The nipple dragged against the bra cup with every motion, a friction that sent sharp little shocks down through her stomach and into the place where his fingers were still moving — three fingers now, a slow pumping that had stopped being exploratory and started being purposeful.
'He's—'
He crooked them.
Inside her. Upward. Finding the specific place that turned her thoughts to static.
"'Nnngh—!'"
The moan broke through the kiss.
She clapped her own hand over her mouth.
Her eyes were streaming — not from sadness, not from grief, from the specific overwhelming wrongness-that-felt-right of being pinned to a garden floor with her panty pulled aside while a twenty-year-old student finger-fucked her and sucked her tongue and squeezed her tit and made her body completely forget the seventeen years of professional architecture she'd built to keep exactly this from happening.
'I'm a professor.'
His fingers thrust.
'I am a professor and I am on the ground and—'
