Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 209

Adrian’s POV

I wake to the sound of Sophie moving around the bedroom, already dressed in jeans and a sweater, gathering her phone and keys with practiced efficiency.

The morning light catches her hair, and I'm struck by how normal this looks—her getting ready for errands, me watching from bed, another day in our life together.

Except it's not just another day.

One more night until we're married. One night of sleeping separately because of some antiquated tradition about the groom not seeing the bride.

One day until I can touch Sophie as my wife, legally bound, permanently mine.

The realization hits me with sudden, visceral clarity: I can't wait. Won't wait.

"Where are you going?" My voice is rough with sleep and something darker.

"Final dress fitting, then meeting with the florist about the bouquet redesign." She's checking her reflection in the mirror, not looking at me. "Eleanor said she can keep Amelia until three, so I should have enough time to…"

"The errands can wait."

Sophie turns, finally looking at me. Catches whatever she sees in my expression and goes still. "Adrian, I have appointments scheduled. The wedding is tomorrow, there's still so much to…"

"Mom can watch Amelia longer." I stand, moving toward her with deliberate intensity. "Right now, I need you."

"We agreed to sleep separately tonight. Tradition…"

"Fuck tradition."

I close the distance between us, backing her against the wall beside the door. Not touching her yet, just caging her in with my body, letting her feel the want radiating off me.

"I've waited months, Sophie. Watched you doubt us, doubt me, pull away even while wearing my ring. Tomorrow you'll be my wife, but right now I need to remind us both why."

Her breath catches. I see the conflict in her eyes—the part that knows she should leave, should stick to the schedule, should maintain appropriate boundaries.

And the part that's already responding to my proximity, pupils dilating, pulse visibly jumping at her throat.

"Adrian…"

I kiss her before she can finish the protest. Deep, possessive, swallowing whatever excuse she was about to offer.

My hands frame her face, holding her in place as I pour everything into this kiss—need and desperation and the bone-deep certainty that this is what works between us, what's never been in question.

Sophie melts against me with a soft sound that goes straight to my groin. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer even as some part of her probably knows she should push me away.

But she doesn't. She opens for me, matches my intensity, kisses me back with equal hunger.

I break the kiss long enough to lift her—she's lighter than expected, or maybe I'm just running on pure need. She wraps her legs around my waist instinctively as I carry her toward the bedroom.

"This is bad luck," she protests weakly against my mouth. "We're not supposed to…"

"I don't believe in luck," I murmur, kicking the bedroom door closed behind us. "I believe in this. In us. In the way your body knows mine."

I set her on the bed, following her down, covering her body with mine. She's still fully dressed and I need that fixed immediately.

I pull her sweater over her head, toss it aside, work on the button of her jeans with less finesse than usual because patience has never been my strong suit and right now I have none.

"Adrian, slow down…"

"No." I finally get her jeans open, slide them down her legs along with her underwear in one smooth motion. "I've been slow, been patient, been giving you space to doubt and question and pull away. Right now I need you to feel what's real between us."

I strip off my own clothes quickly, efficiently, and then I'm back over her, skin against skin, feeling her heat. Sophie's breath is coming faster, her hands running over my shoulders, down my back, nails dragging slightly.

"Tell me you want this," I demand, needing to hear it.

"Yes," she breathes. "God, yes."

I take my time despite the urgency coursing through me. Worship her body with my hands and mouth, relearning every curve, every sensitive spot that makes her gasp. Her breasts, still fuller from nursing.

The dip of her waist. The softness of her inner thighs. I want to remind her, remind both of us that this works. That when words fail and doubts creep in, this language we speak perfectly.

Sophie arches beneath me, her hands tangling in my hair when my mouth finds her core. I work her with focused intensity, bringing her to the edge twice before finally letting her fall over.

She comes with my name on her lips, her body trembling, and the sight of her like this—completely undone, all her careful control shattered—it nearly undoes me.

But I'm not done. I slide up her body, position myself between her legs, and push inside in one smooth stroke. We both groan at the sensation, the perfect fit, the way her body accepts mine like it was made for this.

"Look at me," I command, and her eyes flutter open, hazy with pleasure. "This is real, Sophie. Whatever doubts you have, whatever complicated feelings—this doesn't lie."

I move inside her, setting a rhythm that's intense, claiming, edged with the desperation we've both been feeling. Sophie meets me thrust for thrust, her legs wrapped around my hips, her nails digging into my shoulders hard enough to leave marks.

Good. I want her marked, want physical evidence of this on both of us.

The tension builds, coiling tighter with each movement. I can feel Sophie getting close again, her body tensing, her breathing ragged. I adjust the angle slightly, hitting the spot that makes her cry out.

"Adrian, I'm—"

"I know," I growl against her neck. "Come for me."

She shatters around me, and the sensation of her clenching pulls my own orgasm from me with startling intensity. I bury myself deep, groaning her name, feeling like I'm marking her from the inside out.

We collapse together, both breathing hard, sweaty and satisfied and tangled in sheets that smell like us. I roll slightly to the side so I'm not crushing her, but keep her pulled close, not ready to let her go yet.

My fingers trace idle patterns on her bare shoulder, memorizing this moment. The way she fits against me. The soft sound of her breathing evening out.

The reality that tomorrow she'll be my wife: legally, officially and permanently. Mine in ways that will be recognized by law and God and everyone who matters.

"That was..." Sophie trails off, clearly struggling for words.

"Necessary," I finish. "That was necessary."

She laughs softly, turning her head to look at me. Her hair is a mess, her lips swollen from my kisses, and she's never looked more beautiful. "You're impossible."

"You love me anyway."

"I do." She says it simply, without hesitation, and something in my chest loosens.

Her phone buzzes from where it fell on the floor with her jeans. Then buzzes again. And again. Reality intruding on our bubble.

Sophie groans. "That's probably Cleo wondering where I am. And the florist. And…"

"Let them wait," I murmur, pulling her closer.

But she's already extracting herself, reaching for her phone with a laugh. "I'm already late for everything. The florist is going to kill me."

I watch from the bed as she checks her messages, sees the multiple missed calls—florist, venue coordinator, Cleo with increasingly frantic texts. She shakes her head, amused and exasperated in equal measure.

"This is your fault," she tells me, but there's no real anger in it.

"Completely guilty." I grin, unrepentant, propping myself up on one elbow to watch her gather her scattered clothes. "Worth it though."