For 30+ Advance/Early chapters :p
atreon.com/ScoldeyJod
The ten feet of hallway that separated Peter's door from Diana's felt like a marathon across a minefield. His heart was a hummingbird trapped in his ribcage. It was one thing for the chaos of their first encounter to unfold in his room, his territory. It was another thing entirely to be summoned to hers.
At precisely 8:00 PM, he stood outside room 4J, his biophysics textbook clutched in a clammy hand. He felt like a complete fraud. He knocked, the sound ridiculously loud in the quiet hall.
The door opened. Diana stood there, and the air in his lungs decided to take an unscheduled vacation. She was wearing a simple, dark grey tank top and a pair of loose, comfortable-looking lounge pants. Her hair was down, a dark, wavy cascade over her shoulders, and she was barefoot. She looked soft, relaxed, and so devastatingly beautiful it was physically painful.
"You're punctual," she observed, a small, teasing smile on her lips. "A valuable trait in a study partner."
"Wouldn't want to be late for the... data collection," he managed, his voice a little hoarse.
She stepped back, and he entered her room. The difference was immediate and stark. Where his room was a beautiful chaos of books, camera parts, and discarded clothes, hers was an oasis of serene, almost spartan order. A single, perfectly made bed sat against one wall. A small collection of thick, ancient-looking books were stacked neatly on a simple wooden desk. The only decorations were a single, framed map of Ancient Greece on the wall and a small, intricately carved wooden owl on her nightstand. The room smelled faintly of sandalwood and old paper. It smelled like her.
"Wow," he breathed. "It's... clean."
"Clarity of space promotes clarity of mind," she said, closing the door behind them. The soft click of the lock seemed to seal them in their own private universe. "Have a seat."
She gestured to the small rug in the center of the floor. Peter sat down, feeling clumsy and out of place in the tranquil space. Diana sat opposite him, her movements fluid and graceful. For a few, agonizingly awkward moments, they actually opened their textbooks. Peter stared at a diagram of a mitochondria, but the words swam before his eyes. He was hyper-aware of her, of the way the soft light from her desk lamp caught the curve of her shoulder, of the subtle, clean scent of her skin.
He could feel her eyes on him. He looked up, and she was watching him, her textbook completely ignored. The look in her deep blue eyes was not academic. It was a look of pure, undisguised hunger.
"I find myself unable to concentrate on my reading," she said, her voice a low, intimate murmur.
"Yeah," he croaked. "Me too. It's... a very distracting chapter."
"Perhaps a different practical application is in order," she suggested. She closed her book with a soft thud, a sound of finality. She moved onto her knees and crawled the short distance across the rug, her movements slow, deliberate, and utterly predatory. She stopped directly in front of him, so close their knees were touching.
"The previous session," she began, her voice a husky purr, "was initiated by you. A successful, if somewhat chaotic, experiment." She reached out, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, her touch sending a shiver through him. "Tonight, the experiment is mine to conduct."
She leaned in and kissed him. It was different from their first kisses. There was no frantic, desperate energy. This was a kiss of knowing, of confidence. It was slow, deep, and utterly commanding. Her lips were soft and skillful, her tongue tracing his, tasting him, exploring him with a leisure that drove him absolutely mad.
When she pulled back, he was breathless. "Okay," he managed. "Your experiment. What's the... uh... hypothesis?"
"The hypothesis," she whispered, her lips brushing against his as she spoke, "is that I can make you completely lose your mind."
She pushed him gently, and he fell back onto the soft rug, his head cushioned by the thick pile. She was on him in an instant, straddling his hips, her weight a perfect, solid pressure. She didn't kiss him again. Instead, she began to unbutton his shirt, her fingers moving with a deft, unhurried precision. She peeled it open, exposing his chest to the cool air, and then she leaned down, her hair falling around them like a silken curtain.
Her mouth, warm and wet, found his nipple. The sensation was a lightning strike, a jolt of pure pleasure that made his back arch off the floor. She suckled and teased, her tongue a master of exquisite torture, while one of her hands slid down his stomach, lower, to the straining bulge in his jeans. She didn't touch him there, not yet. Her fingers just rested on the taut fabric, a promise of what was to come.
He was a mess, a writhing, groaning wreck under her ministrations. "Diana," he gasped, his fingers tangling in her long, dark hair.
She moved lower, unfastening his belt, then his jeans. He lifted his hips, helping her push them down, his erection springing free, hard and aching. And then she gave him the gift he had given her the night before.
The first touch of her mouth was so intensely, shockingly good that a strangled cry was torn from his throat. He was lost. His hands fisted in the rug, his entire body trembling as she took him deep, her skill and enthusiasm shattering his composure. He was completely at her mercy, every rational thought consumed by the rising tide of sensation. He could feel the edge approaching, the point of no return.
"Di," he gasped, his voice tight with strain. "I can't... I'm gonna..."
She lifted her head, her lips slick, her eyes dark with a triumphant fire. "Not yet," she commanded, her voice thick.
She moved back up his body and stood, pulling her tank top over her head in one fluid motion. Her perfect, heavy breasts were freed, her nipples already dark, hard peaks. She shucked off her pants, and then she was kneeling over him, a naked goddess of war and passion, ready to claim her prize.
She guided him to her entrance, her slick heat a welcoming caress, and slowly, deliberately, lowered herself onto him, taking him deep inside her with a long, shuddering sigh of pure pleasure. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on his chest, and began to move.
It was a slow, deep, grinding rhythm, designed for maximum friction, maximum sensation. He watched, completely mesmerized, as her full breasts swayed and bounced with each powerful, deliberate motion. He reached up, his hands cupping their weight, his thumbs teasing the sensitive peaks, and she moaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated from her chest into his.
"Peter," she breathed, her head falling back, her eyes fluttering shut.
He felt the control slipping, the climax building with an unbearable intensity. He reached down, his fingers finding her clit in the nest of dark curls, and began to stroke her in time with her rhythm.
Her eyes snapped open, locking with his. The feeling of him inside her, his hands on her breasts, his fingers on her most sensitive spot—it was too much. A raw, guttural cry was torn from her throat as her orgasm seized her, her inner muscles clenching around him in a series of violent, exquisite spasms.
Her release was what shattered his own control. With a final, desperate thrust, he poured himself into her, his own climax a white-hot explosion that blanked his vision, his name a ragged prayer on her lips.
She collapsed onto his chest, a dead weight of satisfied exhaustion. They lay there, their hearts hammering in sync, their bodies slick with sweat, the scent of their lovemaking thick in the air.
He stroked her hair, his fingers idly tracing the line of her spine. The experiment was over. The hypothesis had been proven correct. He was, completely and utterly, out of his mind. And as she shifted, pressing a soft, sleepy kiss to his shoulder, he knew with absolute certainty that the rules of their system were a beautiful lie, and he never wanted to find a cure.
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