. She considered what he said, then leaned up to claim his lips for her own, stealing the bitterness from them. "Maybe the answer is simpler than that. She could just be fucking him." Her tone was light, casual. "Either way, what does it matter? Best case scenario. She divorces you and you can finally start living, doing what you want, and when you want it." She glanced down at his velvety shaft again, and her eyes darkened with lust. "Fuck, how am I supposed to sit through one of your boring classes now that I know what your cock feels like in my hands? Now you have to change the course material, or I might have to drop..." She wasn't sure if she was joking or not. It felt perfect in her hands, so stiff and ready for her to sink herself onto...

He reached the shore before she could second guess her stance on accepting the title of the first woman he'd screwed in a canoe, and when they picked up their clothes from the ground, she swiped his shirt and slipped it over her lithe, dripping body, the hem falling just beneath her pert bottom. As she walked, the fabric rose and fell, teasing him with peeks of her smooth skin.

She laughed as he asked how she would break in, as if sliding glass doors were impenetrable. "Let's see..." She stuffed her clothes in his hands, flexing her fingers as she surveyed the scene. Little flowerbeds framed the doorway, clusters of pink and white oleander bushes in full, cheery bloom amongst the rocks. She considered them, carefully picked up a sizable rock, glanced at the door, then threw it forcefully to ground. It split neatly into two perfect pieces, a key glittering on the steps. "Serendipity." She bent to pick it up, the shirt riding up and giving him a terrific view of her ass. "To answer your question, sliding glass doors are basically worthless-- all I would really need is this--" She pulled out a screwdriver from her purse and twirled it between her fingers. "-- to pry it open, but unlike a padlock, that would break the door. I'm not too concerned about property damage, but I'd like to come back here again some time, so that takes a little finesse..."

She unlocked the door and slid it open, shivering in the cool air that greeted them. Smooth tile was underfoot, and just inside the door, a security system that winked red at them. Rosalie didn't miss a beat, tapping a few buttons, and then the red faded to happy green. "See? Keys are good. Can you imagine the news story this evening would make? 'Fucking hot' professor and his Jezebel of a student caught breaking and entering and screwing each other's brains out... Such a sexy story. We'd make the front page of the Austin-American Statesman..."

She took his hand and led him through the dark. The house seemed like it was staged to sell-- no personal mementos or photos, no character, as nice as it was. The short hallway fed into an open-concept first floor, a den the size of her entire apartment and a gleaming, perfect kitchen that didn't look like it had ever been used. She lounged on a plush leather sofa, testing its softness. "Hm... This might be nice. But then I wonder what else we might be missing." She beckoned him to her, grinning. "Come try it and see what you think."

Rosalie could do things with her hands that made Luke’s brain slow to a crawl. Every squeeze, every tight grip, even her lazy teasing felt like caresses, and her breath on his flesh seemed to stay. Even when she leaned up to kiss him, the light breeze seemed to take over where her own breath left off.

It was hard to care what happened at home. He half hoped Isobel was fucking someone. Anyone, actually. But she was sinking in his memory like the ring had sunk under the water. It just mattered less and less.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to teach anything now that I know how your hands feel on my cock,” he said, “especially Nabokov.”

His shirt looked fantastic on her. It stuck a little to her curves where a few drops of water had clung, but it moved smoothly with the swing of her hips. She was somehow more exposed wearing it than when she was naked. Luke grinned and pulled his jeans on. Something about the balance of their clothing together appealed. Between them they were decent enough for one person. Together they made a salacious pair. Luke played along, left the top button on his jeans undone. They rode low, and he let them.

He winced and shut his eyes when she got ready to throw the rock, and laughed when he saw the key. Her familiarity with breaking and entering warranted a careful conversation, but not tonight. Tonight he was happy to watch Rosalie pick locks and neutralize alarm systems. He wanted to ask her how she had done it. That was supposed to be difficult or impossible. Maybe it was just a simple trick, like the hidden key.

He didn’t doubt that they would make the front page of the paper if they were caught, especially if Rosalie made it sound like he had manipulated her. He laughed to himself. He felt like he was along for the ride, Rosalie’s ride, barely hanging on sometimes. It thrilled him like nothing had in years.

He opened the refrigerator as they passed through the big kitchen and the little light came on. There was power. He should have known- he could feel the dry chill of air conditioning. The frames on the mostly empty bookshelves still had the stock photos they were sold with and the few books that were there were a chaotic jumble of subjects, chosen for the color and texture of their spines instead of the stories, recipes, and maps inside. A book of poems for girls was pressed indecently against Tropic of Cancer. A mistake an interior decorator might make, but never a lover of books.

Rosalie sat on the sofa, invited him to try it out. Luke turned away from the bookcase and took the ten steps or so across the living room. Rosalie’s easy sensuality made her the center of the room and the couch made a wonderful frame for her. The leather glowed in the moonlight, rich and cold. Luke knelt on the deep black carpet in front of her.

“Let’s see,” he said, and pressed his hands into the cushions on either side of her hips. “It’s soft enough, and has a very nice texture. I see a problem, though.” He spread her legs and kissed her left thigh. “Do you see?” He kissed her right thigh, higher, his nose brushing the edge of his own shirt. He pulled her forward a little and licked her pussy carefully, slowly, the tip of his tongue sliding between her folds. He took a deep breath. “It’s a little low. I would only be able to…” he licked again, rocked his tongue back and forth, tasting, touching, “…keep this up for an hour or so...” He sucked gently on her clitoris, and remembered her on his desk, squirming, “…before I would get an awful kink in my neck.”

He pushed the shirt up with his nose, kissed her navel, let his tongue flick her there.

“That would be unfortunate, don’t you think?”

He stood and held out his hand for her. His cock was straining to get out of the jeans, but there was time, and he wanted to sample her everywhere. He found a staircase next to an entryway and they went upstairs. A master bedroom dominated the upper floor and a balcony stretched out facing the lake. Floor to ceiling windows would make this a bright room in the daytime, and at night, it gave the room an ever-changing view of water, moon, and the occasional crawling boat in the distance.

Luke sat on the edge of the California king and bounced a little. It was covered in a goosedown duvet the size of a small country. “How does this grab you?”

Rose lay motionless as she watched Luke explore the house, her attention fixed on him, quiet and blazing. He found something amusing about the carefully curated books on the shelf, but whatever it was, he made no mention of it. She spoke and he turned to her, as if noticing her for the first time, and something about the way he beheld her made her clench the leather on either side of her, cool and buttery soft between her fingers. The room was shadowy, dark, but she burned with the way he looked at her. They were delightfully alone. There was no wife to report to, no one to hide from, no other obligations or needs to attend to beside this.

Her thighs shifted slightly as he knelt on the rug in front of her, and she half-wished that she had chosen to lay across it instead-- it looked so soft and lush. Once his intentions were clear, her heart began to pick up its pace, beating in double time as his lips touched her smooth thigh. He still talked too much, thought too much, but she could forgive him for it. "Problem?" Always so analytical, even now.

His lips left her thigh and she hummed as he found its twin, pressing his lips still higher. Her hand found his hair as he pushed his shirt up slowly, stroking, gently urging him on. "God, I could write songs about those lips, that tongue--- oh!" She had been expecting it, but as his tongue met her sweet, wet folds, her voice jumped several octaves higher. It was worse now that she knew just how clever his mouth was, and her mind went fuzzy as his lips closed over her clit and suckled. Stars hovered at the edge of her vision, and polite, controlled conversation was impossible.

"You could lay down on the rug, I could ride you..." It was a plead. Rosalie never pleaded, but she did that day. He had teased her too long, and her lust was begin to outweigh her pride. He pulled away and she hissed softly as he lapped at her navel, how ticklish and strange that felt. She loathed him for bringing her to the point of begging... And she wanted him to do it again, and again. His words from dinner weighed heavily on her mind; could she bear to give up the control, and see what he did with it? Was there more pleasure in restraint, a freedom she had never known?

She followed him up the stairs, curious to see what may be on the second floor. She was drawn to the window, looking out over the lake for a long moment, the moonlight glowing silver around her dark silhouette. "It's a crime that someone owns this place and doesn't even bother to live here, to enjoy this," she said quietly, her fingertips tracing the glass. Heavy curtains were drawn to the sides, tied back with silky black rope. She touched it briefly, smiled, and heard Luke testing out the bed behind her. Maybe...

She pulled the rope loose and it fell into her hand. "How does it grab me? It doesn't, Luke. It's a bed. A bed doesn't have hands that I wish would take my hips and not let go, it doesn't have lips that taste like me." She turned and crossed to the bed, her eyes flashing in the dark. She took his wrist, turned his palm up, and coiled the rope in its emptiness: a gift.

"I want to play another game."

She kissed him, eager for his taste, their taste. When she had enough to temporarily satiate her thirst, she pulled away and trailed to his chin instead, then the jaw that Jessica fangirled over, his pulse. She wondered if he could feel the same electricity that buzzed in her veins.

"You said no games, but I wonder..." She paused, studying him, his reaction to her words. "Maybe we'll call it something else. An experiment. I'm giving this to you, you're free to do whatever you want with it. You could toss it on the floor, or we could further test your theory, that there's freedom in restraint." She found his zipper and toyed with it, the heat of his skin seeping through his jeans. "What do you think, Professor? Wanna play?" She took the rope, tied it neatly around his wrist.

Luke heard Rosalie’s voice change. He could hear hints of desperation and he found that fascinating. It fired a mischievous flame in him, and turned his attention fully to her desire. Rosalie, always in control, always the instigator, the provocatrice, beginning to soften, to need something. To need him to give her something.

“When you write that song about my lips, Rosalie, I want to be there to hear you sing it.”

He saw how she lingered at the window, how she let her fingers touch the cool glass. She was silhouetted against the moon and the few lights outside. He admired the perfection of her curves. She moved silently on the thick carpet.

“I was thinking the same thing,” he said, “How could anyone leave this place empty?”

He watched her touch the curtains, the ties. Maybe she wanted to close them for privacy. It would be a first, though. “Us being here is a kind of karmic righting of balances. We’re appreciating what has been neglected.”

It wasn’t privacy Rosalie was after, though. Luke only realized it as she folded the silk rope into his hand.

“I want to play another game.”

Her kiss was full of something new, the air between them seemed to vibrate with a new energy that was generated from the kiss, the rope, their very presence in a forbidden place.

Luke felt the black rope slip around his wrist like a live thing, long and supple. It wanted her wrists. He pulled the rope around his neck, felt how the silk slid against his skin.

“Put your right hand on my chest,” he said. He looped one end of the rope twice around her wrist and tied it off quickly. A simple knot, but solid.

“Your left hand now.”

Luke stood, Rosalie’s wrists tied loosely around his neck. He felt the weight of her arms as the rope pulled slightly. He backed toward the window. He put his hands on her hips, felt them swing under his hands with each step they took together. When his back touched the glass, he freed the rope from his neck and looped it over the curtain rod hook over the window. Rosalie’s hands floated just over her head, the rope black against her pale moonlit skin. He kissed her, slid his hands down her sides to rest on her hips again. He kissed her neck, her shoulder, her elbow. He unzipped his jeans and dropped them at her feet.

“You like this view?” he said, and slipped away, keeping a hand on Rosalie’s waist. He stood behind her, hands drifting up under his shirt, under her breasts, over her nipples, his cock rising between her thighs.

He kissed the tip of her left ear. “If only it were daytime. You’d be an unexpected eyeful for some fisherman.” He kissed just behind her ear, then he kissed her neck, sucking her flesh as she had done to him. He made a mark he imagined matched his, and his cock touched her pussy, fully hard and tall.

He lifted his shirt up over her breasts, over her head, and tied it out of the way. Then he stepped forward, pressing his body against hers until her nipples touched the glass.

“Say what you want, Rosalie,” he said into her ear, “and I will do it.”

It had been her idea, but Rose still felt a twinge of something like fear as Luke took the rope from her, contemplating what he may do with it. She hesitated for a split moment before her palm met his chest, and he looped the rope around it, the other hand following suit. To trust him, to give him this... There was an undeniable pleasure in it, a thrill she had never unturned, for all of her sexual exploits. She was always the one to write the script, to set the stage. "Don't make me regret this," she said, so quietly he might not have heard. Who knew what he had planned, this man with absolutely nothing to lose.

She was led to the window in some sort of strange dance, following the lead he set. Her hands still rested on his warm skin, caught around his marked neck, until he untangled himself from it and looped the thick cord somewhere over her head. She tested the tension, deciding if for some reason he tried to abandon her here, she could likely escape... But he seemed to have no intentions of doing so.

She closed her eyes lazily as he kissed her, the dark lashes meeting her cheeks as his lips and hands explored. How his wife only used sex as a bargaining chip, she would never understand. A thousand boys she had played with couldn't possibly compare with how deliberate he was, how sensual. She arched her back slightly, stretching as his warm grip left her hips and sighing in disappointment, but then she heard the familiar sound of jeans dropping to the floor and she didn't mind the neglect, so much.

"You like this view?" She opened her eyes, and it took a moment for them to focus. The lake was a black mirror, empty but for a couple of boats twinkling in the dark. The distance down to the ground was disorienting, though the glass protected them from a sudden, nasty fall. The illusion of falling through it, of tumbling down together was still there. "It's beautiful," she said, "but I'm sure the view behind me is just as enticing." She arched further as she felt him pressing against her wet, teased skin. She laughed when he mentioned the possibility of being seen, the sound fading into a soft moan as his lips closed on her neck, kissing and sucking until her blood rose and blushed her skin.

"You have a thing about that, about people seeing me undressed, don't you? First the slideshow, now this-- mmm-- this voyeuristic display..." Her thighs were spread shamelessly for him as she embraced the glass; it was as cool as he was hot behind her. His breath at her ear brought a delicious shudder over her. "It's working for me. Maybe I have a thing for it, too."

He offered her whatever she wanted, and her mind whirled with the possibilities. She wriggled her hips, until his cock was snug against her slick folds. She was aching for it. One small movement was all she needed...

"The Awakening, by Kate Chopin. Put that on the reading list, take out anything by Hemingway. He's a hack." She could see his reflection in the glass, and she grinned, her breasts pressed firmly into the glass as she eased her hips back, the tip of his cock slipping just into her tight slit. She exhaled, closing her eyes and just feeling that for a moment. "And fuck me like you're never going to get to again. Please." The last word escaped her before she could help it.

What if he walked away? What if he left her there, trembling with need? It was something she herself would do, but was he as cruel as she was?

Luke chuckled. She was still bothered about the damn syllabus for his class. He was impressed, though, at her choice of novel. He had expected her to try something more erotic, more shocking, but Chopin had the origins of Southern literature in her favor and the strong feminist slant would make an excellent selection for the class. He was surprised he hadn’t considered her before.

“Chopin is on the list. Hemingway is off, although I will reserve the right to disagree with you about him being ‘a hack.’”

Rosalie had maneuvered herself so that he was just at her entrance, just where he could feel her heat and moisture. He only had to take her.

“Every time is the last time, Rosalie,” he said, “Every kiss is the last kiss, every caress is the last caress,” he bit her shoulder gently and rocked into her very slightly, savoring the velvet of her body and her uncharacteristically polite invitation. Please. For once he did not want to deny her request just to see her squirm.

He breathed her scent, the sweet of her hair, not quite washed away in the lake. He pushed into her slowly, deliberately. Her tightness enveloped him completely and his eyes closed with the sheer comfortable pleasure of her. “Rosalie,” he said, as though her name had taken a new and startling meaning. “Rose.”

There was no game now, not for him. No power dynamics or even teasing. The only drive was pleasure and giving pleasure. He inhaled and squeezed his eyes shut. He curled his fingers around Rosalie’s hips and pulled out, thrust in and held himself deep inside her, letting his desire for her find its rhythm.

“I’ll fuck you like there’s no universe beyond tonight,” he said. He started slowly, savoring every sensation, every heat and movement of her body. He kissed the center of her back as he thrust long and leisurely. Strokes that made all the universe into just the two of them in their stolen house, playing an old, old game and making it their own.

He spoke and she shivered, hissing when his teeth met her shoulder. He was right, though, more right than he knew. Whatever happened that night, it would be over when the sun came up. He'd find some way to excuse the missing ring, the note he had scrawled on her skin and sent to his wife... She recognized it for what it was-- a fun detour, a temporary release.

He had never called her 'Rose' before. It had always been Rosalie, occasionally Miss Clarke, but not Rose. He ended the game, the relentless teasing, but she wasn't sorry for it. She bit her lip as a moan formed In her mouth, sweet and dark as chocolate. She hugged the glass with her upper body, her skin flush against the window as she braced herself for the inevitable pounding... But again he surprised her, his movements slow and purposeful, easing all the way out before sinking deep, deep within her. She exhaled the breath she had been holding and the moan went with it, eager to escape her.

She tugged at the rope that held her wrist, but all that did was raise the other one. Still, he rocked his hips into her, either unaware that she was struggling, or uncaring. She opened her eyes and the view from the window struck her again, the unnerving sensation of teetering towards the edge combining with the mounting lust as he eased his cock in and out of her hot, wet silk. It was a strange cocktail of feeling, and she closed her eyes to focus on the pleasure, the rest too much to bear.

It was a habit for her to compare her flings, to weigh them against each other in a strange sort of mental database she kept, but there was no comparison. It seemed like, after years of halfhearted trysts and one night stands and relationships that blew up in her face, she found exactly what she needed-- someone who knew her body, who recognized her soul. It was exhilarating... It was haunting.

"Turn me around," she breathed, a small, soft sound escaping her as his lips brushed her back, warm and slow. "I want to see you, I want to taste you."

Luke touched his nose to Rosalie’s right shoulder. Her skin was still a little cool from the water, but dry. It was a marked contrast to the heat where there bodies came together.

“Turn me around. I want to see you, I want to taste you.”

He liked hearing what she wanted, how she spoke barely above a whisper. He pulled out of her slowly and stood for a moment, his forehead on her neck, his hands on her hips, and an aching need in his belly to get inside her again immediately, urgently. He turned her around though, fighting the urge. “There’s time,” he said, mostly to himself. He felt the intensity in his eyes. His naked hunger for her body evident on his face.

He kissed her then, his hands on either side of her head, holding her as though she could disappear before either one of them was satisfied. He tasted her- the bourbon almost gone now, and her own flavor made him smile into her mouth. He lingered for a moment just to keep his tongue touching hers.

He turned and walked to the bedside lamp and switched it on, filling the room with a warm glow. He took time to look at Rosalie, pulling at the rope, her body toned, lithe. He grinned at her, played with himself absently as he took her in, let her look at him in turn. Then he grabbed a corner of the huge duvet and dragged it off the bed and opened the side door to the balcony. He left Rosalie inside for a few moments while he folded the comforter into several layers of pure cloud and laid it next to the thin metal railing. The moon was high now, and bright.

He went in, unhooked the rope from over Rosalie’s head, and turned the light off. He didn’t want any curious neighborhood watch volunteers to interrupt them. He led her outside, the rope in his fist and lowered her to kneeling on the soft duvet. He stood in front of her, leaning against the railing in the moonlight.

“Taste me,” he said, his voice rough and strange with desire. His cock bobbed in front of Rosalie’s face. He let it touch her chin, her cheek.

Every time she asked Luke to do something, to give her something, it shocked her when he complied without being put under duress. He had said that he would, but she couldn't bring herself to believe him, to trust him. He pulled out of her slowly and she hummed, almost sadly, her body still milking him for everything he had. He never asked about protection, never mentioned it. He was the first that she had allowed to fuck her without it, and she was glad she had waited; it was so much hotter this way.

He turned her, the rope twisting above her head, and her back pressed against the glass as she took in the almost crazed look on her professor's face, gazing at her as though she were a strawberry sundae and he was starving. "There's time." She exhaled shakily, he was unnerving and she loved it. Time for what? She met his lips and threw his raw intensity right back at him, her eyes closing as she focused on the heat of his mouth, the demanding movements of his lips and tongue. She was just as greedy, just as eager.

Then she was alone by the window. She watched as he pulled away, her head tilting slightly as he switched on the light and looked at her, brazenly, his hand wandering to his cock. She yanked on the rope, but it only tightened around her wrists. "Take a picture, it'll last longer... Oh wait, you can't. Too bad about your phone, I know how you love your mementos..." It was still in pieces in the truck. She felt almost disappointed by that.

Not for the first time, she wished she could see what was going on in his head. He dragged the blanket off of the bed and left for the balcony. "Um, aren't you forgetting something?" Another jerk at the rope yielded no freedom. But then he was back, taking the silky cord and leading her with it, out to where he had been. The downy blanket had been folded neatly, a pure square of white against the dark wood beneath. Thousands of stars dotted the sky above them, tiny crystals tossed against blue velvet. "Making love under the light of the moon, how magical," she said, but then he gently led her to her knees. She knelt, understanding what he wanted as he stood before her, straining for her.

He caressed her face with his cock and she nuzzled it, kissing the tip. "Has anyone told you, you have a really beautiful cock?" Her dark hair brushed against it, ticklish and soft. "I'll taste you, but I want two things first." She flicked her small tongue over where she had kissed. "First, give me my hands so I can give them back to you." Her lips brushed down his length, tenderly, soft as butterfly wings. "Then I want you to tell me what was going through your head when I showed up in your office, wearing that pink dress." Her eyes didn't leave his face as her mouth shaped around him, enveloping him in sweet, wet warmth. She could taste herself on him. "Mm." She wanted to hear him talk, to make him speak with that strange, crushed velvet voice. More than his touch, she craved his words.

“There’ll be mementos, Rose,” he said, “You will make music, I will write…” he looked at her, kneeling in front of him, “Right now I wish I was a sculptor.” He ran the tips of his fingers over her cheek as she teased him with feather-light touches of her lips.

Her sarcasm had surprised him, but he found it endearing rather than irritating. This was Rosalie, this was how she spoke, and he liked it. He liked her. He loved how she got into his head every time she touched him.

He took her right hand, and began to untie her wrist. She used everything she had at her disposal on his cock, her lips, her tongue, her hair. She ran her hair over him, her silk against his hardness felt incredible, and the gesture was intimate, gentle, an unexpected gift. "Just you, Rose," he said, and hissed with her lips on his skin. "You're the only one who really appreciates my cock. You know, besides me." He could hardly untie her fast enough. He was wondering what she planned to do with her hands when she took him into her mouth. She made his fingers fumble and he grabbed the railing behind him for a few seconds to keep himself from falling. He looked down into her eyes, watching his face, waiting for him to talk.

He went back to the knot on her wrist. “My office…” She had been too much to resist.

“You had me wrapped around your finger from the moment… nnnnn… I walked in. You were deadly, innocent, dangerous, pink with a deliciously black heart.”

The knot gave and Luke started working on her left hand. "And you just took charge. Took my chair, rifled through my stuff, tried to… fuck, Rose… get under my skin.”

The second knot gave way and he let the rope hang from his hand. “And you did. Get under my skin. Ssssss… I could never have beaten you at that game. So I changed it.”

Her mouth was so different from her pussy, much more nimble. “You’re good, Rose.” Very good. Why did he want to withhold that little compliment from her? “You’re very good. The best I’ve ever...”

He breathed the night air, touched her hair with the tips of his fingers.

“I wanted you to be curious back there, mmmm… in my office,” he said, struggling to keep eye contact with her. He wanted to come, to squeeze his eyes shut and throw back his head and ride her throat to a finish. He licked his lips though, and pushed her head away. “Now I want to satisfy curiosity.”

He pushed her back onto the duvet, knelt over her and kissed her mouth. His cock touched her pussy, slipped in a little way. “So I’m curious now,” he said, and let his body rest on hers, “What were you thinking?”

She giggled against his skin, shaking her head gently. "We both know that's not true, you don't appreciate it either. Thirteen days is a crime." She punctuated her sentence with a string of kisses, her eyes closing for a moment, enjoying it. She offered her hands to him, smiling as he fumbled with the knots, his hands not nearly as deft as they had been when he made them. "Don't worry. I'll put a stop to the neglect."

He was taking his time with freeing her. In the meantime, she slowly eased her plump lips down, taking more of him into her mouth, her tongue pressed to his feverish skin, tasting. Her hair swung forward, swishing against his thighs and she did nothing to push it away. He seemed to like it, and for once, she saw no reason to withhold pleasure from him. Maybe later, when the magic of the night was over, but not now. They would feast on it, now.

Her eyes fluttered shut as he spoke and she imagined the office hours through his eyes, gripping the base of his cock with the hand he had freed and squeezing in tandem with her greedy mouth. His taste, the strain of his voice, how helpless he sounded as he recounted that lovely afternoon had her more than hot and bothered.

Her skin glowed in the moonlight, her nipples rosy and perked as the night air caressed her supple body, like a lover might. Her cheeks were flushed, another giveaway that she wasn't as cool and collected as she wanted to appear. She couldn't discern if it was the forbidden aspect of their encounter, or the sheer, unadulterated magnetism that drew her into her professor's wake, but this was worlds away from anything she had ever done. Luke seemed to feel it too.

Each moan or gasp of pleasure sent a shudder through her, as she lazily sucked and lapped at his cock. He said she was the best, and it made her wonder if he had ever been touched by a woman besides his wife, who was he was comparing her to? It mattered, and it didn't. She didn't care, but she clearly did. He nudged her head away and she released him reluctantly, swiping her tongue over the swollen knob in a last act of defiance.

He had her pinned to the duvet, but she slipped out from under him, pushing him gently onto his back and kissing him, almost sweetly. "What I was thinking that afternoon?" She moved to straddle him, tossing her midnight hair from her face, her eyes hazy and lustful. "I thought I was going to scare you a little." Her hands were light on his chest, smoothing over his skin as she raised her hips and teased him. She accidentally rubbed her clit against him and whimpered at the unexpected contact.

"I wanted to fuck with you, but not like this. I had it all figured out..." She took his hands and placed them on her hips, taking pleasure in their warmth. "I was mad at you, about the slideshow... I was going to threaten to drop your class unless you did something for me-- what exactly that was, I hadn't quite-- ahh-- I hadn't quite figured out yet." She sank onto his cock, sighing as she stretched to conform to him. She couldn't count how many times she had done this same action, but it all felt new.

"Touch me," she urged, and her hips began to rock. "Then you apologized without giving me a chance to toy with you... And then, oh, right there, right there...." She started bouncing as he rubbed that sweet, ruffled patch inside of her, her head tilting slightly to the side. She was losing track of the conversation.

"You, oh, you kissed me. You weren't supposed to kiss me, I don't... I don't let people do that." But she had let him. "Everything I thought I knew about you went out the window. You weren't some helpless educator caught in-- mmm-- caught in my trap. You're a fucking powder keg, and I'm your match." She found a rhythm she liked and kept with it, struggling to form clear thoughts as lust began to win out. "You had me on your desk and I thought you were equal... equal parts hot and crazy. When you touched me with your phone, when your wife was calling you... I could've came then, if you let it go to voicemail..."

Rosalie lowered herself onto Luke’s cock and he saw her framed like a mischievous angel against the moonlit sky. She would probably laugh at him for seeing her that way. She put his hands on her hips again, a place she seemed to like him to touch. He held her, experimenting as she began to move on him. He let his fingers go light on her skin, just at a tickle, then he slid his hands around her perfect bottom, smooth and warm against his palms.

She danced over him, her hair swinging gently with her rocking and Luke reached for her breasts with both hands, sliding up her ribcage, cupping her flesh, pinching her nipples gently between index and middle fingers. His left hand caught his eye, bare of the old ring and it gave him a tremendous sense of freedom. He felt himself get harder inside her, impossibly, and when she told him that he was touching the right spot, he gripped her hips again and began to move against her, in time, concentrating on that little place. He felt her grip him, squeeze, and he responded with movement, fullness. He thrust harder, in her rhythm, fingers digging into her hips, her breasts bouncing beautifully, her lips moist and beautiful.

She didn’t let people kiss her, and when she said it, he wanted her lips again, wanted all of the contact, to invade her mouth as he was invading her pussy. He hooked her necklace gently, drew her down until her mouth was just above his. They breathed the same air for a few moments, and Luke looked into Rosalie’s eyes, the storm of their fucking making their lips touch, he was breathing hard. He kissed her, hard, as long as he could hold his breath.

He rocked into her as they kissed, his hand pressed into her back. He was gone with lust and overwhelmed with sensation and the story of the office served to lick fire into his blood. The writing on her skin, the flavor of her body, even the little stunt with the phone, all of it fed Luke’s lust.

Still, the pretty double meanings in her words appealed to his ear, “You’re a fucking powder keg, and I’m your match.”

“You’re my match all right,” he said into her ear, between breaths. He rolled her over—she was no match for him there. He bent down and bit her left nipple gently in the brief, still moment. He pinned her hands over her head and kissed her mouth again, breaking her rule thoroughly. He pushed in deep and bobbed there a few times, pressing his body against her firmly. Then he began to thrust in earnest. He breathed into her neck, licked, blew. He hissed into her ear, “there’s an explosion coming.”

He pounded into her with everything he had, as though it was the very last time.

Rose didn't know why she told him that, about the kissing. It wasn't something he needed to know, or that she even wanted him to know-- that she had made an exception for him, let him break her rules. But it was out, the words hanging in the air for him to take and do what he wanted with them, and he did.

Immediately he took the silver chain around her neck between his clever fingers, pulled her down to meet his face. She saw fire in his dark eyes and it thrilled her. He knew. She hovered there for a long moment, tasting his breath, gasping for it, before he closed that tiny breadth of space and crushed her lips to his. It felt like more of a claim than the mark on her neck, and it burned her. She didn't struggle or pull away; she met him eagerly, her hips still meeting his rhythmically as they took each other, gave themselves away.

They only broke away for the need of air, and Rosalie drank big swallows of it. Her lips were swollen, dark pink petals, eyes wide and crazed, as though he infected her with his madness. "You're my match all right." Her head spun with the words, what he could mean by them. A match was used for a single purpose before being tossed away, is that what she wanted? Before she could get her bearings, he took advantage of her, dazed and confused, and pushed her onto her back. "Luke," she winced as he took her nipple in his mouth, teased the flushed, puckered rosebud with his teeth. He let go of it before she was ready, taking her wrists and holding them above her head.

She hesitated for the slightest moment before he kissed her again; they had kissed dozens of times before, but they hadn't meant anything until now. Still, she delighted in his wet tongue leading hers in a deliberate dance, moaned into his mouth as he reentered her with a new energy. Soft notes, not unlike her crooning on stage mingled with the slap of his skin against hers, delicious music. It made her want to play. Her legs were wrapped around his hips firmly, squeezing him as he found that sweet spot again, dancing over it mercilessly, over and over and over. When she opened her eyes, darkness hovered at the edges of her vision, and she felt like she was drowning.

Before she totally lost herself, she twisted her hands so that his thumb was at her wrists, then sharply jerked her hands free, a useful trick she knew. She extracted herself from him, propping herself up on the blanket, lips parted as she struggled to catch her breath. Her hair was mussed, tendrils falling into her face, down her shoulders, torrenting down her back.

"I was wrong... I think I was wrong." Her brow was furrowed as she looked at him, wearing nothing but borrowed moonlight. She didn't need a picture, she couldn't forget it. "Don't fuck me like this, if this is the last time. I want..." She struggled to put the words together. "I want to... To feel something." Her heart was racing out of control. It was terrifying to admit it, this terrible want, but he had said he would do anything she asked. Then she pulled him to her again, eyes searching, dreading the inevitable chuckle she would elicit for trusting him with such a dear desire.

Luke's explosion was right there, just a labored breath or two away when Rosalie slipped his hands and scrambled away from him. She sat, her breasts rising and falling with her panting, her hair looking rumpled and sexy, and Luke grabbed her ankle, ready to pull her back to him, thinking she was playing a game. He had half a grin on face, this game would be a short one, but she stopped him with her words.

“I think I was wrong,” Rosalie said—a sentence he never thought he would hear from her. His grin dissolved from his face as he paid new attention to her. She was serious, not playing, not manipulating. This was different.

He was still hard. Throbbing, in fact, and slick with her. The dark morning breeze played with him.

“If this is the last time… I want to feel something.”

Her eyes were wide, afraid, and Luke let go of her ankle. Was she afraid of him? But she pulled him close again, watching his face. He licked his lips, tasted her, and wondered where this new Rosalie had come from. She had been avoiding “feeling something” ever since she first raised her hand in his class.

He was still breathing hard and he couldn’t speak yet. He brushed the hair out of her face with his fingers, kneeling in front of her, and watched her eyes, trying to understand. He felt a little ridiculous, his cock bobbing between them.

He took a big breath and sighed to release some of the pent up energy that was still vibrating in his blood. “Rose,” he said, and rested his forehead on her shoulder, “I don’t want this to be the last time. I want another last time, and another. I want every last time you’ll give me, Rose. I want a last time at noon one day, under a tree. I want you in a tent, over a barrel, in my bed, over and over.”

That wasn’t all, though. He curled around her on the duvet. “I want to watch you perform in Chicago, in Los Angeles, in New York City. I want to eat Mexican with you in Arizona, Chinese in San Francisco. I want to break into every abandoned mansion on this lake and read you the middle page from the middle book on every shelf.”

He trailed his fingers along her thigh, up to her hip. He rested his hand there. “I want you to feel something too. I want to feel it with you, through you, because of you.”

His breathing was slowing, but his heart thudded and he kisssed her shoulder. “Rose,” he said, as though it was the last thing he would ever say.

His cock was between them, still straining for her, so wet that she could plainly see it, even in the dark. She traced a lazy circle around the pink tip, just as he let go of her ankle. She wanted him to drag her back to him, to disregard what she had said, but she knew he wouldn't.

There was a very real moment of fear as he beheld her, wordless, nothing but the distant sound of late summer cicadas and the whisper of wind through the trees to break the silence. She needed him to say something, anything, even if he laughed at her. If he laughed, she could twist it, play it off as a joke, make him feel stupid for believing she was capable of such a sappy want. She hoped he would-- she wanted her mask back, the smiling one that revealed nothing.

He tucked her hair away from her face, almost tenderly, and he still said nothing. Pity was worse than laughter. She would leave him there, she would take his clothes and his phone and hightail it, before he knew what hit him. She couldn't read his face and that disturbed her-- what was he thinking? It was never what she guessed. Not one time.

Her lips parted to speak, to tease him for believing the truth she would sell as a lie, but then he caught his breath and spoke and she sat, still as a porcelain doll, her eyes just as wide and glassy. At once, she knew two things:

She was in way, way over her head.

And she wanted everything he did, and more. Over and over.

She was fascinated be the way his lips seemed to form a kiss when he said her name; only Rose now. She had wanted to feel something, and fuck, he was making her feel. He lay behind her, snug and deliciously warm, and she closed her eyes as his hand slid up her velvet thigh, grazing her hip and trailing sweet fire.

"I want you to feel something too." She shuddered, but not from the breeze. She exhaled, a quiet stutter. His lips touched her shoulder and burned there, branding her. The stars, the soft blanket, the intimate way he held her... It was too much.

She turned in his arms, facing him finally. Her gaze was molten, intent. Her tongue touched her lips, that pert Cupid's bow, as though she were thinking something over. She kissed him then, every rule broken, her lips guiding his in deliberate, heady movements. She tangled her legs in his, locking him into her embrace, skin against febrile skin.

"I feel everything." Lust, curiosity, fear, vulnerability... She felt gleeful and terrified. In control and barely hanging on. How did he do this to her? Her lips just touched his as she spoke, teasing another kiss. She was smiling then, a crazy smile, a Luke smile. Her eyes were too bright.

She untangled them, stood and took his hand, resisting the urge to lead him by his cock instead. The house was too still, unnaturally quiet. It needed their energy, and Rose buzzed with enough to brighten all 5000 square feet. She knew what she was looking for, though she had never seen it. Another door fed off from the bedroom, opening to an en suite bathroom. The tile was cold and crisp below her feet, and she took a quick moment to survey the options, the bathtub or the shower?

"After that day, in your office, when you wrote on me, then spread me on your desk and ate me like lunch, I was so fucking worked up." She turned the shower knob and the hush of water filled the echoey space, pouring from two opposing showerheads. She stepped inside, leaving him to follow if he wanted.

"I was going to wait till I got home, to finish what you started, but I wanted that pen. You took so long cleaning up those books, Luke. I waited, I broke back in, I was on your desk and it took me minutes. Maybe two. But it wasn't enough." Steam was rising from the heavy pour of water, and she took his hand, pressed it to her back, closing any space between them. She hummed under the hot spray, closing her eyes for a moment, feeling.

"I went home. I wanted that to be the last time. That wasn't supposed to happen-- what you did what your tongue-- all I wanted from it was an apology, maybe groveling." Her hands were sliding over her belly, then up, up, cupping her breasts and squeezing, her eyes hazy as she remembered. "I went to wash the words away and be done with it all. But you were in my head, between my legs, so slow and sweet with that fucking tongue."

The last word melted into a moan as she pinched a swollen nipple, tugging at it. The air was thick and hot with steam, and she tasted it, then his lips. Her other hand was slipping down, finding her pink, swollen pearl and teasing it. She leaned against the cool stone wall, parting her thighs slightly, her clever fingers sliding down and slipping into her for the briefest moment, then out, then in. "Then I came so hard I saw stars, and I knew I couldn't be done with you. I needed you, everywhere. I wanted you to watch me while I played at Emo's last night, then take you home and fuck you so silly that the rest of pictures wouldn't even cross your mind-- you would sing the words to me. But then you didn't come, and I didn't come, and that... That got to me." Her fingers drifted back up to her clit, slick with the memory of his hair tickling her thighs, the sucking, the lapping of his tongue.

"I want the last time to be in here." Her cheeks were pink with heat. "This last time. Then I want more, and more." She was hungry for him, and the power of that hunger scared the hell out of her.

Rosalie led Luke, holding his hand, and her smile was contagious. Bright. The shower steamed over her and he stood outside for a few moments, listening to her memories, watching her fingers tease her flesh, slip along her curves. She was a study in raw sensuality and Luke studied her, afraid to blink in case he missed some fleeting look, some hint at a pleasure she had never asked for.

Then he had his arms around her, the water flowing over their bodies. She spoke about his tongue, over and over, his tongue on her, in her, on his desk, what she had hoped to hear him say. She caressed herself with him standing so close, the back of her hand touched his cock as she pleasured herself. The gentle bumping made his breath come in gasps.

The water pleased Luke. It pleased him that streams that began on his body flowed from his hands onto her hips, dripped from his hair onto her skin, and that other streams began on her and ended flowing off of his ankles and toes. The water made them a liquid one.

Each confession of desire for him made him harder, more desperate to take her, but he waited for the stories to end, and he knew he would have waited forever.

“I want the last time to be in here,” she said, and he kissed her, licked her lips, licked her jaw, her earlobe, the line of her neck, her throat. He slid his hands up under her breasts and felt their weight, His hands pressing her flesh a little harder than he intended. He was barely under his own control.

He dropped to his knees between her legs and looked up into her eyes. Water flowed over her, between her breasts, rivers flattened over her stomach and found their way to the smooth round of her thighs or sharpened into the folds and crevices between her legs. He touched his tongue to her clit, let water flow from her into his mouth. He swallowed, eyes closed, straining to find her taste, but it wasn’t enough. He pushed in close, his tongue buried as deep as he could manage, his nose pressing her skin, water flowing over his face so he could not breathe, but he could taste her. He drank again, thirsty for her body’s liquor. He held her to his face, both hands on her hips, his fingers gripping her slippery flesh. He slipped his tongue between her folds, curled it and uncurled it inside her, flicked her clit, finished with a long, slow draw, making her feel every bud on his tongue.

He stood again, kissed her mouth as he pressed his cock into her pussy. He grunted into her mouth, his eyes half closed. The bright water beat on his back, splashed off her shoulders into his face and it seemed like they were bathing in light, not water, wreathed in luminous steam.

He thrust into her again, and followed one thrust upon another.

“Rose,” he whispered, hoarse into her ear, and he had no words for what came next, but her name had begun it.

It took seconds to become thoroughly drenched in the twin spray of water, Rosalie's hair sticking to skin like fresh, wet ink. She melted in his hands as he molded her, squeezed and shaped her however he liked. He said nothing but for once, she wanted his mouth for other things. She shuddered as he licked fire over her lips, her ear, down her delicate neck.

"Isobel made you clean her car so that you could do this?" She laughed, but it was weak, drowned in a quiet moan. "She should've been cleaning yours." She wasn't sure if he heard her, but it didn't matter-- Isobel was in the past, ancient history, if only for tonight.

She watched as he knelt before her, knowing what was coming, but tensing with anticipation all the same. She breathed his name as his hands found her hips, his mouth that she had fantasized about meeting her slick petals. Her fingernails scrabbled over the stone wall, searching for purchase, something to stabilize her trembling body with, and finding nothing. Instead she smacked it twice in quick succession, crying out as his tongue explored her, made love to her.

"Fuck!" It echoed loudly over the shush of the water. If she was any more lucid, the outburst would've embarrassed her, but she was without shame now, beyond it. Her eyes opened briefly and he was staring at her, and her head swam with it, his relentless, greedy mouth. She had to close them again; it was too much.

His face was burrowed against her so tightly that she worried briefly if he could breathe, but then her desperate hands found his hair and she held him there, scratching at his scalp. She squirmed against the wall, rising up on her toes for a brief moment of relief, before his tongue entered her again, worried her tingling clit. She wanted to move from his mouth to seek a short reprieve, but he held her hips firmly in place, merciless. She was so close, dancing on the edge of that violent end, and as his tongue flicked at her clit, she finally toppled over it. She tossed her head and moaned, quietly, sweetly, her hips bucking against his tongue when he gave her one last, tender lick.

He stood and she pulled him back to her, pressing her back against the wall as he slid into her again. She moved his hands to her ass, then wrapped her legs snug around his hips, urging him to lift her. He broke the kiss and she chased it, stealing another, then another, until he turned his head to breathe against her ear. "Rose." Chills crept down her back and she hugged him tighter with her thighs, toes curling as he found his rhythm, the soft wet smack of their skin keeping the time. She buried her head into his shoulder, dug her nails into his back as he filled her over and over. She was starting to lose where she ended, and he began.

"How did you-- oh, fuck-- how did you do this to me?" She was breathless as his body rocked hers into a wall. "I can't... I can't think--" All he had to do was say her name. She pressed her lips to his jaw, kissing, sucking and nipping on the skin. He would look like a mess on Monday, but that was centuries away.

“Rose,” Luke said, and the many meanings of the word, of the woman herself played in his mind. She was risen entirely off the floor, legs encircling him, and her weight steadied him. Her lips were petal-flushed in front of his own mouth, soft predators that made tiny thrilling meals of his skin, his jaw, his neck.

“I can’t think," she said. Luke rocked into her body, loving the cling of her, her nails writing their own rosy lines of poetry into his skin.

“Rose,” he said again, "Feel, Rose. Feel. Feel water, ssssss, feel stone, feel my cock deep and shallow and deep. Mmmmm Feel me write a new story in your depths. Feel it fill you, swollen to squeeze and stretch. fffuck. It is changing your shape, changing my shape.”

The words came between grunts and gasps, leaking and flowing like water from his lips. Rosalie's teeth stamped him, his shoulder, another claim on his skin. He sped his movements, chasing his own end, searching her for himself.

He came long and hard, gasping Rose’s name into her shoulder, twice, forcefully enough to scatter water from her skin with his breath.

He sank to his knees, held her close, still inside her, and let his body shake, his breath tremble as his blood sweetened for long moments. He smelled their scent as he held her under the shower streams and he wondered if she would smell flowers if he bled. Nothing would have surprised him.

----

They were a breathing knot of flesh in the warm rain, and the time to unknot themselves from each other would come. Luke could feel it, but he put the thought out of his mind and held Rosalie until he softened out of her, caressing her shoulder with the tip of his nose, needing to say nothing. He helped her to her feet, turned off the water and stood looking at her face in the new silence. Something in him overflowed and he smiled, then laughed for pure childlike happiness.

“Let’s find champagne, Rose, there’s a cellar in this house I want to rob,” he said, and ran a hand over her shining breast. He looked at her as though he hadn’t just explored every inch of her body, as though it was the first time. “Then I want to steal a kiss from you. I want to break and enter. But first, champagne.”

He took her hand and they made soaking footprints across the bedroom, wet footprints across the landing, damp footprints down the stairs, and by the time they found a door with stairs leading into a dry cellar, their feet were dry.

He spoke and she let go of her tenuous grip on coherency, melting in the heat of his body, the spray of water, the words that excited her more than anything he could do with his cock. She hitched her legs high on his hips, opening herself still further to him and just felt. She drank the thick air, tasted the droplets on his shoulder, his ear. After one particularly powerful, slick thrust she breathed his name, just once, but it was scorching. It burned her tongue to say it. Never, ever... He had wondered what she hadn't done, what she wanted to try. When he asked, she had no answer, but everything felt different now and she knew-- she wanted what she didn't know to ask for, or to take. She wanted to be surprised, to trust him with herself and see what would come next. She wanted a story with an end she couldn't predict, and she wanted him to write it all over her body, every inch covered with words that he wrote, he breathed, he pressed deep inside of her for safekeeping.

She was pinned to the wall as he finally found his sweet end in her, quickly abandoning their steady pace for a newer, more frantic one. She cried out in surprise as he sank to his knees, her heart skipping a beat as they dropped to the floor and he held her there. There was no need to cling so tightly but she did, her breasts flush against his chest, hearts beating together in a chaotic duet.

It was over, finished. Someone needed to leave, but neither moved for a long, blissful moment. She tried not to think about what needed to come next-- collecting their clothes, some awkward, abrupt goodbye, dropping him off at a friend's or if he was brave, his own house. She looked forward to those things before, when the lust was fucked out of her system by some faceless stranger and she could get back to life, but now... Now she wanted to linger.

He seemed to be in no hurry. They were wordless, and there was no need for them. Slowly she caught her breath, her lips pressed to his wet skin as she slowly relaxed. Her thighs were trembling violently around him, vibrating with residual energy, but she ignored it. Lazily she touched the rosy bruises that bloomed where his neck curved into his shoulder and smiled. Her signature. She wanted the world to see it, to know what they did. She licked at it gently, tasting the sweet water and humming.

Sometime later, she didn't know how long, she accepted Luke's help to stand and tried to hide the way her legs wobbled, tensing them. He smiled, laughed, and something cracked in her chest and spilled, runny and warm. She grinned, not a saucy, self-satisfied smirk but something genuine and real. She'd had fun, and she shared it for once, and that felt... Good.

"Champagne?" She was already drunk, but she felt like celebrating. It was chilly beyond the hot haven of the shower, and she shuddered with it, her nipples pebbling almost painfully. "Trespassing, robbery... Infidelity. You've come a long way this evening, Professor." There was the tease, but her voice was gentle. They found that cellar, the walls glittering with forgotten treasure that someone had thoughtfully left behind, just for them.

"This is just wasteful. I wonder if the wine comes with the listing...." She was pulling out bottles, looking at the labels briefly before sliding them back into place, dissatisfied with what she saw. Then she found it, the pink one with flowers embossed on the glass, the one that made her smile to see it.

"This one. Are we going to drink from glasses like civilized people, or from the bottle?" She uncorked it and kissed the lip of the bottle, her lips hugging the glass as she took a short sip, then lowered it, licking her lip. Her mouth was bright with strawberries, sweet summer apples. "Hm... I don't think I'll share it," she said with a wink. If he wanted some, he would need to take it.

The wine cellar was cool, uncomfortably so in their naked and damp state. Luke sucked droplets of water from Rosalie’s shoulders, his lips not quite touching her skin as she browsed the collection.

The room was small, lit with warm halogen lights, with a table in the center for tasting. She picked something pink and popped the cork herself.

Luke browsed lazily, a few hundred bottles, gleaming in the careful lighting.

“We’re not civilized,” he said, “Civilized people wear clothes and respect property rights.” And conform to social conventions like marriage, he thought, but left that dull thought unsaid.

“Primitive people always drank their champagne directly from the bottle,” he said, but she had beat him to it, making the simple sip a complex and fascinating seduction. He lost his train of thought for a moment. “From the bottle… or from the cupped palms of their women.”

He reached for the bottle, but Rosalie pulled it away, winking. He moved closer, but she danced away, took another swig. He could smell the fruity wine in the air. It was on her breath and he wanted to taste it. She was across the narrow table raising an eyebrow at him.

“Kiss me at least,” he said, “so I can get a little taste.”

He leaned over the table, puckering like someone in one of those old carnival games. She stayed away, though, so he slipped under the table and trapped her in the corner between the Syrah and the Cabernet.

"If I can’t have the bottle, I just have to take you too,” he said, and he wrapped his arms around her waist and picked her up. “Like a barbarian.”

He threw her over his shoulder in classic caveman fashion, and hoped she’d keep her grip on the champagne. He wanted a taste or two.

He climbed the stairs with her, struggling against her kicking. He laughed, padded through the dark living room, past the ludicrous library, out the sliding door, and he flipped the switch for the hot tub next to the pool.

The jets started up and he set Rosalie down next to the tub. He kissed her before she could protest, a grin on his face. His whole body felt like a smile. He curled his fingers around her bottom, running over her smooth, cool skin. Strawberry on his tongue and silk under his fingers.

“Rose,” he said, “Why me? Why not somebody more…”

He let the question escape into another kiss. It was very good champagne.

Rose grinned, offering him the bottle and yanking it back before he could take it, slipping around the table so that it was between them, a barrier he would need to cross to get to her.

"Mm... So good. You're really missing out over there." She took another sip, her eyes closing as she held the crisp bubbles in her smiling mouth.

"Kiss me at least, so I can get a little taste."

But he didn't really want that, and she knew it. He wanted to take it, to steal it from her, so she withheld it from him further. He leaned over the table and she thought he might climb over it, but instead he offered her his lips. She met him halfway, leaning over the table in a position that came naturally to her, her back arched and her pert bottom high in the air. He was on the wrong side of the table.

Her lips just touched his as she whispered. "You're cute. Not a chance."

Then she pulled away, but he was already under the table, cornering her before she could slip away again. She struggled as he scooped her up, but not as hard as she could've. "Unhand me, you ruffian!" But she was laughing too hard to protest more, kicking halfheartedly as he lifted her over his shoulder and taking her through the house. Where was he going? She was upside down, her hair a dark curtain that left the destination a surprise. She clutched the neck of the pink bottle tightly in her hand, but she wouldn't care if it fell and broke.

She heard the sliding glass door over her gasping and giggling, and then he set her down on the deck, a bubbling cauldron of warm water at their feet. The errant spray of warm water tickled her legs as he stole his kiss, and when he broke away, his grin had spread to her own face. His hands were warm and she hummed as he explored her, happy, peaceful, two feelings she couldn't say she usually experienced on a date.

Somebody more...

Her smile faltered, but he followed so quickly with a kiss and she used it, buying time as she tasted him, a perfect complement to the champagne. She didn't like the question, or the answers that immediately came to mind. They all had an uncomfortable implication that this, whatever this was, would continue beyond that night... She rankled against it. It was half past four in the morning, not a time known for light conversation. It was already Sunday. It was already continuing.

She stared at him for a long moment, wondering what he wanted to hear, what she wanted to tell him. "Luke..." She pressed the bottle into his hands, rolled her lip between her teeth as she studied him. His hair had begun to dry, curling a bit at the ends. "You are more, don't you..." She lost the thread of that sentence, picked up another. She took his free hand, brought it just above her breast and pressed it flat. Her heart was galloping, so hard that he could probably hear it. "Because you do this to me when you say my name."

"Because now I know you aren't who you pretended to be, Mr. Sherbet and Capers, Professor PowerPoint. They were good disguises, they fooled me and I'm not easily fooled... More. That's exactly what you are. More than you think you are, more than you let on." She left his hand there, let the heat seep into her skin, and she mouthed the next sentence against his lips, soundless. 'And you scare me. And I like it.' She kissed him then, taking his lip between hers, flicking it with her sweet tongue.

She led him into the frothy water and eased him back, straddling his lap. She waited for him to have his drink, then she kissed him before he could swallow, tasting it with him. Then she dipped her head down, rested it on his shoulder. It felt strange... strange but nice. A breeze played with her hair.

"I told Jessica that I would be back before midnight-- I thought I would probably be back before ten. My phone's by the sofa. I wonder how many texts she's sent." She kissed his skin lazily. "She doesn't know anything and it's killing her." She smirked, pressed a kiss to his neck. "I don't know what would be better, seeing her face when she hears about tonight, or leaving her on a cliffhanger... I haven't told her anything since she took those pictures." It felt like so long ago, now.

Luke rested his hands on Rosalie’s hips, feeling her thighs slide against his. He touched his nose to her nipple, smiling. The heat made everything right, everything hard

He put his hand over her heart again, felt the beating there. He never wanted to stop feeling her heart. She had spoken words into his mouth that he could not hear over the bubbling of the tub, the beating of his own heart, but he could taste them, strong, spicy. He licked his lips when she put her head on his shoulder. She felt right in his arms.

Jessica. She’d get a story one way or the other. But it was hard to think of anyone but Rosalie, pressed so close against him, his hardness against her again, standing between them.

Luke ran his hands up her back and a thought struck him funny. He laughed, smiled up at Rose moving her hips with his hands, gently rocking her against himself.

“You know, old Will Shakespeare was a fan of yours. He must have seen you play, the dirty man. Saw you jack your bass into the amplifier and tickle the strings.”

He rolled the cool of the champagne bottle across her back as he closed his eyes, remembering the old poem. He said it from memory, he could see it on the page of the book he had first read it from, yellowed and fragrant.

How oft when thou, my music, music play'st,
Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds
With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway'st
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,
Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap,
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,
Whilst my poor lips which should that harvest reap,
At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!
To be so tickled, they would change their state
And situation with those dancing chips,
O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more bless'd than living lips.
Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

He took her left hand, kissed the tips of each of her fingers when he was done.

“Your friend’s a curious girl, and that’s unhealthy. At least for cats,” he said, and lifted Rosalie gently, turned her around so she sat on his lap, his cock stuck between her back and his belly. He rolled the champagne across her breasts, Her hair hung between them and he smelled it, pushed the fingers of his left hand up under the silky black, raked his fingers lightly over her scalp. An impulse struck him, and he pulled her hair slightly, to tilt her head back.

“Look at stars, Rose,” he said, and he poured a little champagne into her hair. He touched the place, poured more. He smoothed her hair back under the cool wetness of the wine. He poured again, smoothed, watched foam form and disappear, a pink trickle wandered down her back. He caught it with his tongue, poured more, gathered her hair in his fist. The last drops soaked into her hair, and it smelled sweeter on her than it had in the bottle. He drew her hair to his nose, then pressed his lips tight against her bundled midnight and sucked wine from her hair.

“Crystal never improved a drink like your hair, Rose. I’ll wash you in whiskey and rum in days to come. I’ll make myself drunk with no vessel but your body to drink from.”

He was loose and hard at once. How had he lived without her? Poorly, he thought, and under duress.

The swirling water made him think of poems to that other dark lady. “Here’s one for a hot tub,” he said, running his hand down her body, into the water between her legs. He caressed, teased in time to the meter of the poem.

The little Love-god lying once asleep,
Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,
Whilst many nymphs that vowed chaste life to keep
Came tripping by; but in her maiden hand
The fairest votary took up that fire
Which many legions of true hearts had warmed;
And so the General of hot desire
Was, sleeping, by a virgin hand disarmed.
This brand she quenched in a cool well by,
Which from Love's fire took heat perpetual,
Growing a bath and healthful remedy,
For men diseased; but I, my mistress' thrall,
Came there for cure and this by that I prove,
Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.

He found his cock with his hand, moved it so the head slipped into Rose’s pussy. She felt familiar to him, like home. He pressed in and moaned.

“Love’s fire heats water,” he repeated, and licked a last drop of champagne from her skin, “water cools not love."

"So how big was it?"

Rosalie stirred, pressing her head into her pillow, trying to drown out Jessica's inappropriately chipper voice. Whatever time it was, it was too damn early.

"I'm not leaving until you spill. I have lunch, I can sit here quite comfortably for a long time..." Rose could hear the rustle of a paper bag, and the spicy smell of chorizo made her stomach turn. She rolled away to face the wall, pulling the comforter over her head. Everything felt fuzzy, and she clung to that. She didn't want to remember anything from the night before.

"You're insufferable, you know that?" It was a halfhearted chastising. Jessica just laughed, and when she spoke, Rose could tell without looking that her mouth was full of food.

"Come on! You're living out my fantasy and you don't even have the courtesy to give me a juicy recounting. Your hair smells like a winery.... What did you do, take a bath in it? That's hot." The champagne, how it dripped down her hair... Rose sighed, remembering how Luke's lips pressed to her hair, how she shivered as his tongue lapped the pink from her back... She opened her eyes to escape it. Jessica was sitting at the edge of her bed, cheerful as she gobbled down her revolting, greasy sausage.

"At least give me a hint. Was it this big?" She gestured to the chorizo, then took another bite. "Getting closer?"

"You're gross." But Rose had cracked a smile.

"So what happened? Are you... Are you okay?" Jessica's jovial tone gave way to real concern. "Did he try to hurt you?"

"No..." Rose sat up in bed, pulling the blanket around her. "Stop eating that in front of me, and I'll talk."

Only after Jessica put away her lunch, Rose began to fill her in on everything she had missed. Everything, but not everything. "And then when we were at Spider House, he said... He said he would love to prove me wrong. About being in a relationship," Rose remembered, sighing. "It was all some kind of ploy. I really thought after he tossed his wedding ring that he got it, you know? That we could just... We could just have last night, and then that would be it, and that would be fine. But then he was fucking me, he was reciting Shakespeare and drinking champagne from my hair, talking about next times and when could he see me again? What was I doing Monday, after class? Did I want to grab coffee? And his hands were just-- just everywhere, and I couldn't think..."

"So you just left him there?"

"...Yes. Well, he had his phone. And his pants." His shirt was rumpled on the floor, a sad grey puddle.

"That's pretty cold, Rose... What did you say?"

"I told him I had a study group this morning. He knew I was lying though, I could tell." The way he had looked at her, like she had struck him... She frowned. She hadn't told Jessica about her confession to Luke, about wanting to feel, wanting more 'last times'... No one could know.

"Class is going to be awkward tomorrow..." Jessica pressed her lips together, thinking of that. "He's not going to be able to let it go. God, that's going to be weird. All he's going to be able to think about is how he fucked you in the shower. And on the deck. And in the hot tub. Wow, how old is he, mid-thirties? That's some stamina... Or he's making up for lost time."

"Class? I'm not going-- I mean, how could I?" She tugged at a lock of her sticky hair, thinking. "He's in love with me. He ditched his wife and wants another one, and it can't be me. He can chase that fantasy with a willing victim. He's just going to be making the same mistake again with someone else. It's a sad game and I don't want to play."

"I think you're reading too much into it. He was drunk-- what guy hasn't said something they didn't mean when they're drunk?"

"This was different."

"Whatever. You do you. If it were me, I would suffer through the sonnets just so I could see what he's packing. I can't believe you didn't take a picture. It would only be fair, he has plenty of you."

Rose laughed. "So what should I have said? 'My friend Jessica, another student of yours, really wants to see your cock. Can I grab a quick picture? Please and thank you.'"

"He would've done it, if you asked him to. He threw his wedding ring in Lady Bird Lake for you, and not even so he could fuck you." She was right. So why did he do it, then?


Rose hid out in the library instead of going to class, pored over a battered book of sonnets. She frowned, tenderly turning the pages until she found the one she wanted, the one he had breathed against her as he made her body his. She burned with the memory, her lips parting, pressing together, as she thought of his hands stroking her soft, wet petals as he recited. Fuck. Nothing had ever felt like that.

She closed the book in favor of her laptop. She had blocked Luke's number on her phone, but she couldn't help to see if he had tried to email her... He hadn't. She didn't know how she felt about it. She clicked 'compose' and started to type.



She sent it. That was that. She tried not to think about how he might feel when he opened the email; it didn't really matter, anyway. He would find someone else to attach to, to fill whatever void he thought he had.