Teaching Willow: Session One (5 page)

My howl of pleasure/pain is instant, uncontrollable and ecstatic.  I can barely breathe again after the air leaves my lungs.  He’s so wide, he almost can’t fit, stretching me as far as I can be stretched.  And he’s so long, I feel like he’s penetrating me all the way through to my spine, but in the most delicious way.

Ebon makes a choking sound and leans over me, bracing himself on his hands as he flexes his hips to maintain his deep position.  I hear the hiss of air through his teeth before he speaks. 

“Jesus, you’re tight.  What the hell are you doing to me?”

For a heartbeat, time stops and hysteria moves in.  Will this be how he discovers my ruse, because I haven’t had sex in a while?  Will he be furious?  Or is he too far gone inside me to pull back now?  Will he continue on and make love to me anyway—to the real me—just this once?  Or will he get up and leave, never to be seen again?  The thought of that is simply unbearable.

Panic rises.

My hysterical musing is cut short, however, when Ebon pulls out and drives his body into mine again.  This time there is more pleasure than pain as my body relaxes to accommodate him.

“Nnnnh,” he grunts in my ear before whispering, “you’ll feel me tomorrow, won’t you?”  He pulls out and rams into me again.  “You’ll feel sore and achy.  You’ll feel it when you walk.  And you’ll think of my cock a million times before lunch, won’t you?”

Without breaking stride, Ebon leans back onto his haunches, reaching between my legs with both hands.  He tugs on my smooth outer folds, spreading them further around his cock and then moves up to pinch lightly at my clit.

“One more time, Sage.  With me inside you.  Come on, baby.  I want that sweet taste all over me.”  Ebon increases his tempo and I feel my core winding up again, ready to explode.

And then I do.  It’s even more intense with him filling me so completely.  So much so that I’m mute.  I close my eyes and open my mouth, but nothing comes out.  No air, no sound.  It’s all locked inside me, incinerated by the fire of my release.

My lids part at the sound of Ebon’s deep cry. I feel him tense between my legs and then he pulls out and jams his body so hard and so deep into mine, my orgasm starts all over again. 

Hot liquid shoots into me with every heavy throb of his cock and Ebon melts against me.  His chest presses into mine as he inhales, the fine dusting of his hair tickling my nipples.

“Holy god,” he whispers, bringing a contented smile to my face. 

“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” I admit.

He leans back to look down into my face.  “I’m
really
liking this new, honest you,” he says with a lopsided grin before he bites my chin.

A sharp pang of guilt lances through me.  It’s almost instantly dulled by the ecstasy of the moment, but I know it will be unbearable later.

I reach up to stroke the face that has haunted my every thought and dream for months now.  “I’m glad. I’m glad we could have this one last time and it could be so…perfect.”

Ebon’s brow furrows.  “I’m glad, too.  I wasn’t planning to…I mean, I didn’t come here to…”

I smile. “Yes, you did.  But that’s okay.  It’s a very memorable way to say goodbye.”

My heart hurts just speaking the word aloud.  To have a taste of this with him and then have to let it go seems…wrong. Just wrong.

But it’s not. It’s the way it has to be.  I can’t risk continuing the ruse and him finding out.  And hating me.  Because he would.

“You know I wish you well, right?”

“Of course.  As I do you.”

“And please, tell Willow to keep writing. Finish the story. I’d love to keep reading it, even if we aren’t together.”

Pleasure trills through me.  Even so, somehow I keep my smile to a low wattage.  “I will. I’m sure she’ll be happy to do it. She likes to write, no matter what it’s about.”

But even more so when it’s about you,
I add silently.

“She’s so talented.  I’m in awe of the way she views the world, like a soldier who has seen lots of battle and by turns wants to see the best in people, but knows the risk in doing so.  But I had no idea she was this…passionate.  But I guess it’s really
you
who is the passionate one.”

I feel the sting of tears at the backs of my eyes, so I turn my face from Ebon’s and fake a yawn. 

His smile fades a bit.  “I guess that’s my cue,” he mutters acerbically before easing his semi-hardness out of me.  I feel the emptiness immediately.  Physically and emotionally.

It’s over.  Our one time is over.

SIX- EBON

All I can think about on the way home is what it felt like to be inside Sage.  I never expected it to make so much of a difference having her read Willow’s words.  I mean, I’ve always been more attracted to Willow—to the way she seems to hide so much emotion behind her shy exterior, to the way her eyes come alive when we talk about writing or poetry, to the way her soul seems to spark when she’s around me—but reading her words, reading her erotic thoughts about me has given me a craving for her that I’m finding even harder to resist.  Even if they
were
written for her sister. 
She
still wrote them about
me. 

I know that this attraction is there on her part, too.  In fact, that might even make it worse for me.  I know she wants me as much as I want her.  She’s not cool enough to hide it.  She’s not as shallow and vapid as Sage can be.  Willow’s still waters run deep.  And, according to her writing, they run hot, too.

Tonight was designed to help, but some part of me thinks it may have made matters worse.  It was all too easy to imagine Sage as Willow,
especially
hearing her read those words aloud.  And the way the alcohol (I’m assuming it was the alcohol) made her so much more…more …God!  How the hell am I ever going to get them off my mind now?

Rational thought surfaces, temporarily overriding my physical response, and I remind myself that this was a one-time thing. Half my problem is solved.  Sage is out of the picture.  She even took the bad-guy bullet and saved me from having to tell her tonight was it.  The end. 

I’m sure I’ll still want Willow when I see her in class, when I read her work or speak to her in the casual way that we try to hide behind, but it stops there.  It has to.  I got as close as I can get to the forbidden fruit and that
has to be
the end of it.

SEVEN- WILLOW

I’ve never been more conflicted. I seem to think that very thing pretty much constantly when it comes to Ebon—loving him even though he dated my sister, wanting him even though he’s my teacher—but never has it been this dramatic, this terrifying.

On the one hand, I can’t stop thinking about looking up into Ebon’s face as he made love to me. I can’t stop closing my eyes every few minutes to relive the way his hands felt on my skin, the way his body felt inside mine.  I can’t stop wishing that he was really with
me
and that there was a future for us. 

In short, I can’t stop wanting.

But yet another alarming thought has arisen now, this one perfectly legitimate and perfectly disastrous should it come about.  This scenario involves Ebon deciding that, for whatever reason, he needs to talk to Sage after what happened.  I know my sister said that her phone wouldn’t work overseas, but I can’t know that for sure. Maybe she just didn’t want me to try or she planned to avoid my calls.  And oh god, if that’s the case, if her phone
does
work, she might answer a call from Ebon.

Cold sweat breaks out across my brow.  If Ebon were to try and reach her, and succeed, she would have no idea about the amazing night of goodbye sex. And he would know that mischief was afoot.  And the only guilty party would be me.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!

My heart is racing and I’m whipping myself mentally for giving in to temptation, for giving in to my insane desire to have even that short amount of time with Ebon. In my arms, in my bed (well, my sister’s bed, but still…), in my body.

Even now, the pendulum swings back to the glorious feeling of Ebon touching me and kissing me and doing naughty things to me, all after having me read my own words to him.

Despite my panic, I can still say it was worth it.  Because there’s a chance that he won’t find out, that he won’t try to call Sage. I mean, it
was
goodbye, after all.  And if he doesn’t, if no one is ever the wiser, then it was worth it all.  Worth all this worry.

EIGHT- EBON

I’m forced to remind myself of that whole “this is the end” thing come Monday morning when I walk into class and my eye is drawn immediately to Willow.  Her hair hangs in a straight, silky wave and her touch-me-not rectangular glasses are firmly in place.  She looks sexy in a studious, understated way in her snug jeans with a faded ass and a T-shirt that says
Kiss this
across the chest.

I’ll kiss it.  And lick it.  And jam my cock into it until come squeezes out around it,
I think and then move immediately into berating myself for letting that thought out of its cage.

But I would.  Mmmm, the depraved things I’d do to her after I slipped those glasses off…holy shit!

I bite the inside of my cheek to snap my body back from the direction its going. It wouldn’t do for me to teach this class with a hard-on.

My gaze swings toward Willow again and I look quickly away.  But not quickly enough. Not before I see the color stain her cheeks.  For a few seconds, I’m distracted, wondering what put the blush there, but then the door bangs shut behind me and pulls me back to the present, to my
job.

I open the class quickly, before I get lost in my imagination again.

“It is said that D. H. Lawrence wrote
Lady Chatterly’s Lover
as a result of some amount of unhappiness within his own home life.  We can never know what, specifically, that might’ve been.  We can only speculate,” I begin.  I feel my brows drop into a frown as I pace away from the front row of attentive faces.

Lady Chatterly’s Lover?  Really?  Nice way to keep things professional, Daniels.  Now the class is officially open to eroticism.  Shit!

I clear my throat and continue.  I can’t take back words that are already off my tongue.  “We can suggest that maybe he wished to have the sexual relationship with
his
wife that Lady Chatterly had with Oliver.  We can speculate that through some infirmity, or possibly through burgeoning homosexuality, that Lawrence had come to neglect his wife just as Lord Chatterly neglected Constance.  We could even suggest that maybe Lawrence was unable to sire any children and felt some concern that, like Constance, his wife might seek affections elsewhere.  We will never know because we can’t ask.  But
you
,” I pause, turning to look at my class.  And up at Willow.  “I can ask.”

She’s watching me. Of course. I’m her professor. But today, she holds my gaze. Or is it
me
that’s holding
her
gaze?

I look away from those at once innocent yet sensual eyes.

“Last Wednesday, I asked you to look back at your work, at the piece of fiction that I asked you to write for this class, and find the honesty in it, discern what the piece says about you, as a person.  Would anyone like to share what they found?”

Hands shoot up all over class.  None are Willow’s, of course.  Not that I’m surprised. She usually stays quiet.  And while that was all fine and good
before
, now that I’ve read her work—her words about me and all those sexually explicit scenarios—things have changed.  I find that I can’t leave her alone as easily.  Even if it’s just to make eye contact occasionally or to call upon her in class.

I listen to and comment upon everyone’s insights, but there’s only one answer that I’m really interested in discovering.  So when no more hands are raised, even though I’ve already spent far too much time on this portion of class, I look to the back of the room and call for one more report.

I let my eyes travel back to Willow again, this time not trying to look away.  “What about you, Ms. Masters?  What truth did you reveal about yourself in your work?”

I see her eyes widen and her cheeks turn a pretty rose.  God, I love it when she blushes.  The color in her face makes her even more beautiful.  And now, it’ll be a turn-on, too, since I got to watch Sage blush when I talked to her about her perfect pussy.  I’m sure Willow’s looks just like that—soft pink and dripping wet.

“I, um, I think that my work reveals my empathy for others, my ability to effectively put myself in their shoes,” she says quickly and quietly.

“How so? Can you be more specific?”

Even from this distance, I can see her pupils dilate.  The pale blue of her eyes suddenly darkens to near-black.  I shouldn’t push her like this, especially not in class, but…here I am.  Pushing her.  Because it’s the only time I
can.

“Uh, well, my…story is told as it happens to my sister. I feel that some empathy toward her…feelings was necessary to adequately portray them in the work.”

“And did you use empathy to portray any other characters in the story?  Or did you just…wing it?”

“I just winged it. I don’t have the insight into the other character that I had with…her.”

“Would it be helpful to have those insights? Do you feel it would change anything? Or do you feel like your story is as…authentic as it can be?”

Willow fidgets in her seat.  Is it just because I’m putting her on the spot?  Or is it because she likes the idea of getting inside my head, of finding out how I would react in real life to her imaginary scenarios?

If she were writing her own story, what would she write?  How much of her story is her sister?  And how much is actually her?  I’m betting on—maybe even hoping on—most of it being her.  The thought of her being so free on the inside, when she’s so reserved on the outside, is like an aphrodisiac.  I want to see her come out of that shell.  With claws bared and an insatiable appetite. 

“I…I…I didn’t really write any of it from another perspective.”

“But the other characters must play some kind of role?”

“Yes, but…”

“Did you use your empathy in order to make their responses true to their personality?”

She swallows hard.  “I hope I did.”

“And
there
is your truth,” I say softly.  No one says a word, but Willow frowns in confusion, which is for the best. She need not know how I feel, how I would react. It’s better if that remains information that she has no access to.

I’ll have to be more careful in the future.  I didn’t mean to speak aloud.  I can’t make a mistake like that again.  No one can know…

No one can know…