The Housemistress (17 page)

“Why do you keep saying that?” Rylie rocks back on her heels. “You want me to touch you, so why won’t you let me?”

Carriveau wriggles into the corner of the sofa, sitting upright. “I don’t want to have sex with you, Rylie!”

She regrets the words as soon as they’ve left her lips, even before the hurt shows itself on Rylie’s face. Calming herself, she shifts to sit properly on the sofa, closing her legs and pulling the hem of her skirt down to cover the tops of her stockings.

“
Excuse-moi
,” she recants. “What I mean to say is: that’s not
all
I want.”

“That’s not all
I
want, either.” Rylie slumps next to her.

“Are you sure?” Carriveau hooks up her bra, trapping her breasts back inside. “
Passe-moi l’expression
: I’m not a fascination fuck.” She snatches up her mug, downs every drop in it, then pours a refill.

“That’s what you think this is? You think I only want you because you’re my teacher?” Rylie throws her head back against the sofa. “For god’s sake, I love you!”

Carriveau winces, wishing she could believe that. “Oh, darling. You barely know me.”

“How can you say that? After all the hours we’ve spent together, talking about anything and everything that had nothing to do with school.”

Still, Carriveau won’t budge. “We need to wait,” she mumbles, already halfway through her refilled mug.

“Oh, yeah?” Rylie’s patience crumbles, feeling irked enough to put Carriveau on the spot, testing out a suspicion that’s been rolling around in her head for weeks. “How long did you make Kaitlyn Simmons wait?”

In a split second, Rylie realizes her mistake. The utterance of the girl’s name has a much stronger effect than she’d intended, Carriveau’s entire mood changing instantly.

“Where did you hear that name?” Her voice is cold and monotone, her lips pinched tightly together, the light in her eyes extinguished.

Rylie shrugs. “Everywhere. Who is she?”

“A former student of this house.” Carriveau downs more wine. “But she’s gone now, and I don’t see any point in—”

“Was there something between you?” Rylie cuts in, desperate to learn the truth.

“I think you already know.” Carriveau seeks solace in her mug. “Don’t make me say it.”

Rylie won’t press for details, but she needs to ask, “Did she love you?”

Carriveau takes a long sip of wine before answering. “More than I knew.”

Her expression softens, sorrow surfacing in place of the anger, and Rylie feels guilty for having been the cause. In an attempt to salvage something between them, she slips a hand onto Carriveau’s thigh, hoping to tempt her back into intimacy.

“I’m sorry. I—”

“You have to go.” Carriveau removes Rylie’s hand from her lap. “Get back to your dormitory and go to sleep.
Bonne nuit
.”

Pained by Carriveau’s pain, and not knowing how she can help, Rylie does as she’s told. She leaves her faintly sobbing Housemistress alone with her wine and slips out into the hallway, expecting to tiptoe back into bed without alerting anyone to her absence.

But no such luck.

Adel’s standing in the hall, arms folded, her hateful eyes following Rylie every step of the way from Carriveau’s door into the dormitory.

Rylie groans and shifts, rising into consciousness at the sensation of pressure on the edge of her bed, the weight causing a dip in the mattress. She rolls onto her back to confront the shadowy mass, half thinking it might be an irate Adel, come to bust another rib, or smother her with a pillow. But one whiff of the sweet perfume hanging on the air, along with the faint aroma of shampoo and the pungent scent of red wine, and she knows precisely who her midnight visitor is.

It’s Carriveau.

The French woman is silhouetted by a single beam of moonlight spilling in through a skylight window, and as Rylie’s eyes adjust, she can see that her blouse is still partially unbuttoned, her bra-clad breasts entirely visible beneath.

“Wh—”

“Sshhh,” Carriveau whispers, leaning over the bed, pressing two fingers to Rylie’s lips. “Don’t make a sound.”

Those two fingers quickly find their way beneath the covers, diving up Rylie’s nightdress and inside her underwear with no hint of hesitation or insecurity.

Rylie holds her breath, keeping back a yowl as Carriveau’s cold fingertips come into contact with her hot flesh. Unable to vocalize her approval, she opens her legs wider and brings a hand to Carriveau’s, encouraging her Housemistress down through a strip of wiry hair on her mons, beyond a piercing in her clitoral hood, and onward to her opening.

When Carriveau’s fingers slip deeper into her valley, Rylie floods in seconds.

“
Mon Dieu
!” Carriveau murmurs, nibbling on a delicate earlobe, holding back another exclamation of pleasure as she pushes her fingers all the way inside, exploring Rylie’s deep sex. “You’re so wet.”

And tight.

And hot.

And perfect.

She spills a string of hushed compliments, all
en français
, and only some of which Rylie understands. Then, at the first tiny noise that escapes Rylie’s lips, Carriveau smothers her mouth with a wine-flavored kiss, the remainder of the bottle consumed just minutes ago.

She’s drunk.

Her judgment’s skewed.

“Where is it?” she whispers against Rylie’s ear.

“Where’s what?” Rylie mutters huskily, approaching climax already.

“Your toy.”

Rylie unlocks her private drawer in the bedside table and fishes out a seven-inch dildo as Carriveau flings back the covers and clambers onto the bed. The tipsy Housemistress then proceeds to withdraw her fingers from Rylie’s cunt and wet the thick cock with her mouth before pushing the tip between Rylie’s labia, finding her opening and sliding through it.

Rylie clutches fistfuls of the bed sheets, toes curling as Carriveau fucks her gently, lifting her hips to penetrate her deeper, moving harder and faster. In under five minutes, the teen starts to shake, barely breathing, bucking and writhing beneath her Housemistress.

“I’m coming!” she whispers frantically.

Carriveau’s fucking continues unabated, bringing Rylie’s orgasm to full force. In the final moments, Rylie pulls Carriveau against her, tucking her head against Carriveau’s shoulder, biting down on the first area of exposed skin she finds, muffling the arrival of her peak.

When it’s over, they release each other, Rylie’s cunt contracting and pulsing, Carriveau’s neck stinging with a strangely pleasurable pain.

“I
do
love you,” Rylie insists.

Carriveau plants a kiss on her. “I want that to be true.” More kisses. “I want that more than anything.”

She pulls the dildo out and sets it on the bedside table, then pads barefoot out of the dormitory, walking on her tippy-toes, her stealthy exit and her illicit encounter with Rylie not going unnoticed by all.

Lying awake in her bed, Adel glowers at Carriveau’s ghostly, retreating form.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Weekends are odd days. Seeing Carriveau wearing tight jeans and a fitted cotton shirt is always a pleasure, but Saturdays are filled with sports competitions, homework, and other time-sucking activities that leave little time for flirtation.

After the luxury of being woken an hour later than usual, the Upper and Lower Sixth girls of Carriveau house are ushered up and onto the playing field to support their house’s lacrosse team in a friendly competition against a rival sixth form house.

While Rylie takes a seat with Gabby on one of the many wooden benches surrounding the field, her damaged ribcage forcing her to watch instead of participate, banned from inclusion in all sports until her body is healed, she finds her attention divided between the pre-game warm-ups and Carriveau.

Standing with a small cluster of other Housemistresses and their Deputies, she’s sipping from a travel mug of hot coffee, her neck wrapped in a thin woolen scarf bearing the colors of her house—as are the others, with the colors of their respective houses.

Rylie’s cunt spasms every time she looks at her, the memory of last night causing ripples of arousal to flutter through the very deepest part of her core, those muted sensations rising to a pulsing lust as Carriveau separates from the clique and rejoins her house.

“
Puis-je m’asseoir ici
?” she asks her girls to make room on the bench, wriggling her bum in between Rylie and Gabby, squashing herself tightly between them. “Mmm, snug.” She shakes her hips from side to side, bumping and rubbing against the two accommodating teens.

She settles herself just in time, the whistle blowing and the game commencing. Three goals and one foul later, and she feels Rylie’s leg twitching against her thigh, the benched player tapping her foot agitatedly on the grass.

“How soon can you play again?” Carriveau nudges her, detecting envy and frustration in her tensed muscles.

“Two months.” Rylie bites on a fingernail. “Their right wing defense sucks.”

“What’s your position?”

“Second home,” Rylie answers seriously, then giggles. “We’re still talking about lacrosse, yeah?”

Carriveau keeps her eyes on the game, answering quietly. “Second home is an important offensive position on the field,
non
? Your ball handling skills must be excellent.”

Rylie pulls a face. “Yuck!”

Carriveau smirks into her travel mug. “You’re naked, by the way.” She takes a sip, then peers down at her best girl. “Why aren’t you wearing house colors yet?”

Rylie glances at Carriveau’s scarf, then back to the field. “I’m waiting for my parents to send me my allowance so I can buy one. Don’t worry, I’m not planning on defecting.”

“Here”—Carriveau laughs, unwrapping her scarf from her neck—“you can wear mine.”

As she pulls the scarf off, she bares a purple, bite-shaped bruise at the edge of her neck, right above her collar bone.

“Wow, Miss.” Gabby eyeballs it. “What happened to you?”

Despite distinctly visible teeth impressions, Carriveau adjusts the collar of her blouse to cover it and lays the blame on her clumsiness.

“Okay, you caught me.” She balances her mug between her knees and wraps her arms around Rylie and Gabby, drawing them close, pretending that she’s letting them in on a secret. “I might’ve had a special bottle of wine stashed away in the house, I might’ve overindulged somewhat, and then had myself
un petit accident
last night.” Her gaze lands on Rylie.

“A little accident?” Rylie glares incredulously at her. “Is that what it was?”

“Some accident,” Gabby snorts, turning her attention back to the game.

Carriveau has no opportunity to respond.

“Yeah”—Rylie jerks herself free of her Housemistress—“some fucking accident.” She balls up the scarf, chucks it into Carriveau’s lap, and storms off.

Angered and annoyed, she leaves the playing field behind and seeks refuge in the main sports building, keen to be alone. She wanders aimlessly down the halls, checks her phone, texts a few people, reminds her parents to send her the allowance they promised, and finally winds up in a room full of sports memorabilia.