The Housemistress (16 page)

Though still concerned, Carriveau accepts that some matters simply would not benefit from the intervention of a teacher—indeed, that they could even be exacerbated by it—so she lets the subject go, turning her mind instead to a rather more upbeat topic.

“I have something for you.” She dials up a smile and bends over her desk, rummaging through loose papers. “It’s here somewhere.”

Rylie angles her chair for a better view of Carriveau’s posterior. “Keep looking. Take your time.”

“You like my
derrière
?” Carriveau gives her rump a little shake before resuming her search. “Ah!” She plucks a leaf of paper from under her laptop. “Sign-ups ended a month ago, but I’ve made special arrangements for you.”

“That sounds like an exception.” Rylie takes the proffered page, barely restraining her excitement when she realizes it’s a flyer for the after-class music club.

“I know I said I wasn’t going to make any of those.” Carriveau returns to her side. “But one more could hardly hurt, and I want an excuse to hear you play again.”

“I have something for you, too.” Rylie fishes around in her backpack, pulling out a writing assignment bound in a plastic folder. “Will you read this over for me? It’s my English homework. My creative narrative.”

Carriveau takes it from her, laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Rylie frowns.

“Nothing, darling. It’s just I’d rather I wasn’t your—” She stops herself, sadness invading. “That is, I’d prefer it if my obligations to you were different.
Tu comprends
?”

“Acutely.” Rylie places a hand on Carriveau’s stockinged knee. “Do you want me to drop French again? Would it be easier for you if you taught me less?”

“Oh,
mon amour
. Trust me, if these feelings of ours endure, and the time comes for one of us to make a sacrifice, that one shall not be you. The burden of responsibility in this is mine, and mine alone.”

“That hardly seems fair.” Rylie works her fingers beneath the hem of Carriveau’s skirt.

“It’s as it should be. But in the meantime, we’ll continue as normal and let things play out.” Carriveau steals a peck on the lips. “After all, we haven’t yet done anything too terrible.” Another peck. “So I’ll read your homework this evening.” One more lingering peck. “I’ll give you my notes in the morning.” Her eyes twinkle. “In my study.”

Rylie’s mind flashes back to this morning’s scuppered attempt to harness a few moments of privacy, and to the angered look on Miss Ansell’s face.

“What if someone twigs?” She tastes Carriveau’s lipstick on her lips. “Other teachers, I mean.”

“Who? Miss Ansell?” Carriveau shakes her head. “Don’t worry about her. We’ll have to be more careful around the house, but generally speaking, I learnt a while ago that the more you struggle to conceal something, the more obvious it becomes. So just relax and think nothing of it, then nor will anyone else.”

“Spoken like a repeat offender,” Rylie jokes.

The comment is intended to be lighthearted, but Carriveau doesn’t take it that way.

“I know it goes against all good sense and reason for me to let this happen.” Her mood dulls. “But I don’t want to stop being close to you, Rylie. I love—”

There’s a sharp knock at the door, and Adel barges in without waiting to be invited.

“
Alors là
!
Où sont tes manières
? Where are your manners, Edwards?” Carriveau recovers quickly, retracting her own hand and pushing Rylie’s off her knee, hastily retreating behind her desk. “Thank you for this, Harcourt.” She sets Rylie’s homework in front of her. “We’ll speak later.”

Rylie accepts the brisk dismissal without complaint, but Carriveau’s interrupted words ring in her ears for the remainder of the afternoon, a hundred different questions forming around them.

I love—

I love … what? You? This? Something else?

Trust Adel Edwards to ruin it.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Long after lights out, Carriveau uncorks a bottle of wine she’s been keeping hidden in her private quarters and sits down in the common room, sipping from a mug. She props her feet up on the coffee table, rests Rylie’s homework against her thighs, and dons her reading glasses.

The first line causes her to choke on her booze.

My orgasm hits me hard, her fingers deep inside me, probing every inch of my hungry, gushing sex, coaxing a cry of pleasure from my lips
…

It goes on, transitioning into a flashback that sets up the introduction of the two main characters: a young, blue-eyed blonde and a somewhat older, green-eyed brunette.

Subtle, she giggles to herself. Really subtle.

Aroused and intrigued, she keeps reading, concluding that Rylie must be sexually experienced. Her writing is too explicit, and much too accurate to be the work of an overactive imagination … surely … hopefully.

Carriveau sets her mug of wine on the arm of the sofa and leans back, sliding her hips forward, causing her skirt to bunch around her thighs.

She reads on.

Her cheeks are burning, the flush spreading to her chest, her cunt throbbing impatiently. Clutching the hem of her skirt, she relaxes her knees, continuing to read as she slips a hand between her legs, tickling her fingers over her core.

She’s sopping wet.

Groaning with need, she tucks Rylie’s porn under her arm, grabs the bottle and her shoes with one hand, her mug with the other, and tiptoes upstairs. As she grapples with the lock on the door to her private quarters, she hears the floor creaking behind her.

“Vivienne …”

Carriveau turns to face Rylie, stifling a gasp at the teen’s slender form. She’s clad only in a white cotton nightdress and knickers, erect nipples and dark pink areolae showing through, tenting out the fabric at her bust.

“What are you doing up so late?” she asks, realizing that she’s staring, jerking her eyes up. “Do you need something?”

Rylie doesn’t answer, her own eyes drawn to the wine, knowing there’s not supposed to be any alcohol in the house.

“Sshhh.” Carriveau puts her fingers to her lips. “Our secret.”

She swings open the door to her rooms and doesn’t bother to close it behind her when she enters, leaving it flung wide: a silent invitation.

What happens next is now entirely up to Rylie, the doorway simply a portal offering countless unspoken possibilities—and the besotted student isn’t about to pass any of them up.

She steps inside, lingering at the threshold of Carriveau’s modest living area, a bedroom to the right, and a bathroom to the left. The bedroom door is ajar, and through it, Rylie can see a queen-sized bed draped in silk sheets.

“Don’t hover.” Carriveau tosses her shoes on the floor and lets down her hair. “Either you’re in, or you’re out. Make up your mind.”

She flops onto a sofa at the edge of the room and pours herself another mug of wine, setting the bottle and the porn on a tempered glass coffee table. Facing Rylie, she drapes one arm over the back of the sofa, the other nursing the mug in her lap, her pelvis angled forward, her legs crossed, leaning into the cushions, waiting for the teen to make a decision.

Rylie pushes the door closed.

Smiling, Carriveau brings the mug to her lips, taking a sip. “You wrote me porn.”

“Did you like it?” Rylie moves toward her.

“You know I can’t submit it to the school, don’t you?” Carriveau’s wicked smile sticks. “You’ll have to write me something else for class.”

“It wasn’t meant for the school,” Rylie confesses, sinking into the cushions beside her. “It was only meant for you.”

Carriveau swirls the wine in her mug, trying to downplay her arousal. “I have to ask … do you write from experience?”

“You want to know if I’m a virgin?”

Carriveau’s stomach somersaults at the thought. “I’m curious about your expertise.” She fingers the rim of her mug. “You write with a certain … precision.”

“I haven’t been a virgin in almost two years.” Rylie edges nearer. “Is my lack of innocence a disappointment to you? Or does it excite you?”

Carriveau raises her gaze, her pupils dilated on account of her mild inebriation, intoxicated as much with the moment as she is with the wine. “Quite honestly, it relieves me.”

Rylie shuffles closer still, moving slowly in case the overture is met with rejection.

It isn’t.

She maneuvers alongside Carriveau, her bare thighs grazing silk stockings. Reaching forward, she plucks Carriveau’s mug from her hand. The consenting Housemistress makes no attempt to hold onto it, and says nothing when she takes a sip from it and sets it down on the coffee table.

Growing bolder by the second, Rylie grabs Carriveau by the ankle and swings one of her legs onto the sofa, spreading her thighs.

“Rylie!” Carriveau squeals, taken aback by the girl’s audacity.

Another squeal is quick to follow as Rylie seizes her hips and yanks her forward, kneeling between her parted legs, bending over her.

Instinctively, Carriveau relaxes into the sofa, lying further and further back with every inch of Rylie’s advancement until the pair are horizontal. Rylie, above and in control, lowers herself into a kiss and Carriveau closes her eyes in anticipation of it, allowing herself to be seduced. Then, Rylie thrusts forward, slamming her pelvis against Carriveau’s sex.

And again.

And again.

Her ribs are screaming, but she keeps going.

Carriveau grunts every time Rylie crushes into her, and she demonstrates her appreciation by grinding her hips up to meet every lunge, reaching down to grasp Rylie’s bum, pulling her tighter, nearing orgasm from the mere simulation of penetrative sex.

Craving the release, she digs her nails into Rylie’s flesh, her body tensed for climax, then … Rylie slows down. Carriveau is about to growl out a complaint when she feels Rylie’s hands on her chest, unbuttoning her blouse, intent on freeing her breasts.

To that end, Rylie gives the satin a firm tug, exposing the bra beneath. Brimming with lust, she’s in such a hurry to disrobe her Housemistress that she fumbles the front clasp on the bra three times before she’s finally able to release it.

“Oh, thank god,” she whimpers, casting her eyes on Carriveau’s naked breasts. “They’re real.” She takes one in her hand, massaging it firmly. “They are real, aren’t they? You’re so soft.”

Carriveau laughs. “Yes, they’re all mine. You thought I had fake tits?”

“You’re stacked. I was
afraid
you had fake tits.”

Carriveau starts to laugh again, but the sound gets caught in her throat, turning to a stunted squeak as Rylie brings her hot mouth to the other breast and starts suckling on her.

“You’re breathtaking,” Rylie murmurs, moving from one breast to the other, both delicious pink nipples pointed to the ceiling. “So gorgeous.”

They begin kissing in earnest, a flurry of hungry tongues and lips. Carriveau’s hand finds its way under Rylie’s nightdress, caressing her silky thigh, while Rylie’s hand starts traveling downward, from breasts, to waist, to …

Carriveau breaks off the kiss.

Rylie’s heart sinks. She went too far again?

“I can’t give you everything you want from me,” Carriveau maintains feebly, panting heavily. “Not tonight; not like this. I wish I could.”

Ignoring that, Rylie tenders another kiss and lifts Carriveau’s hand to her breast, encouraging Carriveau to fondle her over her nightdress.

Reacting without conscious thought, Carriveau arches her back into Rylie, accepting the sweep of a furtive hand over her waist and hip, pushing her legs further apart.

“Rylie …” She moans again, Rylie’s lips breaking away from hers to travel south.

While lips and tongue trail over her neck and chest, she feels a sure hand creep up her inner thigh, seeking out her throbbing, impatient sex.

“That’s enough,” Carriveau pleads.

Rylie doesn’t stop.

“
Ça suffit
,” Carriveau whispers more forcefully.

Rylie continues regardless.

“
Arrête
!” Carriveau pushes Rylie away, losing her composure for a brief moment. “Stop, stop, stop!” She tears her hand away from Rylie’s breast and holds the teen’s wandering, tickling fingers at bay before they can discover her damp knickers. “This is too much.” She forces Rylie’s hand out from between her legs. “This is too much, too soon.”