Then I remember that he’s straight, and I’m an idiot, and this is exactly the kind of moment that’s going to haunt me later when I’m alone in my room.
But for now, surrounded by my shivering teammates, my best friend pressing himself further into my side, and the distant sound of Gerard lamenting his temporarily diminished penis, I let myself have this.
The wind picks up, sending another round of shivers through the crowd. In the distance, I watch the onlookers uploading videos of the plunge to social media. By tonight, the entire campus will have seen us in our frozen glory, including the Ice Queen.
My balls are still recoveringfrom yesterday’s arctic baptism when I drag myself into the administration building at the ungodly hour of 8:00 a.m.
The lobby stinks of old papers that should have been shredded by now, and the lingering smell of industrial cleaner. My sneakers squeak on the polished floor as I navigate the maze of hallways, following signs designed by someone who hates students. I’m on my way to the third floor, Office 312. Academic Advising. The place where schedule fuck-ups go to die.
I take the stairs two at a time, partly because the elevator’s been broken since freshman year, and partly because standing still makes me think. And thinking leads to remembering Jackson’s body pressed against mine in that blanket cocoon yesterday. The way his skin felt, cold and smooth except where goosebumps raised like braille spelling out all the things I’ll never get to do to him.
Sex has always been my favorite distraction. When Mom calls asking why I haven’t visited, I find someone to fuck. When my brother texts about his perfect grades and perfect new girlfriend, I download Grindr. When the memories of being six years old and watching Dad walk out creep in, I let some stranger worship my body until I forget I ever needed anyone to stay.
Each encounter is a temporary fix, a band-aid over wounds that probably need stitches. But stitches require sitting still, and I’d rather keep moving, keep touching, keep pretending that physical connection is the same as emotional intimacy.
Office 312 has a frosted glass door with “Academic Advising - Mr. Trevor Banks” etched in a pretentious font. I knock once and enter without waiting because patience isn’t my strong suit today.
And there he is. Trevor fucking Banks.
Twenty-nine years old, master’s degree in Higher Education Administration, and owner of a mouth that once made me see God in his parents’ basement. He’s wearing a crisp white button-down that does absolutely nothing to hide the body I remember mapping with my tongue. His dirty blond hair is styled professionally now, not the messy bedhead I created by gripping it while he deep-throated me for twenty minutes straight.
“Drew.” His voice cracks on my name. Professional Composure: 0, Shared History: 1. “Please, have a seat.”
I drop into the chair across from his desk and spread my legs wide because I’m an asshole who enjoys watching him squirm. His eyes flick down for a millisecond before snapping back to his computer screen. The tips of his ears turn pink.
“So, Trevor?—”
“Mr. Banks,” he corrects, fingers flying across his keyboard with the desperation of someone attempting to appear busy.
“Right.Mr.Banks.” I lean forward and say the mister part as sultry as possible. “I’ve got a problem with my schedule. Seems I’m registered for Advanced Calculus twice. Unless this is some new thing that BSU has implemented, I don’t think I need to take that class more than once.”
He pulls up my file, and I watch his jaw clench. Two summers ago, that jaw was slack with pleasure as I worked him over in a room that was nothing but wood paneling and shag carpeting. It was his parents’ annual luau. He’d been visiting from grad school, and I’d been someone’s plus-one. We locked eyes over the roasted pig, and three hours later, I had him begging in ways that would make his academic credentials weep.
“I see the issue,” he says, still not looking at me. “Let me fix that for you.”
“Take your time.” I lean back, making the chair creak. “Nice office, by the way. It’s…professional. Nothing at all like that basement in—where was it? Westport?”
The pencil in his hand snaps.
“Greenwich,” he mutters, face flushing deeper. “And that’s not…we’re not discussing that.”
“Discussing what?” I say, blinking at him with all the faux innocence of a puppy caught with its nose in the trash. “I’m just making conversation,Mr.Banks. Unless you’re thinking about something specific? Say something involving your tongue and my…” I let the sentence dangle as my hand drifts down to palm my crotch through my jeans. My thumb blatantly rubs along the ridge for dramatic effect. It’s not just for show. I’m packing, and the only person who’s ever expressed outright awe is currently sitting across from me, fingers twitching on his mechanical keyboard.
The thing about Trevor is that he was a bottomless pit of thirst and admiration. “God, Drew, it’s a fucking python,” he’d moaned once, mouth full and eyes rolling. “You’re going to kill me.”
Spoiler alert: I very nearly did. With Trevor, I learned that all I had to do to make him weak in the knees, to beg until I filled him up with my seed, was to come at him with equal parts girth and charm. Judging by the quiver of his Adam’s apple, it’s about to happen again. The begging that is. As hot as he is, I’m not looking to bang anyone today. My penis is still in recovery mode.
Trevor finally tears his gaze off my lap and glares holes into his monitor. “This is a professional setting, Mr. Larney,” he says, voice brittle as uncooked spaghetti. “I expect you to act accordingly.”
I flash him a wolfish grin. “C’mon, Trev—Mr.Banks. We’re all adults here. All I’m saying is while you set a pretty high bar for academic performance, it wasn’t my GPA that you were most impressed with.” I waggle my eyebrows for added effect.
He freezes with his lips parted and air caught somewhere between a gasp and a groan, then types even faster. If the keyboard had feelings, it would be filing a restraining order against him.
I chuckle at the deep red blooming across his cheeks and ears, and down his throat. His eyes lock onto mine, pupils dilated with want even as his jaw clenches in panic. He’s a drowning man fighting the urge to grab the life preserver that once dragged him under.
The wall clock counts each unspoken moment with mechanical clicks. Fluorescent tubes buzz overhead like angry wasps. And Trevor’s breath catches in his throat with tiny hitches that betray everything his professional facade tries to hide.
Finally, he rips his eyes away, makes a show of adjusting his posture, and shoves his monitor in my direction. “Your schedule is fixed!” he practically shouts. “You’re now registered for Advanced Calculus and Modern American Literature, which fulfills your humanities requirement.”
