"It seemed... prudent," I manage. "Given the statistical likelihood that we would eventually—"
"Stop, stop." He's wiping tears from his eyes. "I can't. You're killing me. Two years of research. Were there flashcards? Please tell me there were flashcards."
"There were... diagrams," I admit.
Sam loses it completely. He's doubled over, wheezing, and I should be mortified—Iammortified—but watching him laugh like this, free and unguarded, makes something warm bloom in my chest.
"Devan Morse," Sam gasps, straightening up and grabbing my face in both hands. "That is the most romantic, insane, deeply unhinged thing I have ever heard in my entire life." A slow smile spreads across his face. "I think I'm in love with you. Like, actually in love. Not just mate-bond in love. Regular, old-fashioned, you're-a-complete-weirdo-and-I-love-it in love."
Then he kisses me.
Slow and deep. His tongue slides against mine, and I groan, my hands finding his hips, pulling him against me. He tastes like soda and mint and somethingSam.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"Show me," he whispers against my lips. "Show me your homework, Professor."
I lift him and carry him to my bed.
"I've dreamed about this," I murmur, hovering over him. "You, here. In my bed."
Sam arches up, seeking contact. "Devan, please."
I pull back, just enough to look at him. Flushed cheeks, swollen lips, eyes dark with want.
"Let me," I whisper. "Let me take care of you."
I start with his hoodie, peeling it off slowly, savoring each inch of skin. His t-shirt follows, and then his chest.
"I can't believe you're mine."
I press my lips to his collarbone, trailing kisses down his chest. He squirms beneath me, impatient, but I take my time. I've waited long enough. I'm going to memorize every inch of him.
"Devan," he gasps as I flick my tongue over his nipple. "God, that feels—"
"Good?" I murmur against his skin. "Tell me what feels good."
"Everything," he pants. "Everything you're doing. Don't stop."
I don't. I kiss the inside of his wrist and he shivers. He gasps when I nip at his hip bone. And he lets out a broken moan when I finally unbutton his jeans and slide them down his legs.
He's hard, straining against his boxers, a wet spot darkening the fabric. I mouth at him through the cotton, and he bucks up with a curse.
"Fuck, Devan, please!"
I hook my fingers in the waistband of his boxers and pull them down, freeing him. He's red and leaking, his thighs slick.
"I can smell you," I groan. "You're wet for me."
Sam flushes and turns his head to the side. "Don't say it like that."
I cup his jaw, making him look at me. "Why not? You're beautiful."
Before he can argue, I lower my head and take him into my mouth.
The sound he makes is a broken cry that goes straight through me. His hands fly to my hair, not pushing, just holding on.
"Devan, fuck, oh my god—"
