Chapter 491 | An Academic Violation

Chapter 491: 491 | An Academic Violation

The sound she made when my fingers curled inside her was worth every single point I’d ever spent on this Sanctum.

Aurora’s back bowed against the teacher’s desk. Her orange ponytails dragged across the oak surface as her head turned sideways, cheek pressing flat against the wood, green eyes losing focus as her body registered what my fingers were doing. The white shirt pulled tighter across her chest with each heaving breath, the wet spot spreading around her right nipple where milk continued to leak through the fabric. Her bare feet slid apart on the tile floor, widening her stance and giving me room to work.

"You’ve been very disruptive, Fitzgerald." I kept my voice low and even. The teacher register. The one that made Aurora lose her goddamn mind. "Forty minutes of touching yourself while your classmates were being evaluated. That’s an academic violation."

"They weren’t—" Her breath hitched when I pressed my thumb against her clit. "They weren’t evaluating. They were being worshipped."

"And you got jealous."

Aurora’s hips pushed back against my hand with honest desperation. "I got impatient. There’s a difference."

There absolutely was not a difference, and we both knew it. Aurora Fitzgerald did not do jealous. Aurora Fitzgerald orchestrated, controlled, and directed. She had placed Addison in my lap. She had bought my clothes and organized this party and spent three weeks positioning everyone around me like chess pieces. Aurora was the architect. The grand strategist. The woman behind the curtain who made sure every piece landed exactly where she intended.

But she could not control this. My fingers inside her. My breath on her neck. The fact that she had listened to me make Belle scream for thirty-eight minutes and had been unable to stop her own hand from moving and now stood bent over a desk in a schoolgirl costume she had dressed herself in while pretending she had any power left.

I withdrew my fingers. Aurora whimpered. The sound was so unguarded, so stripped of every mask she wore for the academy and the guild scouts and the rest of the world, that the graft in my chest pulsed hot enough to make my vision swim.

"Turn around."

Aurora turned. Her back pressed against the desk’s edge. The twin ponytails fell over her shoulders, red ribbons bright against the white shirt. Her chest rose and fell. The black lace bra showed through the fabric where milk and sweat had made the cotton transparent, and her nipples stood hard against the cups, each one leaking a thin line of white that ran down her stomach and disappeared beneath the skirt’s waistband.

I reached for the tie and pulled. The knot came undone and the red fabric slithered free, hanging from my fist.

"Hands behind your back."

Aurora’s eyes widened. The green flared bright, catching the fluorescent overhead light, and her lips parted around a breath she forgot to finish. She put both hands behind her back without a single word of protest. The compliance hit me harder than any fight I’d survived in the past six weeks.

I looped the tie around her wrists. The silk was cheap, the kind that came from an academy uniform rather than a boutique, but Aurora had selected it for the texture against skin rather than the thread count. I tied a knot that would hold without cutting off circulation. Five years of dating in a previous life had taught me a few things that the Divine Milking System couldn’t claim credit for.

Aurora tested the binding. Her shoulders flexed. The shirt pulled tighter across her chest and two buttons gave up their fight for survival, popping free and skittering across the tile floor. The shirt fell open from collar to navel, revealing the black lace bra, the milk running in twin trails between her breasts, and the flat stomach that tensed with each exhaled breath.

"Mr. Monroe." Aurora’s voice had dropped below the breathless register into something real and raw and ragged. "I’ve been very bad."

I picked her up by the waist and set her on the teacher’s desk.

The wood groaned. Papers scattered. The nameplate reading MR. MONROE tipped sideways and fell to the floor. Aurora sat on the edge with her wrists bound behind her back and her legs hanging off the desk’s front edge, the grey skirt bunched around her hips. The stockings framed her thighs. The absence of underwear turned the space between them into a direct invitation that required no interpretation.

I stepped between her legs and kissed her.

Aurora kissed back with the accumulated hunger of a woman who had spent forty minutes edging herself to the sounds of other women getting what she wanted. Her tongue found mine and the taste hit before the sensation did, strawberries and champagne and something darker, the specific flavor of her arousal that I had cataloged during our first night in the Ventura hotel. Her legs wrapped around my waist and locked at the ankles, pulling me against her with enough force that I felt the heat of her through my jeans.

I broke the kiss and moved to her throat. Aurora’s head fell back, ponytails dragging across scattered papers, and her bound wrists strained against the tie as her body tried to reach for me and found nothing to grab. The helplessness was the point. Aurora controlled everything in her life, every conversation and every dynamic and every relationship, and the one thing she could not control was what happened when someone took her hands away.

My mouth found her collarbone. The hollow above it. The edge of the lace bra. I pushed the cup down with my chin and closed my lips around her nipple.

The milk came immediately, hot and sweet, strawberries dissolving into cream with champagne undertones that the graft translated from dimensional frequency into sensory experience. Twenty-five points per mouthful. The System tracked the numbers. I didn’t care. I drank because Aurora’s body was giving itself to me, and the sound she made when I sucked was a broken moan that bounced off every hard surface in the fake classroom and carried enough emotional honesty to fuel a weapon in Santa Barbara.

I activated Euphoric Feedback at level seven.

Aurora’s bound body convulsed. Her heels dug into my lower back. Her stockinged thighs clamped against my hips. Milk sprayed from the breast I wasn’t drinking from, dotting the white shirt and the grey skirt and the scattered papers and the blackboard behind me. I drank through the first wave, swallowed, and layered Sensory Hijack across touch.

Every point where our bodies made contact doubled its signal. My mouth on her breast became a furnace. My hands on her thighs became brands. The cotton of the shirt against her stomach became silk that burned. Aurora screamed with her whole body, the sound ripped out of her at a register that cracked the fluorescent light directly above us. The tube flickered and died, leaving us in the golden wash of the remaining lights and the city glow filtering through the hallway windows.

"Jace." Not Mr. Monroe. Not the game. My actual name, spoken by someone who had stopped playing. "Please. I can’t—I’ve been waiting for—"

I pulled back from her breast. Milk ran down my chin. Aurora’s eyes focused on the white trail and her tongue traced her own lower lip, a response so instinctive she probably didn’t know she’d done it.

I unbuttoned my jeans and freed myself. Aurora watched, her green eyes dropping down and then coming back up with the expression of someone presented with exactly the dessert they ordered.

"Took you long enough," she said.