Count to three: My affair with my dynamics professor (teacher x student)

Chapter 71

Frida didn't wait.

Her thighs were already locked tight around Inés's hips, their skin slick where it met, breaths ragged, sweat glistening in the hollows of their throats. The room smelled like heat, like wine, like frustration turned into fire.

Inés lay flat beneath her, hair wild across the pillows, her wrists half-pinned above her head by the younger woman's hands. Her breath came shallow through parted lips, chest rising hard against the brush of Frida's skin. She was staring up at her like she couldn't believe this — couldn't believe her — even after everything.

Frida leaned down, still straddling her, her voice a raw scrape. "God—your thighs," she gasped, dragging her hand along one, digging her nails in. "You could crush me and I'd fucking thank you."

Inés's breath hitched.

Then her fingers were between them, yanking the lace aside — not careful, not slow — and Inés gasped as it tore off, her leg bending at the knee to anchor Frida in place.

Frida tossed the ruined panties somewhere off the bed, hair falling into her face, lips red and parted. "You're soaked," she muttered, stunned for a second, almost reverent. Then, rough again: "You like how I fit there, don't you? Right fucking there—"

She shifted her hips hard, grinding down, their slick heat colliding — and both of them choked on the sound, on the feel of it, raw and seamless, no space left between.

"I can feel your clit against mine," Frida went on, harsher now, shameless. "So hot. So goddamn wet. Like you've been aching for this."

Inés clawed down her back. "Joder—" ("Fuck.")

Frida pressed her forehead to hers, panting. "You feel like you were made for this. Every inch of you."

Her voice cracked on it.

"Your thighs—" she bit her lip, growled. "The way they grip me. Hold me in place like you own me. You do, Inés. Fuck, you do."

Inés's eyes fluttered, wild, her mouth slack.

Frida sat up again, dragged her body harder against her, pulled Inés's thigh higher until it trembled. Their rhythm was filthy now — slick and loud and merciless.

Inés's head dropped back, her throat bare, legs tightening beneath her. Her hands couldn't decide where to hold — Frida's hips, her ribs, her breast, her mouth — desperate, greedy.

And Frida gave it. All of it.

Every grind, every curse, every sound their bodies made together. There was no softness left in it. No carefulness. Only the two of them — ruined and ravenous.

When they came, it was unhinged — soaked, brutal, loud. One pulling the other into it with a cry and a claw and no goddamn hesitation.

Frida collapsed onto her chest, body shivering, breath caught somewhere between a sob and a moan, her cheek against Inés's skin.

Neither of them moved for a while, but the air between them hadn't even cooled when the next shift came.

Frida was still trembling on top of her, breath shallow, mouth parted against Inés's throat. But the moment Inés's fingers flexed along her back — not aimless, but deciding — everything shifted.

She moved with purpose.

One long, deliberate roll of her hips, and suddenly Frida was the one on her back, legs sliding open without protest, mouth slack with the remnants of afterglow and something newer, needier.

Inés didn't speak. Just watched her — her chest still heaving, collarbone slick with sweat, the rise and fall of her ribs frantic beneath flushed skin.