For 30+ Advance/Early chapters :p
atreon.com/ScoldeyJod
For a long time, the only sound in the room was the whisper of skin against the soft fibers of the rug and the slowing, syncopated rhythm of their breathing. Peter lay on his back, a blissful, boneless wreck, with Diana sprawled half on top of him, her head resting in the hollow of his shoulder. The scent of their lovemaking—a heady, musky cocktail of sweat, sex, and sandalwood—was thick in the air. This was her space, but he had a feeling it would forever smell, to him, like this moment.
He stroked her hair, the dark, silken strands cool against his fingertips. His body was a roadmap of her passion: a faint scratch on his shoulder, a love bite blooming on his neck, the lingering ache in his muscles. He felt branded. Claimed.
"So," he murmured into her hair, his voice a low, satisfied rumble. "For the record... my mind is officially lost."
He felt her chuckle, the vibration a pleasant hum against his ribs. She lifted her head, propping herself up on her elbows to look down at him. Her face was flushed, her lips were swollen, and her deep blue eyes were dark and hazy with a satisfaction that mirrored his own.
"The hypothesis was proven, then," she said, her tone mock-serious. "A successful experiment."
"I think we need to replicate the results," he countered, a grin spreading across his face. "You know... for science. Peer review."
Her smile was slow, seductive, and full of a promise that made his exhausted body stir with a fresh wave of desire. "Patience, Peter. A good scientist must analyze the data before beginning a new trial." She pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his lips, then gracefully slid off him. "And we still have a midterm to prepare for."
He groaned, letting his head fall back onto the rug. "You can't be serious. After... that... you want to study?"
"I am always serious about my studies," she said, though the playful glint in her eyes betrayed her. She stood, and Peter's breath caught in his throat. The soft lamplight gilded the lines of her body, casting gentle shadows that accentuated the powerful curve of her hips, the toned muscle of her thighs, the perfect, heavy swell of her breasts. She was a living, breathing statue carved from marble and moonlight. "We made an agreement. We came here to study."
She walked over to her desk, completely unselfconscious in her nudity, and picked up her textbook. Peter watched, mesmerized by the fluid, powerful grace of her movements, the way her back muscles flexed with each step.
"Are you just going to lie there," she asked, turning to face him, the heavy textbook held casually in one hand, "or are you going to join me?"
The invitation was clear. This was a new phase of the experiment. Peter pushed himself up, his own nakedness feeling clumsy and mortal compared to her divine confidence. He gathered his own book and notes, and they settled back on the rug, facing each other, their textbooks open between them.
The absurdity of the situation was not lost on him. They were two naked college students, their bodies still slick and smelling of sex, pretending to read about cellular mitosis. It was the most surreal, and the most intensely erotic, moment of his life.
He tried to focus. He really did. He stared at a diagram of the Krebs cycle, but the letters and arrows just blurred into a meaningless jumble. His entire being was focused on the woman across from him. He watched the way her breasts gently swayed as she leaned forward to turn a page, the way she unconsciously bit her lower lip in concentration, the dark, tantalizing triangle of curls at the apex of her thighs.
He felt himself growing hard again, a slow, insistent ache.
Diana, for her part, seemed perfectly focused. For about five minutes. Then, he saw her foot snake out from under her book, her toes gently brushing against his calf. The touch was light, almost accidental, but it sent a jolt straight through him. He looked up from his book, and her eyes were still on her page, a mask of scholarly innocence on her face. She was playing with him.
Two could play at that game.
He kept his eyes on his book, pretending to be absorbed. "So, uh, in this part," he said, his voice surprisingly steady, "it talks about the phospholipid bilayer of the cell membrane. How it's selectively permeable." As he spoke, he stretched his own leg out, his foot finding hers, his toes gently stroking the arch of her foot.
He felt her breath hitch, a tiny, almost inaudible sound. "Selective permeability," she repeated, her voice a little huskier than before. "It controls what is allowed to pass through. A necessary barrier."
"Right," he said, his foot now stroking higher, up to her ankle. "But some things can pass through freely. Through... facilitated diffusion."
She finally looked up, her academic pretense crumbling. Her eyes were dark with a familiar fire. "Is that what this is, Peter? Facilitated diffusion?"
She closed her book and set it aside. The game was over. She crawled towards him again, that same slow, predatory grace in her movements. She knelt beside him, her thigh pressing against his, her warmth a delicious torment.
"Tell me more about this 'bilayer'," she whispered, her fingers tracing the line of his collarbone, then lower, over the muscles of his chest. "I find the subject... fascinating."
His skin erupted in goosebumps under her touch. "It's, uh... it has hydrophilic heads and hydrophobic tails," he stammered, his mind going blank as her hand drifted lower, her fingers dancing a teasing path over his abs.
"Hydrophilic," she murmured, leaning in to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to his shoulder. "Water-loving." Her hand continued its journey south, finally closing around his aching, fully-aroused erection. "And what does this part love?"
A ragged groan was torn from his throat. The sensation of her hand, cool and strong, wrapped around his heat was almost too much. "You," he gasped. "It loves you."
Her laugh was a low, throaty sound of pure triumph. "The data is consistent, then."
She began to stroke him, a slow, deliberate rhythm that was both agonizingly teasing and exquisitely pleasurable. He closed his eyes, his head falling back, completely surrendering to her touch. This was her experiment, and he was a very, very willing subject.
"You know," he managed to say through gritted teeth, "this is not what I thought 'studying' meant."
Diana leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear. "This," she whispered, her voice a promise of untold pleasures, "is the advanced curriculum."
He knew, with absolute certainty, that he was going to fail his midterm. And he didn't care at all.
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