One down. Two more peaks to go with Aurora, then Addison and her dungeon fantasy, and the graft in my chest was purring like a cat that had finally been given the fancy food instead of the store brand.
I hadn't been trained for this specifically. Nobody had. But six weeks of watching Aurora fall apart in increasingly creative ways had taught me the shape of her, and right now the shape of her was a girl coming down from an orgasm hard enough to break a wall clock, and she needed a second before I gave her the third.
She got about four seconds.
"Wait," Aurora gasped, both hands still pressed flat against my chest. "Wait, that was—give me a—"
"Nope."
I pulled her off the desk. Her legs stayed locked around my waist because they had nowhere else to go, and I carried her three steps to the blackboard while still buried inside her. Her milk-soaked shirt smeared white against the chalk. Aurora's spine hit the cold slate and she made a sound halfway between a curse and a hymn.
