Chapter 6: Teasing
The shower steam still clung to Amanda’s skin as she padded into the kitchen, tying her robe. The scent of their morning, of her, seemed to have followed her, a personal perfume layered over the clean smell of soap. Alex was already at the table, textbook open, half-heartedly pushing soggy pancake bits around his plate with a fork. He looked adorably rumpled, his hair still damp from his own shower.
“You’re gonna be late,” she said, voice sing-song, as she poured her coffee.
“I’m contemplating the profound existential dread of Intro to Political Theory,” he mumbled, not looking up. “It’s a valid reason to be late.”
She smiled, sipping her coffee, watching him. The memory of his mouth on her, his trusting gaze, was a live wire under her skin. The whole day stretched before her—a blank canvas. She had meetings, a stack of student files, a cafeteria lunch. He had lectures, libraries, the muffled buzz of campus life. The distance felt suddenly intolerable.
Her phone was on the counter. She picked it up, her thumbs moving quickly.
To Alex (9:07 AM): Missing my good boy already. The kitchen feels empty without you staring tragically at your breakfast.
She watched him. His phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at it, and a slow, private smile broke through his faux-gloom. He typed back.
Alex (9:08 AM): It’s a performance art piece. ‘The Agony of the Syrup.’ Might be my final.
Amanda (9:09 AM): Well, this artist needs inspiration. Think you can work from a new reference image?
She angled her phone down, the robe parting just enough. A quick snap, not of her face, but of the smooth skin of her inner thigh, the dark fabric of her panties just barely visible at the edge of the frame. The morning light was kind. She sent it.
His fork clattered against the plate. He stared at his phone, his ears turning pink. He looked up at her, his eyes wide and hot. She just winked, took another sip of coffee, and turned to rinse her mug.
Alex (9:11 AM): That’s cruel. I have a lecture in 20 minutes.
Amanda (9:11 AM): Then you’d better focus. Think about federalism. Or think about how much I wish you were here instead.
His lecture hall was a cavern of muted noise, students shuffling in, the professor droning about Montesquieu. Alex’s laptop was open, a blank document supposedly for notes. His leg bounced under the desk.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. A guilty, thrilling jolt. He slid it out, keeping it low.
A video, three seconds long. Her hand, her familiar hand with its silver ring, sliding beneath the waistband of her professional trousers. Just a glimpse, a promise of skin, before it stopped. The message below it: Wish you were my midday snack.
He choked on nothing, a cough erupting that earned him a sidelong look from the girl next to him. He typed, fingers clumsy.
Alex (11:23 AM): you’re going to get me kicked out of here.
Amanda (11:24 AM): Then be quiet and behave. Mostly quiet.
A photo followed. This one was from her office, the familiar blur of bookshelf behind. Her hand was in her lap, a clear, provocative bulge outlined against the dark fabric of her slacks. The caption: Thinking about you thinking about me. It’s a feedback loop. A very hard one.
He adjusted his posture, trying to ignore the tight, persistent ache in his own jeans. The professor’s words dissolved into static.
Her lunch break was in her car, a hastily eaten salad forgotten on the passenger seat. The school parking lot was full but quiet.
She FaceTimed him. He answered, his face filling her screen, looking flushed and somewhere secluded—a stairwell, by the looks of it.
“Hi, baby,” she said, her voice a low purr. “Missing me?”
“You have no idea,” he whispered, his voice strained. “I’ve been walking around campus like this all morning because of you.”
“Like what?” she teased, tilting her head.
“Amanda…”
“Show me.”
He glanced around, then panned the camera down briefly. The prominent strain in his jeans was obvious. A bolt of pure, possessive pride shot through her.
“My beautiful, frustrated boy,” she cooed. “You look so good like that. All worked up for me.” She leaned closer to her own screen, lowering her voice. “I’m touching myself right now, Alex. Under this skirt. Thinking about how you swallowed me this morning. How you’re going to do it again tonight.”
His breath hitched on the screen. “What… what are you wearing under it?”
“Nothing,” she lied, enjoying the way his eyes darkened. “Absolutely nothing. It’s so wet for you, baby. A total mess.” She let a moan slip, soft but deliberate. “I wish it was your tongue instead of my fingers.”
“Jesus,” he hissed, running a hand through his hair. “I can’t… I have a lab.”
“Then you’d better go focus on your… bacteria, or whatever. Think about science.” She smiled, wicked and warm. “Bye, my love.”
She hung up, leaning back in her seat, breathless. The power was a heady thing. It wasn’t just about arousal; it was about connection, a thread of pure, illicit electricity tying them together across town.
The afternoon was a torturous crawl for Alex. Every buzz of his phone was a lightning strike. A text simply reading Remember this taste? followed by a close-up, glistening photo of her, slick and full, held in her elegant fingers. He ducked into a men’s room stall, breathing hard, forehead pressed against the cool metal.
Alex (3:47 PM): you’re actually trying to kill me.
Amanda (3:48 PM): Never. I’m keeping you very, very alive. What’s your ETA?
Alex (3:49 PM): 40 minutes if traffic sucks.
Amanda (3:49 PM): Hurry. I’m not wearing any panties. I took them off after our call. I’ve been thinking about you inside me all afternoon.
He practically ran to his car.
The house was quiet when he finally burst through the front door, dropping his backpack with a thud. “Mom?”
“In the bedroom,” her voice floated down, calm, melodic.
He took the stairs two at a time. She was standing by the window, backlit by the fading afternoon sun. She was wearing his favorite dress of hers, a simple, sky-blue shift that hugged her curves. She was barefoot. And she was, as promised, completely bare underneath. The outline of her, heavy and erect, was visibly pressing against the thin cotton.
She turned, her smile a beacon. “Hi, baby.”
He crossed the room in three strides, crushing his mouth to hers. The kiss was desperate, hungry, all the pent-up frustration of the day pouring into it. She melted against him, her hands tangling in his hair.
When they broke apart, both breathing heavily, she chuckled softly, nuzzling his neck. “Did you have a productive day at school?”
“You are the worst,” he growled, his hands sliding down to grasp her hips, pulling her firmly against his own undeniable hardness.
“Mm, and you love it.” She took his hand, guiding it under the hem of her dress, up the smooth plane of her thigh. Her skin was fever-hot. “See what you do to me? All day. Just for you.”
He kissed her again, softer this time, his thumb stroking her inner thigh. “I’ve been going out of my mind.”
“Good,” she whispered against his lips. “Now, how about you show me what all that thinking led to?”
The sun dipped below the roofline across the street, plunging the room into a deep, shadowy blue. The only light left was the fierce, shared heat in their eyes, and the long, promised night stretching out, finally, before them.