Midnight Pleasures: 30 Shades Of Steamy Stories

~Lucy

A moan ripped out of me, raw, desperate, filthy.

"Fuuuck-Ethan."

My fingers gripped the edge of the table like it could save me, knuckles white, thighs trembling.

He was behind me, buried deep, his cock slamming into my soaked pussy with unrelenting force, each thrust sending a shockwave through my spine.

My cheek pressed to the cold table, hair stuck to sweat-slick skin, but I didn't care. Not when he was splitting me open like that.

"Harder," I hissed, my voice ragged. "Don't stop. I can take it."

He growled, low and primal, his hands gripping my hips tight enough to bruise as he drove in again with his monster.

I arched my back, reached behind with my left hand, spreading my ass wider for him, I wanted him deeper. I needed it.

Wet sounds echoed in the classroom , skin slapping skin, my slick cunt taking every inch of him, the obscene sound of his cum already dripping down my thighs from the first time he'd finished in me.

But he wasn't done.

Not even close.

I pushed back into him, meeting every thrust. "Fuck, yes. That's it. That's my cock now, isn't it?"

"Say it again," he groaned, his voice strained, wrecked.

"Your dick's mine. You fuck this pussy when I say."

He smacked my ass, hard and I moaned louder. My breasts swayed with every movement, nipples so sensitive they ached, pressed against the table.

"God, I love this cunt," he muttered, driving into me deeper than before.

My legs shook, but I held firm. I won't lose to him.

"Turn me around," I said, breathless but firm.

He blinked, dazed from fucking me like a man possessed, but he obeyed.

I swung one leg, then the other, until I was facing him, sitting on the desk, knees parted, glistening and flushed.

My hands cupped his jaw. "You're going to look at me now when you give it to me. Understand?"

"Yes, fuck, Lucy." His voice was hoarse.

I wrapped my legs around his neck, pulling him closer until my heels pressed into his back. "Then stop gawking and fuck me."

He gripped my thighs, lined up, and slid back inside, slow at first, like he wanted to feel every inch.

My head dropped back as I moaned, raw and loud, the angle perfect, the stretch overwhelming.

"God, you're deep, right there, right fucking there... "

His rhythm built, brutal and precise, the table rocking under us. I locked my legs tighter around him, my heels digging into his spine as his hands moved up my sides, up, up until they were cupping my breasts, thumbs flicking my nipples.

"Shit, Lucy," he panted, rolling them between his fingers. "You feel, fuck, you feel unreal."

I leaned back on my elbows, completely open for him, letting him see everything. Letting him watch me take it.

"This is my body you're losing your mind over," I said between moans. "So don't even think about coming until I say."

His thrusts grew desperate, need dripping off him like sweat.

My body rocked with each drive of his hips, his hands never leaving my breasts, squeezing, circling my nipples, obsessed with the way I made him feel.

I pulled him down by his shirt, lips at his ear. "You like watching these bounce for you, huh?"

He groaned, a broken, worshipful sound, and thrust harder, deeper.

My back lifted off the table, the whole world narrowing to the feel of him slamming into me, his mouth grazing my neck, his fingers teasing my nipples until I was moaning uncontrollably.

"Lucy.. shit... Lucy I'm close... "

I grinned darkly. "Then hold it. I'm not done with you yet."

His thrusts were getting sloppy, desperate but I held him there, squeezing with my thighs as I moaned into his ear, breath hot, words filthier than sin.

"You want to come so bad, don't you?"

"God, yes, Lucy, please... "

I pushed him back, slipping off the desk and dropping to my knees with a wicked smirk.

His cock was flushed, dripping, twitching for release.

"Then let me taste you," I whispered.

His hand went to my hair, but I slapped it away.

"No touching," I said, licking slow, teasing. "Just stand there and bring it."

His legs trembled as I wrapped my lips around him cock, taking him deep, working my mouth and tongue until he was groaning like a man possessed.

I didn't stop when he gasped, didn't stop when his body jerked forward, I just let it happen.

And when he came, I let some of it fall, warm and slow across my chest, between my breasts.

I leaned back on my heels and looked up at him, breathless and smiling.

"Come taste yourself."

He didn't hesitate. He bent down, mouth hot and messy, tongue tracing every inch of skin he'd just marked with his orgasm.

His fingers kneaded my breasts while his tongue made a sinful mess of them, spreading his own release over my skin.

I pulled him closer, lips at his ear.

"I love you," I whispered, not even sure why the words slipped out.

Then, the door creaked open.

We both froze.

A man stepped in. Not security. Not a student.

He looked older. Sharper. A professor, probably. Very handsome, muscular, I could see that through his tight shirt.

I'd slept with every professor in this department. But I had never seen him before.

He stared at us, me on the floor, naked from the waist up, Ethan still half-hard, both of us a mess of heat and sweat, and said nothing. His eyes were dark, unreadable.

He smiled, just barely.

Then shut the door behind him.

We thought he'd left.

Ethan was zipping up, the rest of the class acting like nothing ever happened.

Click.

The door opened again.

He stepped in. Calm. Composed. As if he'd planned this moment down to the second.

Tall frame. Clean-cut jaw. Black shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show off strong forearms. The kind of man who didn't need to shout to own the room.

And then he spoke.

"I've heard about your... extracurricular activities," he said, casually. His voice was deep, smooth, without a hint of judgment but still razor sharp. "The counselor warned me not to be fazed. It's not my concern... so long as I don't witness it myself."

He looked right at me.

Not flinching. Not smiling. Just... looking. Unreadable.

"I'm Professor Dean," he continued, addressing the room. "Your new marketing tutor. You've already managed to ruin my mood today. Hopefully tomorrow, you won't."

He turned to walk out. That was it. No fuss. No threats.

The room burst into sarcastic applause, students laughing under their breath.

The kind of laugh you hear when someone thinks they've already won the game.

But I didn't laugh.

I wasn't even listening.

My eyes were locked on him.

The way he moved. The way he spoke. He didn't carry power, he was power.

And I wondered... what would it be like under those clothes?

How thick would he be? How deep could he go inside me?

Would he break character, even once, if I rode him until he begged?

My thighs pressed together beneath the desk.

God, he looked so good.

Too clean. Too cold.

Men like that are always the wildest once they snap. And I wanted to be the reason he snapped.

My name is Lucy. I'm twenty-one. And I don't play games I can't win.

My first time? That was at seventeen.

With a tutor I asked to ruin me.

Since then, I've learned something important, if you can make a man lose control, he's yours.

Professor Dean?

He doesn't know it yet.

But he's already under my skin.

And soon?

He'll be under me.

I smirked and flipped open my notebook, already planning how to make him mine.

"My next target," I whispered. "Professor Dean."

I couldn't stop thinking about him.

Not Ethan. Not the half-hearted texts from guys I've already broken.

Professor Dean.

His voice still echoed in my head, calm, clipped, like he didn't need to raise it to control the room. That annoyed me. And turned me on.

Most men tried to impress me. This one? He dismissed me like a footnote. Like I didn't matter.

That was mistake number one.

I wore a tighter blouse the next day. White, crisp, just slightly see-through. My lips were glossed red, my eyes lined sharp enough to slice through silence.

When he walked in, he didn't look at anyone. The whole room tensed like someone had just pulled the pin on a grenade.

He placed his tablet on the desk, adjusted his sleeves, and finally lifted his gaze.

For a second, his eyes locked on mine. Nothing flickered. No reaction. No trace of yesterday.

And that made me smile.

He was better than most.

"Open your textbooks to chapter one," he said, already walking the rows. "Let's see how well your last tutor taught you."

My book stayed closed.

He stopped beside my desk. That cologne hit me again, woodsy, sharp, expensive. Like discipline in a bottle.

"Miss... Lucy, is it?" he asked, glancing at my closed book.

I looked up at him, lazy and unbothered. "That's me."

"You're not following instructions."

"And you're not the kind of man who likes being ignored, are you?" I said, voice velvet-soft. Just enough to test him.

A pause.

Then his eyes narrowed just slightly. He didn't smile. Didn't blink.

But he knew.

He leaned down just a little, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for me to catch his whisper.

"You have no idea what kind of man I am."

My breath caught.

He walked away back to the board.

And I sat there, pulse racing, grinning like a sinner in church.

Oh, Professor Dean... you're not going to make this easy.

Good.

I like a challenge.

He didn't look at me again for the rest of the hour. Not once.

Not when I crossed my legs in slow motion. Not when I arched my back just enough to press against the fabric of my blouse.

Not even when I purposely dropped my pen and bent to pick it up without bending my knees.

But I knew he felt me.

There's a difference between ignoring and resisting. One is boredom.

The other? Tension waiting to snap.

I could feel it in the silence between his words. See it in the way his jaw flexed just a little too tightly when I exhaled a soft sigh at the end of class.

So when the bell rang, I didn't move.

Everyone filed out around me. Books shut, chairs scraped, someone laughed.

But I stayed seated, fingers tracing the spine of my unopened textbook like it might catch fire from the heat still curling low in my belly.

He packed slowly. Still refusing to look at me.

So I stood.

Deliberate. Quiet.

Walked right to his desk.

"Professor Dean," I said sweetly, like I hadn't just spent the last hour fantasizing about ruining him.

He glanced up. "Class is over, Lucy."

I leaned a little closer across the desk. "Thought I'd stay behind. Catch up. Since I didn't open my book."

His gaze flicked down once, barely. But it was enough.

My blouse dipped just enough for him to see the black lace of my bra, taut over skin flushed from anticipation.

"Careful," he said, tone colder than ever. "You're playing a game you don't understand."

"But I like games," I murmured, taking another step forward, now on his side of the desk. "Especially with men who pretend they're not curious."

"I'm not curious," he said flatly. "I'm furious with what you're trying to do."

I smirked. "Same difference."

That earned me something, just the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. But not nothing.

Progress.

He grabbed his tablet. I didn't move.

"I said class is over."

I tilted my head, voice dropping lower. "Maybe you need a private lesson. A reminder that ignoring me doesn't make me go away."

He stared at me.

Still unreadable. Still silent. Still frustrating.

But this time... he stepped closer.

So close I could feel the heat off his body.

His voice came quiet and sharp, like the edge of a blade:

"Next time you try something like this, Lucy... make sure no one else is watching."

Then he walked past me, cool, collected, and perfectly in control.

And left me standing there breathless.

Holy. Fuck.

He wanted me. I felt it.

But he wouldn't give in easy.

Fine.

Let him act like he's the one in charge.

Because when I finally break him, when that voice growls my name, and that mouth begs for more, he'll wish he never looked away.

_____

_____

I couldn't stop thinking about him.

Even hours later, curled on the couch at home, my mind was spinning around Professor Dean like he'd cast a spell.

Every little detail looped in my head, he way he didn't flinch when I pushed, how his eyes barely moved but saw everything, how his voice held weight without ever rising.

So much that I didn't even hear my name the first six times.

"Hey! Lucy!"

I blinked hard.

My mom stood in front of me with her arms crossed and a frown on her face. "This is the seventh time I'm calling you. You okay?"

I nodded quickly, brushing my hair back. "Yeah, yeah. Sorry. Just... tired."

She eyed me like she didn't buy it, but moved on anyway.

"You remember our new tenant?" she asked.

"We have a new tenant?"

"He moved in two days ago and left one of his baskets at the gate. I picked it up, but I'm busy now. Will you take it to him?"

I groaned faintly but got up. "Sure."

It wasn't like I had anything better to do except spiral deeper into my Professor Dean obsession.

I grabbed the basket and walked across the driveway to the guest flat we'd converted last year. Nice, quiet place. I hadn't met the tenant yet.

I knocked once.

"Come in!" came a muffled voice from inside.

It was hard to hear, the tap in the bathroom must've been running.

I hesitated, then turned the handle.

"I brought a basket you forgot... " I started, stepping inside.

No reply.

Then the bathroom door creaked open.

And he stepped out.

Wet hair. Bare chest. Grey sweatshorts that clung to all the right places.

My throat dried up instantly.

"Lucy?" His brows lifted slightly in surprise.

I froze. My eyes dropped to his abs and just stayed there. Water glistened along the ridges of his torso, sliding slowly down until it disappeared beneath the waistband of his shorts.

My mind blanked. Just completely blue screened.

Because standing right in front of me, dripping and shirtless...

Was Professor Dean.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

I almost dropped the basket.

"You live here?" I asked, though clearly he did.

"I do now," he said calmly, stepping forward with a towel slung over his neck like it was nothing. "Didn't know I'd be seeing you again this soon."

My heart kicked against my ribs. "You, you're the tenant?"

He raised a brow. "Seems like fate wants us to spend more time together."

I swallowed. Hard. "Yeah. Funny how fate works."

He looked amused. Just the faintest curve at the edge of his mouth. Not a full smile, more like a secret he wasn't ready to share yet.

"You gonna hand me the basket or keep standing there like you saw a ghost?"

I snapped out of it and shoved the basket forward. "Right. Here. Basket. Bye."

He chuckled as he took it.

I turned to leave but not before he added quietly, "Next time, knock louder."

I nearly stumbled on my way out.

Holy shit.

Professor Dean lived here. In my house. Under the same roof.

This man, who'd already taken over my thoughts without touching me, was now just a few feet away. Every night.

And he looked like that straight out of the shower?

Game. On.

_____

_____

"Are you busy?" My mum asked.

"Why?" I asked innocently, twirling a loose strand of hair between my fingers.

My mom sighed, distracted. "The water stopped running in the bathroom, and our new neighbor mentioned he's handy with plumbing stuff. I called him. He'll be here any minute."

The doorbell rang right on cue.

"I'll get it," she said quickly, already heading toward the front. "And I'll be out in the garden. Just show him to the bathroom, alright?"

I nodded, but I was already halfway up the stairs.

The moment my bedroom door shut, I peeled off my top and slipped out of my jeans, leaving only a black lace bra and a barely-there G-string.

No one said I had to greet him like that, but no one said I couldn't either.

I heard the front door open. Voices. Footsteps. Then silence.

Mom's heels clicked toward the back patio. The screen door closed behind her.

I took a breath, checked the mirror, and stepped into the hallway just as he reached the top of the stairs.

My heart stuttered.

Professor Dean.

His sleeves were rolled to the elbows. His jaw was sharper than I remembered.

"Lucy," he said slowly, like he hadn't expected this. His tone didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes.

"Professor," I said with a smirk, arms folded beneath my chest. "Fancy seeing you in my house."

He didn't look away. "I didn't realize you lived here."

"You didn't ask."

He gave a tight nod, stepping past me. "Which way to the bathroom?"

I pointed, not moving.

He walked, brushed just a little too close, and I didn't flinch. I wanted him to notice the heat between us, the way the silence curled around us like a secret waiting to be exposed.

He glanced at the door, then back at me.

"I'll fix the leak," he said, already rolling his sleeves higher. "And when I'm done, we're going to pretend this never happened."

I tilted my head. "What if I don't want to pretend?"

He paused. "Then you'll learn very quickly, Lucy, that I'm not one of your games."

I grinned, stepping back into the shadows of the hallway as he entered the bathroom.

My heart was pounding.

Challenge accepted.

I waited five minutes. Maybe six. Just long enough for him to think I was done playing.

Then I padded back down the hallway, slow and deliberate, the old floorboards creaking beneath my bare feet.

I paused at the bathroom door, half open. The sound of water trickling echoed against the tiles.

He was crouched down near the base of the sink, sleeves rolled, hands busy with tools.

I leaned against the frame, arms crossed under my breast again, arching just enough to make the lace of my bra shift.

"You always make house calls in tight slacks and no tie?" I asked, voice syrupy.

He didn't look up. "You always greet guests half-dressed?"

"Only the ones who try to pretend they're not interested."

This time, he did glance up. His gaze was razor-sharp, dragging over me from head to toe, lingering at all the places I wanted him to see.

But his face remained unreadable.

"You think I'm pretending?" he asked coolly.

"I know men like you," I said, taking a step closer. "You pretend to be professional, all rules and lines and limits... until the door closes."

He stood, tall and controlled, wiping his hands on a rag. We were close now. Too close.

"I'm not one of your toys, Lucy."

"And I'm not asking you to be," I whispered, stepping in so my breath nearly touched his collar. "I'm just wondering how long you can stand there pretending you don't want to know what I taste like."

His jaw flexed. His eyes dropped just for a second to the curve of my lips.

Then a sharp breath.

"Careful," he murmured. "You don't know what you're playing with."

"Don't I?" I whispered, reaching for the edge of the door and slowly pushing it shut behind me with a soft click. "Then teach me, Professor."

For the first time, something flickered in his eyes, not anger, not confusion. Hunger. Barely leashed.

But he didn't move.

Neither did I.

My heart pounded. I could feel the heat radiating off him like a storm waiting to break.

He stepped past me, slow and firm, brushing the door open again.

"I fixed the leak," he said, voice low. "Don't call me again unless it's a real emergency."

He had just turned to leave, tugging his shirt over those chiseled abs like it was nothing, like my brain wasn't melting from the sight.

But he stopped. Patted his pockets. "Damn. Forgot my watch," he muttered, half to himself.

As he turned back, I stepped forward, fast.

"Professor Dean," I said, blocking the hallway, heart pounding.

He looked up, brows raised. "Lucy?"

"Don't leave me... like this." My voice was soft, a little breathless. "High and dry."

His eyes dropped, just a second before they flicked back up to mine.

"What exactly are you suggesting?"

I took his hand gently, placing it against the fabric of my pants, just over where the heat pulsed between my legs. "You're smart. Figure it out."

The tension coiled between us like a live wire. His hand twitched but didn't pull away. His gaze darkened.

"That's inappropriate," he said, voice tight.

But I didn't step back. I leaned in, fingers grazing the waistband of his shorts. He was already hard. My lips barely parted in a smile.

"Seems like your body disagrees."

A long silence. A stare that felt like it could peel away every excuse I had.

Then he stepped forward, just a little. Close enough that I could smell that same intoxicating scent, wood, spice, trouble.

"You don't know what you're asking for," he said low.

I looked up at him, bold. "Then teach me."

He exhaled slowly, one of those breaths that feel like a fuse being lit.

He tore my bra in one swift motion, his mouth claiming my breasts with a hunger that made me cry out.

He bit and sucked, lips punishing and worshipping my nipples until I was squirming.

His hands slid down, gripping my ass possessively.

With a harsh tug, he ripped off my panties, fingers digging into my skin like he owned me.

I gasped, the sting mixing with pleasure as he squeezed harder, pulling me closer into him.

Every touch was rough, raw, like he couldn't get enough.

I was completely exposed, consumed by the way he devoured every inch of me.

I wonder if my mum wasn't anywhere near.