Dinner was a special kind of torture.
I sat across from Elias at the long table while my mother talked about her day, the wine, the weather—anything normal. He answered in the same calm, measured voice he used in the lecture hall. Every so often his eyes met mine over the rim of his glass and held for a fraction too long. Each time heat flooded between my legs. I could still feel the stretch of him from the afternoon, the way he had held his hand over my mouth while he f****d me on the desk. The second pair of my panties was somewhere in his pocket. I crossed my legs under the table and pressed my thighs together until it hurt.
When my mother stood to clear the plates, Elias remained seated. His gaze dropped deliberately to my mouth, then lower, before returning to my eyes. The look last
