Mistletoe Kisses by Sam Mariano
Chapter Four
Callan
Noelle’s rewardfor surviving our first study session is dinner.
It was touch and go to begin with. For the first two pages, her voice shook as she read and she kept clenching her legs together, terrified they might come apart and give me a peek at the paradise between her creamy thighs.
Despite the temptation presented, I kept my eyes on her face. Since she was policing my gaze the whole time, that eventually made her more comfortable.
I’m in no rush with Noelle. If I just wanted to look at a woman’s pussy, I could’ve called any number of women to come in her place.
No, it’s Noelle I want to play with. I went into this knowing she wouldn’t be up to my speed—that’s half the fun of the pursuit. If I wanted to catch her, I could—easily—but then what would I do with her? It would be ill-advised to actually fuck this girl, no matter how tempting the prospect. Not only is she too young for me, she’s my student. A go at that pussy would very likely cost me my job.
Yep, I’m playing with fire, but I have no intention of stopping just yet.
After a couple pages, she lost some of her apprehension. I could tell she started getting into the story because her lips would curve up in response to lines and scenes she really liked.
By the end of the first chapter, I knew I would demand more. By the end of the second, I realized that wanting more than I should take with this girl might become a troubling trend.
I’m still going to enjoy her while I have her here, though.
Her reading complete, I let her close the book. I tucked my copy away in my desk drawer and told her not to cheat and read ahead on her own time.
“Does that mean you want me to come back?” she asked, nonplussed.
“Of course,” I answered, meeting her gaze. “We have to finish the book, don’t we?”
Now she sits on the edge of my desk, her gaze wandering as she looks around my room. Her hands are wrapped around the edges of my desk as she sits there lightly swinging her legs, and I’m impressed at how comfortable she is already given it hasn’t been that long.
That bodes well. She might balk when her limits are initially pushed, but she adapts quite nicely.
Since she is more comfortable, she’s not keeping her legs squeezed together and I catch a glimpse of white cotton panties. A terribly unsexy choice, and yet blood rushes straight to my cock at the sight.
I wonder if she’s wet. Reading such explicit words, especially after I pushed her the way I did—I bet she is.
Next lesson, I’m going to tell her to take off her panties before she sits on my desk.
My lips curve up in sinister pleasure as I think about her bare ass and pussy on my work space. I want to know if she’s been fucked yet, but before I can think of a way to lead the conversation there, Noelle speaks up.
“So, what’s next?”
I tear my gaze from the hem of her dress and look up at her face. “You told me you’d be hungry, so next we make dinner.”
Her eyebrows rise in surprise. “You cook, too?”
I incline my head once. “I do.”
She hops down off my desk, smoothing down the skirt of her flirty little dress. It takes all my self control to keep from turning her around and pushing her up against it. Pressing my cock against that pretty little ass and seeing how she’d react.
Can’t do that, so I pry myself away and start toward the door, planning to lead her out of my room.
Now that I’ve let her in here, though, Noelle dawdles. Rather than follow me out, she sits down in my chair and surveys the room.
“So, is this where you grade all of my terribly inadequate papers?” she asks, shooting me a playful look.
“Among other things.”
For some reason, her cheeks flush. Avoiding my gaze, she crosses her legs and spins in my chair. It’s such a childish thing to do, I have to crack a small smile.
“Come on, it’s time to make dinner.”
Rather than obey me, she follows her curiosity about me, peeking under a stack of papers on my desk. She lifts them and yanks out the small, thin novella tucked underneath.
Holding up the thin red volume in victory, she says, “I found it!”
She’s holding up Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, so I’m not sure what she thinks she’s found.
“Your Christmas spirit,” she answers, even though I didn’t voice the question. “You’re reading A Christmas Carol because it’s almost Christmas. I knew you weren’t all grinch.”
“If you don’t stop snooping and haul your little ass to my kitchen, I’m going to throw you over my shoulder and haul you there myself,” I inform her.
Her eyebrows rise in surprise. I doubt she believes me, but rather than test her theory that I won’t follow through, she puts my book down and stands. “Fine, Scrooge,” she mutters.
Noelle follows me to my kitchen and watches as I begin to collect ingredients. I grab fresh carrots, broccoli, and cauliflower, a bag of peas from the freezer, even some fresh garlic.
“Wow, you were serious—you actually cook, with fresh ingredients,” she says, seeming surprised.
I nod my head. “When I can. Fresher is better. We’ll use store-bought pasta tonight, though. Grab a box from the pantry,” I tell her, nodding my head in that direction.
“You make your own pasta?” She sounds delighted at the prospect. I’ll have to have her back one night to make fresh pasta.
“My father was a chef,” I inform her off-handedly. “This dish was a specialty of his. He’s probably rolling over in his grave over the boxed pasta, though.”
Noelle hurries over to grab said boxed pasta, then she comes back and sets it down on the counter. “He passed? I’m sorry to hear that.”
I nod absently as I gather the rest of the ingredients. “Cancer.” I reach into a lower cabinet and pull out a medium-sized pot. “Fill this with water and salt it well.”
She looks uncertain, and I wonder if she even knows how to cook. I didn’t bother asking, but her mother is loaded, so a chef might do all the cooking for her.
Filling a pot is fairly simple, though, so she does that. When it comes to my “salt it well” direction she looks a little less confident. She steals a glance at me as she dumps a little salt in, then a little more, as if she’s waiting for me to tell her when.
“Taste it,” I advise.
Her eyebrows flicker upward in surprise, but she grabs a wooden spoon to stir the salt and water—good God, she doesn’t know how to cook—then dips her pinky in and sticks it in her mouth.
“It tastes like water,” she announces.
Barely holding back laughter, I snatch the pot away from her and check it myself. It needs a little more, so I add in the appropriate amount and pass the pot back to her. “It should taste like ocean water.” I nod at the stove. “Now put it on to boil. Don’t forget to turn on the stovetop,” I tell her, since there is actually a chance she would just sit this cold pot of water on the stove if I didn’t.
Dusting off her hands as she comes back to my side, she asks, “What now?”
“Fill a large bowl with ice cold water. Do you know how to blanch broccoli?”
“Nope,” she says cheerfully.
I shake my head. “It’s good that you’re pretty.”
Her cheeks flush and she narrows her eyes at me, but I can tell this time she’s not really offended. “Hey, I’m smart, too. I plan to make enough money that I never have to cook if I don’t want to.”
“A lofty goal, but impractical. You should know how, even if you never have to.”
Leaning back against my counter with her hands braced behind her, she says, “Well, I guess you’ll have to teach me that, too.”
I do. For the next half hour or so, we move around my kitchen preparing dinner together. Since she needs teaching, I get things started and show her what to do, but by the time we’re finishing up the dish, I have her doing it all. Just like everything else I’ve pushed her to try so far, she takes to it aptly. She moves with urgency and multi-tasks like a pro. She doesn’t ask me if her dish is ready; when she suspects it is, she tastes it herself, then gives a perfunctory nod and turns off the burner.
I’m leaning with my hip against the counter and my arms folded over my chest, watching her work. I’ve been debating whether or not to serve alcohol to an underage student—seems like a bad idea—but I enjoy her company so much while we cook, I can’t bring myself to rob her of the 2012 Riesling on my wine rack that will pair so well with this dish.
I err on the side of fuck it and open the wine. Noelle is plating the food at my center island while I pour our drinks. “Behind you,” I tell her, as I bring the glasses over. I have a table, but I also have seats at the island, so I figure we’ll just eat here.
I lean in a little too close when I set the wine down and catch a whiff of Noelle’s scent. I don’t know if it’s perfume or just a cocktail of all her soaps and shampoos and lotions and whatever girly shit she probably uses, but she smells incredible.
Noelle looks over her shoulder at me, a proud smile on her face. She holds up the spoon for me to taste.
I cock an eyebrow in surprise, but I lean in and have a taste of her sauce. “Perfect.”
She beams, dropping the spoon in the sink and telling me, “Glad you approve.”
I do. More than I’d like to, to be perfectly honest. I quite like having Noelle in my kitchen cooking dinner with me. I like it so much, I find myself trying to ruin it.
Noelle is in front of me, facing the counter. I’m right behind her, but not touching her. Until I am. Until I inch a little closer, trapping her against the counter. Until my hands come to rest on her perfectly flared hips.
Her breath catches. Distracted by my sudden touch, she loses her smile. I don’t move my hands, and she doesn’t ask me to.
I tell myself this isn’t too inappropriate, too far over the line. Of course, I told myself making her read sex scenes to me on my desk was okay because I wasn’t touching her, and now I am.
It’s a slippery slope and I’m sliding down fast, but I keep my palms braced on her hips and cling to the fragile defense that I’m only touching her side through her dress. We could brush hips passing each other in a tight hall and touch this much. It’s fine.
Noelle swallows, her narrow shoulders tense and her posture perfect.
I want to slide my hand behind her and touch her ass, but I stop myself. That’s too far, too fast. I’ve pushed enough of her limits for today. Time to stop introducing new things before I spook her and scare her off entirely.
“Are you ready to eat?” I ask, still with my hands on her body.
She nods faintly. “I’m ready when you are.”
I tell myself to pull away from her, to drop my hands and move aside. To grab a plate and a wine glass and take a seat.
I tell myself I would have, too, except then she does a dumb thing for a smart girl. Without looking at me and risking breaking the spell, she presses her palms against the outside of my hands on her hips. She tugs my hands downward, and at first I think she’s trying to move my hands off her, but I don’t resist. I’m not trying to harass the girl with unwanted touches. I’ll let her move my hands away if she wants to, but instead of moving them away, she leads them around to her front.
My heart thuds in my chest as she rests one hand on her stomach, and leads the other down between her legs.
All the blood in my body rushes straight to my cock.
Noelle releases my hand, but that feels enough like permission to me. I slide my hand lower, trailing my fingers underneath the hem of her dress.
Her breath rushes in and out of her more noticeably as I do, and I haven’t really touched her yet. Experimenting with her responsiveness, I drag my fingertips along the inside of her thigh.
Noelle gasps, tilting her head back and resting it against my strong shoulder. Her eyes drift closed for a moment, but then she opens them again. She still doesn’t look at me, but I’m looking at her now. Watching her face as I trail my fingertips lightly up her sensitive inner thigh. I curve my hand around one, high enough to feel the heat from her pussy on my hand. I squeeze her thigh hard.
Her breath hitches.
I should stop here.
I don’t.
Before I have time to talk myself out of it, I slide my hand between her legs, cupping her pussy in the palm of my hand. Her breath shudders out of her and I close my own eyes on a sigh when I feel the dampness pressed against my palm now. Sure enough, her panties are fucking soaked.
“Jesus Christ, Noelle.”
My voice breaks the spell.
Suddenly overcome with a wave of self-consciousness, she reaches down and shoves my hand away. I can see I pushed her a little too far, even though she gave the invitation herself, because she has that look like she’s about to flee.
Stopping her before she tries, I grab her around the waist and pull her close. I angle my body so she doesn’t feel my hard-on pressing against her, not wanting to spook her even more. I’m solid behind her now, a source of stability, not the asshole who keeps pushing her well past her comfort zones.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” I assure her firmly, my voice low, face bent so it’s close to her ear in a non-threatening show of intimacy. “You enjoyed the story, that’s all.”
“I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have—with your hand,” she stammers awkwardly.
“You wanted me to feel your body’s reaction to our time together. What’s wrong with that?”
“Everything,” she says a little desperately. “I think maybe I should go home.”
“Because you want to go home, or because you feel uncomfortable?”
She pauses before answering, and I’m damned impressed that without my even having to guide her there, she calms herself down as she seems to recall that this is exactly how she’s supposed to feel when she’s doing something new and scary, something exhilarating and outside her ordinary experience.
“Did you like when I touched you?” I ask simply.
“Yes,” she answers quietly, the faintest hint of wistfulness in her voice.
That draws a slow, satisfied smile that I’m glad she can’t see, because I know it would come off as predatory. I don’t mean for it to, I’m just so damned satisfied with her, it’s hard to hide it.
“Good. That’s all I’m going to do,” I tell her. “You don’t need to leave, because I won’t push you any further tonight. We’re just going to enjoy a pleasant dinner, all right? Then you can go home.”
“Will you touch me again?” she asks, a tremor of nerves in her voice.
“Not tonight,” I assure her, absently brushing my lips against the shell of her ear.
Noelle sighs with pleasure and sags against me, ever so slightly. “Okay,” she says softly.
“I have one last question before we settle down and eat.”
“What is it?” she asks.
“Have you been fucked before?”
I can tell I’ve shocked her by the hastily drawn breath she takes. Darting a look back at me, wisely guarded, she says, “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
“You’re right, it’s not. Tell me, anyway.”
Still looking back at me, her green eyes wide and scandalized, she seems to debate for a moment whether or not she’ll answer. Finally, after a long pause, she says, “No. I haven’t.”
I don’t know whether to be pleased or dissatisfied with her answer. On one hand, I’m gratified as hell that none of the unremarkable little assholes in her grade have had a go at her. On the other, knowing her sweet cunt is untouched makes it even more off-limits to me. Broadening her horizons a bit is one thing, but I can’t very well take her virginity and then send her on her merry way. If she’s held onto it for this long, it obviously means something to her.
Then again, I told myself before she came over tonight I wouldn’t lay a finger on her, and that good intention certainly didn’t pan out.
I suppose there’s no sense worrying about it tonight.
After all, if we stand here much longer, dinner will get cold.
“Good,” I say, my gaze locking with hers. “Keep it that way.”
Her eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”
“I believe I made myself clear.” I finally move away from her, grabbing one of the plates and a glass of wine and walking over to sit down. “I saw Percy Bennett wanting to spend time with you yesterday. For the duration of our private lessons, I don’t want you spending time with any other… suitors,” I say, after just long enough of a pause for her to feel my distaste.
“Other suitors,” she repeats, not even trying to hide her awe.
Ah, shit.
“That was a slip of the tongue. I didn’t mean to imply…” Rolling my eyes, I tell her, “You know what I mean.”
Her lips curve up, more self-satisfied than her typical smile. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
I don’t appreciate the amusement in her tone. She grabs her plate and the second wine glass, coming over to take a seat beside me.
“I only meant—”
“You’re jealous, it’s fine,” she says, at once dismissive and antagonizing.
“I am not jealous of an 18-year-old idiot,” I say carefully.
“Mm-hmm,” she says, nodding indulgently. “I totally believe you.”
I glare at her, and her pleasure only grows. Her grin turns into a giggle, and even though I want to be annoyed at her for ribbing me, I can’t resist the charm of that delightful sound.
Shaking my head at her, I retrieve my wine glass and take a sip before setting it back down. “You’re lucky I already promised not to touch you again tonight. I’m tempted to beat your smug little ass.”
“Mm, spanking. A couple reviews I read of our ‘textbook’ mentioned that; maybe it’ll happen in one of our next chapters. I bet you’ll enjoy that,” she teases.
“Not as much as you will,” I state, pointedly directing my gaze at her pussy. Smug little shit. She should keep in mind I could reach over and feel the evidence of her arousal right now, if I wanted to. I could wipe the smile right off her pretty face and replace it with lust as I pressed a finger into her wet heat, teasing her and torturing her until pleasure erupted inside her and she came apart in my arms.
I adjust in my seat, my heavy cock wanting attention it won’t be getting until she leaves.
Smiling cheekily as she grabs a fork and starts to dig into her food, she says, “Whatever, you can’t rain on my parade now.”
“Do you really want to dare me like that, Noelle?” I ask, as I grab my own fork.
Apparently considering that, her smile falters. “Actually, no. Can we rewind a few seconds so I can take that back?”
Now my lips curve up in amusement. “I suppose just this once.”
To get back in my good graces, she smiles more sweetly and says, “Thank you, Sir.”
