Chapter 2: Cathryn's nails rake down Andrew's chest as she impales herself on him, her pussy clenching around his thick cock while the laptop plays footage of him whispering to Emily between library stacks - their shared jealousy fueling violent, competitive thrusts.
Cathryn’s hips snapped down, impaling herself on his cock in one brutal thrust. Her inner muscles clenched around him like a vise, stealing his breath. "Fuck!" Andrew gasped, his fingers digging deeper into her flesh, anchoring himself as much as holding her close.
"Too much?" she taunted, her voice rough, already rocking against him. "Too raw?" Each downward slam forced a grunt from him, the wet slap of their joining echoing sharply in the dark room. Her lace panties were shoved aside, soaked through, clinging to his base. "Your little scholar," she panted, leaning close, her breath hot on his lips, "did she whimper like this when you spread her over the Dewey Decimal?"
Andrew surged upwards, meeting her next descent with a hard thrust of his own. "She trembled," he growled, the image of Emily’s flushed face flashing behind his eyelids. Cathryn cried out, a sharp, triumphant sound, her nails scraping down his chest. "Good," she hissed, riding him harder, faster, her body a demanding weight. "Make me tremble harder, Professor."
Their rhythm became a punishing cadence, sweat slicking their skin where they collided. The scent of sex, sharp and primal, overwhelmed the lingering ghosts of library dust and cologne. Cathryn’s head fell back, exposing the long line of her throat, a silent demand Andrew answered by biting down, tasting salt and desperation. She moaned, low and guttural, her cunt pulsing around his cock. "Yes... punish me... for every fucking stranger..."
He flipped her, the movement sudden and violent, pinning her beneath him on the rumpled silk. Her legs hooked around his waist, heels digging into his ass, pulling him deeper. He drove into her, each thrust a piston stroke aimed at oblivion. Her cries fragmented into gasps, her hands clawing at his shoulders. "Andrew... god... harder!" The bedframe groaned in protest against the wall.
He watched her face contort, the fierce pleasure-pain etched in the dim light filtering through the curtains. This wasn't just fucking; it was claiming, erasing, rewriting. He felt her climax building, the frantic flutter deep inside her tightening like a fist. "Come," he commanded, his voice thick. "Come for me, Cathryn. Now."
Her body arched violently off the bed, a raw scream tearing from her throat as her cunt convulsed around him, milking his cock with rhythmic pulses. The intensity ripped through him, pulling his own release in a hot, blinding rush. He buried himself to the hilt, spilling deep inside her with a groan that felt ripped from his core. They collapsed together, slick and trembling, the air thick with spent lust and unresolved tension.
Silence stretched, heavy and charged, broken only by their ragged breathing. Cathryn traced a fingertip through the sweat on his chest. Her voice, when it came, was deceptively calm, cutting through the haze. "Saturday night." Andrew turned his head, meeting her gaze. Her eyes were dark pools, unreadable. "My place. Seven."
He frowned, still catching his breath.
A slow, dangerous smile curved her lips. "Bring two." She paused, letting the implication hang. "Women. Ones you want to watch." Her finger stopped its tracing. "I'll bring two men." Her gaze locked onto his, challenging, daring him to refuse. "We'll take turns."
Andrew stared at her, the aftershocks of their coupling mingling with a fresh jolt of adrenaline. The library encounter, the hallway banker, the raw fury of their joining – it all coalesced into this precipice. He saw the calculation in her eyes, the thrill of the game. His own pulse kicked up again, a dark curiosity warring with possessiveness. He nodded once, sharply. "Done."
Saturday arrived thick with anticipation. Cathryn’s loft, usually minimalist and airy, felt charged, the low lighting casting deep shadows. Andrew stood near the large window overlooking the city, a tumbler of whiskey warming in his hand. Beside him stood Lara, a sharp-eyed gallery curator he knew from faculty mixers, and Simone, a quiet doctoral student whose thesis he’d admired. Both wore expressions of wary intrigue.
Across the room, near the sleek kitchen island, Cathryn laughed, the sound bright and brittle. She stood flanked by Marcus, a broad-shouldered contractor she’d mentioned meeting at the gym, his arm casually draped over her shoulder, and Leo, a sleek financier type Andrew vaguely recognized from Cathryn’s stories, swirling a glass of red wine. Cathryn met Andrew’s gaze over the rim of her own glass, her smile sharp.
"Shall we?" Cathryn’s voice cut through the low murmur of conversation. She gestured towards the deep, low-slung sofa dominating the living area.