Chapter 452: Chapter 452 - Pinned on the Ground

His mouth didn’t stop.

That was the problem.

She’d expected him to read her hesitation — the stiffness in her spine, the way her fingers kept alternating between gripping his collar and pressing flat against his chest like they couldn’t agree on a direction — and pull back. Give her the inch she needed to rebuild whatever wall she’d been maintaining for seventeen days.

He didn’t.

His hand slid from her lower back, trailing down the curve of her spine with the slow, deliberate patience of someone who had decided on a destination and wasn’t in any hurry to pretend otherwise.

Her breath hitched into his mouth.

His palm settled on the back of her thigh — warm, wide, the heel of his hand just below the hem where her skirt had bunched — and he pulled upward. Slowly. The fabric rode up her thighs in increments, cool air following the path it left, and Marla felt every centimeter of it.

’Stop him.’

She didn’t stop him.

His fingers found the elastic of her white panty from the side — not pulling it down, just pressing his palm flat against the cotton over her mound. Just holding it there.

The pressure alone made her legs try to close.

He was between her knees. There was nowhere to close to.

She made a sound into his mouth — desperate, humiliated, honest — and felt his chest move with something that wasn’t quite laughter. Not mocking. More like satisfaction.

His fingers started to move.

Slow, circular pressure through the wet cotton. The fabric was soaked — she’d known it was soaked, she’d been aware of it for twenty minutes with the particular self-conscious horror of a woman who believed her body had no business making decisions without her — and now he knew it too.

His fingers knew it.

They moved like they knew it.

’Nnnh—’

The sound came out of her nose, muffled against his lips, and her hips tilted forward without her permission. Just slightly. Just enough to press harder into his hand. Her thighs trembled with the effort of holding still.

He rubbed.

Slow, unhurried, the pad of his middle finger finding the ridge of her through the fabric and pressing in — not hard, just ’present’ — tracing the shape of her like he was reading something written there too.

Her fingers had found the back of his neck at some point. She didn’t remember deciding that.

He pulled back from the kiss.

Just enough to look at her.

Her face was a disaster. Glasses slightly askew, hair loose and dark against the grass, lips swollen and glistening with the shared mess of the last several minutes, eyes wet at the edges with the specific misery of a woman whose body had staged a full mutiny.

He looked at her like she was exactly what he’d been expecting.

"’Don’t—’" she started.

He pushed her back.

Not roughly. Just decisively — his hand at her sternum, guiding rather than shoving — and she went down against the grass with the soft impact of someone whose knees had already given up, her back finding the ground beneath the wide shadow of the oak, his jacket tangled under her shoulder blades.

The garden path was thirty meters away.

Students still moved along it. Unhurried. Oblivious.

Marla turned her head sideways and watched them with the glazed, dissociated focus of someone trying to anchor themselves to the rational world while the irrational one pressed her into the grass with both hands.

"They’ll see—"

"They won’t."

She looked up at him. 𝘧𝘳𝘦ℯ𝓌𝘦𝒷𝘯𝑜𝑣𝘦𝓁.𝒸𝘰𝓂

Purple flickered at the edge of the oak’s shadow — barely visible, just a shimmer, like heat haze. The air around them shifted texture, not enough to notice from the path, enough to feel from inside it.

A ward.

Something that made eyes slide past them without stopping.

She should have felt more alarmed by that.

Her hips lifted slightly off the ground instead.

He moved between her knees, settling his weight over her without crushing, and his hand found the hem of her skirt again — pushing it up past her hips in one deliberate motion, exposing the white cotton fully, the dark thick thatch of her hair visible through the fabric where it was soaked through.

His fingers hooked the elastic at the side.

Tugged it.

The panty shifted — not down, just sideways, pulled taut against her other hip, the fabric riding to the left and exposing her fully to the cool garden air. The dark, dense curls of her pubic hair were matted with her own slick, gleaming faintly in the ambient light filtering through the canopy.

Marla made a sound.

Not a word. Not a protest. Just a raw, mortified exhale through her nose as the night air found the wet heat between her thighs.

’I hate this.’

’I hate him.’

’I hate that I’m—’

His finger pressed against her.

Directly. No fabric. No barrier.

The pad of his index finger traced down the seam of her folds — slow, exploratory — parting them gently, feeling the slick that had gathered there with the unhurried attention of someone thoroughly unsurprised by the quantity of it.

Her back arched off the ground.

"’Hnn—’"

He circled her entrance once. Feeling it. The heat of it, the way her pussy fluttered and clenched around nothing, begging for something to clench around.

Then he pushed a single finger inside.

Slowly.

The stretch was immediate — not painful, just overwhelming, her inner walls gripping around him the instant he entered, squeezing like her body was trying to keep him from moving. He pushed past the resistance with steady, calm pressure until his finger was buried to the knuckle, and Marla’s hands flew to the grass on either side of her, fingers raking through the blades.

’Oh—’

The thought completed itself as nothing.

He pulled back. Pushed in.

Once. Slow. Deliberate.

Her hips rolled up to meet him.

He added the second finger without announcement — just a brief, stretching pressure, and then two knuckles buried deep in her wet, hairy cunt while his thumb found the swollen nub at the top of her folds and pressed in a slow, idle circle.

Marla’s mouth opened.

No sound came out.

Then it did.

"’Mmnh—’ S-stop—"

He kissed her.

The kiss was different now — lower to the ground, his weight partially over her, his mouth descending on hers while his fingers worked below at the same patient rhythm. He caught her lower lip between his teeth — not biting, just holding, dragging slightly as he pulled back before coming back with his tongue.

His free hand found her chest.

His palm pressed flat against her left breast through the bra — then his fingers curled, gripping the full, heavy weight of it, kneading with slow, rolling pressure that pushed the flesh upward against the underwire. Her nipple stiffened into a hard, aching point beneath the fabric.

’What is he—’

He squeezed.

The sound she made into his mouth was absolutely unacceptable. A low, broken moan, swallowed by the kiss before it could escape into the open garden air. Her tits were sensitive — had always been sensitive, large enough that any pressure translated directly and immediately — and his hand was thorough and entirely uninterested in being gentle.

He kneaded her breast like he owned it.