"Say it," he growled, his voice rough against the shell of my ear. "Tell me you want this."
My breath hitched as his hand slid up my spine, slow and possessive, until his fingers tangled in my hair.
"I want you," I whispered.
"No," he said, dragging his lips along my jaw, "don't whisper it. I've spent weeks trying not to hear you. Now I want every word."
Our mouths collided like we'd been starving for years—hot, desperate, wrong in every way.
His desk dug into my thighs. My nails raked across his back.
And somewhere between guilt and hunger, he breathed,
"God forgive me... but I need to taste everything I'm not allowed to touch."
stay tuned. The things are going to get filthy.
Whispers After Class.