Her devious, dark smile wraps around my erection as Bria passes a finger through the saliva glistening on my cock, then keeps going, tracing the underside, past my balls to the rim of my ass. She watches for my reaction as she tests the resistance and I give her nothing but heated want and desperate need in return. Bria pushes her finger in, that teasing smile encircling my cock once more.

My balls tighten. I growl.

Bria adds another finger and sinks a little deeper, humming with approval when she finds the perfect spot. She massages with her fingertips and strokes with her other hand and sucks with that beautiful mouth. Pleasure rolls through me. I tip my head back, shuddering a desperate breath.

And just as I’m about to shoot my cum into Bria’s mouth, she pulls back.

Bria’s hand is still gripping my cock as I spill down her chin and across her collarbones, dripping down her chest. The cum pulses in ropey spurts on her face as she works my shaft. She holds out her tongue to catch some, then runs it across her wicked smirk, coating her wet, swollen lips. I glare down at her in a lecherous rage, realizing she’s just replicated in me what I think she must feel when we collide.

“Now, now, Dr. Kaplan,” Bria chimes, her voice such a sweet contradiction to the strength of her grip around my cock. She sweeps her tongue from her bleached knuckles to the tip, licking the cum and saliva as she blinks up at me with feigned innocence. “I know you wanted me to drink you down like lemonade, but I have a yoga class to teach tonight and I wanted to take your scent with me.”

The thought of marking her with my cum sends a greater thrill up my spine than the idea of it sliding down her throat. Now that the idea is there, I’ll never get rid of it. I want her to spend the next few hours with this secret on her skin. I want her to go home tonight and touch herself, feeling the evidence of what we’ve done right there on her flesh.

Bria licks again, a slow, languorous pass of her hot tongue, and keeps licking until every inch of my cock is clean. After wiping her fingers with a tissue she stands, holding my gaze as she smears the mess across her chest and then buttons up her shirt. “Our little secret,” she says with a wink.

“Until you pull a fire alarm and campus security arrives,” I reply. Bria huffs a laugh as she turns toward the table and picks up my second-favorite tweed jacket. She pivots in my direction with a wicked grin. I sigh with resignation, trying to hide how bewitched I am with every move she makes. “Not that one too.”

Bria’s smile grows. “Erroneous clothing choices deserve consequences,” Bria says, then uses the lining to wipe the cum and tears from her face in slow passes. “Like I said, Dr. Kaplan. Our little secret.”

Bria holds the jacket out for me to take, and if it means our mixed scent of sex and tears will linger in the threads, I might never launder it again.

I slip it on and Bria watches my movement with keen interest. As soon as it’s in place on my shoulders, she turns to stride away across the stage. I catch her wrist before she can gain momentum.

“Wait,” I say, trying to keep any urgency from infusing my voice. “What time is your class?”

Bria doesn’t try to wrench away from my grip or twist my arm into a pretzel. Her expression is oddly blank. “Eight,” she replies.

“Come to Deja Brew with me. We can get a coffee.”

Bria’s eyes narrow.

“Tea,” I offer.

Her head tilts.

“I can get a coffee and you can get whatever you like. We don’t even have to sit at the same table.” I lean a little closer, keeping my eyes on Bria’s, closing in until my lips nearly touch hers. “You can even spend the whole time glaring as though you hate me, even though I know you don’t.”

A faint smile finally passes across Bria’s lips. “I can’t really refuse an opportunity to openly loathe you, can I.”

“I was hoping you’d see it that way.” I lean back and give her a grin that brings out the dimple in my cheek. She gives it the evil eye as though it’s her mortal enemy. “You hate that dimple, don’t you?”

“I really do. Truly.”

With a final, heated look between us, Bria and I leave the lecture hall side by side. We walk to Deja Brew. I order coffee, she gets a kale salad. We sit at the same table. We talk about politics. University. Traveling. I even earn one of her rare laughs.

And though I promised Bria that she could pretend to hate me, she doesn’t.

OceanofPDF.com

17

OceanofPDF.com

BRIA

Yoga with Cynthia last night was two hours of life I’ll never get back.

First, we had a group discussion that involved an introduction, or rather indoctrination, to some of the Legio Agni terminology. A lot of it makes sense on the surface, if you think you know about science but actually don’t. Cynthia talks about the vibration of elements within foods and supplements to promote healing and well-being, slowing cellular breakdown to homeostasis. She weaves in trauma and religion and the need to align ourselves to our higher purpose. She talks about the “clinical trials” on the Lamb Health website, which I’ve already read at home and which caused me to roll my eyes so many times that I might have caught a glimpse of my orbital sockets. Altogether, it sounds ridiculous, but I’ll hand it to Cynthia; she was masterful at drip-feeding the information to keep it from overwhelming us.

After talking as a group about this bullshit for about forty-five minutes, I started the yoga class, but there was no way I could put a tracker on Cynthia, not with her bodyguard lurking. It’s a woman this time, the same one I saw leaving the Praetorian building, and her cutting gaze missed nothing. I couldn’t take the risk. So I played the role of Melancholy Moneyed Lamb Chop and seethed internally instead.

I’ve now progressed through my morning routine, spending time on a meticulous braided updo—as the random picker has declared it’s hair day—with the hope that the focus required to execute the precise design will take my mind off last night’s irritation. It does not. As I leave my house for the campus, I realize what might actually help is to let off some steam, and there’s only one thing as effective as killing for that.

Dr. Kaplan.

Though it’s not the most original idea I’ve had, after a short and unproductive session of literature review at my desk, I decide to head to Kaplan’s office and perhaps seduce him into a repeat of our last encounter there. Sure, I’m a little curious about what other toys he might have in his locked drawer. I’ve considered breaking in to see for myself, but that would ruin the surprise of what he might come up with, and I can’t help but try to find out.

I descend the stairs to the third floor, passing a few students as I round the corners toward his office, the sounds of friendly chatter filling the corridors as several pupils take advantage of open office hours with faculty. Kaplan’s door is ajar down the hall and I stride toward it, stopping silently at the threshold. He’s working at his laptop and looks up as I knock, surprise and desire flashing across his face. Wariness too. And then a faint, wicked smile as I fold my arms across my chest and glare at him.

“You fixed it,” I say.

“Actually,” Kaplan replies as he twists his arm to display a new suede patch sewn onto the elbow of his formerly ruined tweed jacket, “I improved it.”

A long beat of silence passes between us during which his smile only grows. “Sure. Let’s call it that. What about those?” I ask as he removes a pair of tortoiseshell glasses. They’re sexy and they suit him and I hate them. I want to grind them into the floor with my heel.