Chapter 339: After the Ninth Heaven

Ms. Patricia Bloom

lay draped across Phei’s lap like a woman who’d just been thoroughly, brutally unmade.

Which, to be fair, she

had

been.

Nine times

.

She’d lost count somewhere around the sixth—when his

cold

tongue and the molten golden pulses of

Goddess Fall

had blurred every orgasm into one endless, devastating, squirting wave that left her

pussy

gaping, swollen, ruined, still fluttering weakly around nothing, cream and squirt still leaking in slow, sticky rivulets down her ass crack to pool beneath her jiggling cheeks on the lab desk.

Now she floated in that boneless,

starry haze

—thoughts sluggish, limbs heavy, every muscle liquid and useless. Her

tits

rose and fell with ragged breaths, nipples still swollen and red from his cold mouth,

clit

throbbing in lazy aftershocks, entrance clenching on phantom fullness.

He smiled at his handwork, or rather tongue and mouth, oh, his hands were involved too.

Phei held her steady—one thick arm banded around her waist like iron, the other tracing lazy, possessive patterns across her bare shoulder blades. His shirt clung wet and transparent to his chest—drenched in her squirt.

His face still glistened—chin dripping thick strands of her cream, lips swollen and shining, hair plastered to his forehead.

He

reeked

of her: thick, musky, salty-sweet

cunt

and squirt, a scent so potent it should’ve

embarrassed

her.

Instead it made her inner walls flutter again, fresh slick welling up at the thought of climbing into his lap and begging him to

ruin

her properly this time—with that legendary cock the entire female staff had been losing their minds over.

"Any plans tonight?"

The question came low, casual—like he was asking about tomorrow’s weather instead of whether she was ready to take every thick, veined inch of him in her bed, on her floor, against her shower wall.

Patricia’s brain—still rebooting from its ninth trip to the fucking

Ninth Heaven

—took long seconds to catch up.

Plans tonight.

She knew exactly what he meant.

Are you free for me to come to your place and split that pretty teacher cunt open on my cock? Are you ready to feel what the Legacy princesses get whenever they snap their fingers? Are you prepared to scream my name until your voice gives out and your pussy gapes for days?

Because yes—she’d heard the rumors.

Whispers in the staff lounge that died when she walked in.

Dreamy,

glazed looks on certain female teachers’ faces when his name came up. Pictures that had circulated in private group chats—grainy shots of the obscene bulge in his gym shorts, the way it strained against fabric like it was trying to escape.

Maybe even videos—clips of Sierra and Maddie limping out of empty classrooms, thighs trembling, skirts wrinkled, faces flushed and stupid-happy.

Lucky bitches.

How do they even walk straight?

Is it really as big as they say?

Patricia had been curious—mildly, academically, the way you’re curious about a phenomenon you’ll never personally experience.

Until yesterday.

Until Phei

got

her—not with that cock

(yet),

but with his hands and mouth, yesterday and today his filthy reverence, the way he’d worshipped her like she was both goddess and slut.

The attraction had been instant. Real. Undeniable.

She’d spread her legs for him in under twenty-four hours.

One might call her easy.

One would be

wrong

.

Patricia Bloom turned down

three men

—minimum—each week. More during conferences. Colleagues, parents, handsome strangers at bookstores who thought

charm and a latte

would get them inside her pants.

She had

standards

. Boundaries.

A very specific type almost no one met.

And yet here she was:

post-orgasm puddle in a student’s lap,

pussy

still leaking, seriously considering inviting him home so he could

claim

her properly.

Phei had bypassed every filter she’d ever built.

Irresistible.

That was the only word.

In any sane world she should say:

"Mr. Maxton, this was a mistake. Professional boundaries. I could lose my job. You could be expelled. This ends here."

That’s what

morality

demanded. Career demanded. Every self-preservation instinct she’d honed over years screamed it.

Instead, what came out—soft, wrecked, still trembling—was: "

Yes.

I’m free."

Consequences could go

fuck themselves

.

She came from

money

—obscene, generational,

cry-to-daddy-and-everything-disappears

money. Teaching was a hobby, not survival. If this blew up? She’d walk away unscathed. New school. New city. New life. No real loss.

So,

fuck it

.

"But

you’re

not free," she added, voice husky, knowing.

Phei raised an eyebrow, thumb brushing the sensitive underside of her breast. "I’m completely free. When the game’s over. I’m all yours tonight."

She shook her head slowly—still boneless against his chest, skirt bunched uselessly around her thighs,

pussy

exposed and glistening, cream still dripping.

"No, you’re

not

." That knowing, teacher-tone slipped in—the one that said

you really have no idea what’s coming, do you?

"I hate to ruin the surprise, but your little fan club—’The PheiCrush Simps,’ they’re calling themselves—and your girls... they’ve been planning something

big

for you."

Phei’s expression flickered—understanding dawning.

Of course.

Emily and Delilah wouldn’t let a simple game win be the end.

They’d been scheming something

celebratory

.

Something that would drag him around Paradise like a conquering hero—probably involving champagne, lingerie, multiple beds, and every hole they could offer.

Patricia

smiled—slow, wicked, still wrecked.

She leaned up just enough to brush her swollen lips against his ear.

Phei smiled—small, almost warm, the first real crack in the glacial wall that had settled over him since yesterday’s shadows at the Ashford estate.

"Then may I have the pleasure of inviting you to join me?" His voice stayed low, velvet-rough. "Whatever Emily and Delilah are planning—whatever the Simps have schemed—come with me."

Patricia Bloom

made a deliberate show of considering it.

She tilted her head, dark hair spilling over one bare shoulder. Pursed her swollen lips. Let her gaze drag slowly down his body—over the soaked shirt clinging to his chest, the thick ridge still straining his pants like it was trying to claw free, the faint sheen of her squirt still glistening on his throat.

"No."

Phei blinked. "No?"

"You’re going to have to do

better

than that, Mr. Maxton." She shifted deliberately in his lap, turning to straddle him more fully, thighs bracketing his hips.

One manicured finger traced a slow, teasing line down the center of his chest, following the wet fabric until she reached the waistband of his pants.

"Post-orgasm,

half-baked requests don’t work on me. If you want me on your arm tonight—want me watching while your little fan club worships you, want me waiting until you can finally

fuck

your Chemistry teacher properly—you’ll have to be a gentleman about it."

He understood instantly.

She was

playing

with him.

And fuck if he wasn’t in the mood to play back.

"

Miss Bloom

." He captured her hand—lifted it to his lips—pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to her knuckles. Old-fashioned. Courtly. Reverent. His eyes never left hers. "Would you do me the honor of accompanying me this evening?"

"Hmm." She pretended to weigh it, tapping one finger against her chin. "No. Too formal. Try again."

"

Patricia

." His voice dropped—lower, rougher, edged with that growl she’d heard when he’d buried his cold tongue inside her. "Come with me tonight. Let me show you off."

"Show me off?" She scoffed, arching one brow. "I’m not a handbag. No."

"Then let me

worship

you properly." He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear, breath hot against the sensitive skin still flushed from his earlier assault. "In a bed this time.

Slow. Deep. Every

inch of my cock stretching your pretty teacher cunt until you forget how to form sentences."

"Tempting..."

She shivered, thighs clenching around his hips. "But still no. Too forward."

"What if I promise to make you come

ten

times instead of nine?" His hand slid up her bare back, fingers splaying wide between her shoulder blades, pressing her closer until her swollen

tits

mashed against his chest. "Eleven if you squirt hard enough to soak the sheets."

"Now you’re just negotiating." She nipped his lower lip—sharp, teasing. "No."

He laughed—actual, warm, surprised laughter that rumbled through his chest and made something soft and dangerous flutter low in her belly. This was the Phei she’d glimpsed yesterday—before whatever darkness had iced him over. Playful. Sharp. Devastatingly charming. The version that made her forget he was seventeen, that she was supposed to be the adult in the room, that professional boundaries even existed.

"Alright." He leaned in closer, lips grazing her ear again. "

Miss Bloom. Patricia. My beautiful, brilliant, absolutely ruined Chemistry teacher.

" His voice dropped to a reverent rasp. "I am formally requesting the privilege of your company this evening. I will hold doors for you. Pull out chairs. Refill your drink before you even have to ask. I will be so disgustingly gentlemanly you’ll want to slap me by the end of the night."

She bit her lip to trap the smile.

"And?"

"And," he continued, voice thickening with filthy promise, "when the evening ends—when the Simps have screamed themselves hoarse, when Emily and Delilah have shown off whatever depraved surprise they’ve cooked up—I will take you home. Your place or mine, your choice. And I will spend the rest of the night

claiming

every inch of you. Slow at first—teasing that greedy little cunt until you’re begging. Then hard. Deep. Relentless. Until your walls are fluttering around my cock, until you’re squirting so hard you soak us both, until you scream my name so many times your throat gives out."

Patricia

’s breath caught—sharp, audible.

She held the moment. Stretched it. Made him wait.