“This?” He squeezes my cock hard enough to make my body quake. “What is ‘this,’ Kai? Use your words.”
“Your hands on me.” I’m panting now, fucking his fist like I have no self-control. Which I don’t. Not anymore. “Your mouth. Your—” I swallow hard. “I want?—”
“What do you want?”
I can’t say it. Can’t admit that I’ve been imagining him inside me, wondering what it would feel like, whether it would hurt, whether I’d beg him to stop or beg him for more.
“Tell me,” he murmurs, nipping at my earlobe. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you.”
“I want—I want you to—to f-fuck me.”
The words come out cracked and desperate, and I’ve never hated myself more because it sounds like I’m going to fucking cry.
Rooke goes still.
For a horrible moment, I think he’s going to laugh. Going to push me away and call me a pathetic simp again.
Instead, he presses his forehead against mine, breathing hard.
“Christ, you have no idea how much I want to. But not here,” he says quietly. “Not like this.”
“You fucking serious?” I grab his face, forcing him to look at me. “You’ve been playing this sick game of yours for weeks, pushing and pushing?—“
“This isn’t the time or the place.”
His hands come up to cover mine, and there’s something in his eyes I swear I’ve never seen before.
Affection.
“When I fuck you—and Iwillfuck you, Kai—I’m going to take my time. I’m going to make sure you’re ready?—“
“I don’t need?—“
“You don’t know what you need.Ido.”
He presses his lips to mine, but doesn’t kiss me. He’s too busy explaining himself, and that’s probably the only reason I listen to him instead of taking whatIwant—whether I know how to or not.
“You’ve never done this before. And I refuse to be the reason you end up hating something that should feel incredible.”
My throat tightens. I don’t know what to do with this version of him. The one who sounds like he actually gives a shit.
“So what?” I manage. “That’s it?”
His laugh is low and dark. “When you’ve been such a good boy for me? How cruel do you think I am?”
Before I can reply, he’s sinking to his knees.
What—
JesusmotherfuckingChrist.
Bastian Rooke—my professor, my tormentor, the man I’ve been telling myself I hate for months—is kneeling in front of me, tugging my jeans down my thighs, and looking up at me like he’s about to initiate me into his cult.
Hand me the fucking blue Kool-Aid already.
“I’m going to teach you something,” he murmurs, breath warm against my aching cock. “You’d better take notes.”
When he closes his lips over my cock and slides me into his mouth, I nearly fucking black out.
