“What?”
I sip my own drink. “Nothing.” Lie. I’m still thinking about the way she sucked that margarita down.
So I ask without thinking. “How’s your head game?”
She chokes, coughing on her drink. “What?!”
“She means do you suck dick well,” someone cuts in.
Ryan. One of my students. Long legs, red lipstick, and zero filter. She pulls up a seat beside us, unapologetic.
Fred grumbles, “That’s none of your business.”
Ryan smirks. “I’ll take that as a maybe.”
She turns to me. “What about you, professor? Got skills?”
I should shut this down. I should remind her that I’m faculty, and this is a dangerous line we’re toeing.
But I don’t.
“Defineskills.I know what not to do. But am I a pro? Doubt it.”
Ryan leans closer. “So what, you want confirmation? Want to know if you’re pleasing your man?”
I nod, just once. “That’d be nice.”
“I could help you with th-”
“She can’t.”
That voice.
My blood ignites like kerosene on a match.
Karter.
He slides behind me, his hand slipping around my waist like it belongs there. Because in some twisted way, it does.
I lean into his touch. “Why’d you cut her off?”
“Because I don’t need her teaching you something you already know how to do.”
His voice is low. Possessive. My body reacts instantly.
“Karter…” I squirm, trying to wiggle away.
He grabs my wrist and spins me around to face him, eyes locked.
“Want me to prove it? Want me to drag you to the men’s room right now, fuck your throat in front of them, and let you see for yourself just how good you are?”
I should be appalled.
But I’m not.
Because the way my thighs clench in response? Yeah. That says everything.
Why the fuck is my pussy already aching?
