As Sabrina's fingertips made contact with the heat of Mike's skin, a small, treacherous part of her mind whispered that this was a brilliant idea. If she could just find his rhythm, and if she could use the same sensory warfare he used on her, she could reclaim the upper hand.
The adrenaline was starting to burn off the sluggishness of the Scotch, replacing it with a sharp, predatory focus. She wasn't just a student or a professor anymore; she was a woman on a mission.
She began slowly, cautiously. Her hands, still slightly trembling, glided over the broad expanse of his chest.
His pectorals were like carved granite under her palms, dense, warm, and incredibly firm. She traced the hard lines of his muscles, her touch light and teasing, mirroring the way he had first approached her.
She leaned in, her hair damp and clinging to her shoulders, and pressed a soft, lingering peck to the center of his chest, right above the heavy thrum of his heart.
