No preamble. No careful checking. Just three weeks of restraint collapsing all at once.
His hands everywhere at once—my face, my hair, down my back hard enough to bruise. The kiss wrecked from the beginning. Hungry in a way I’ve never felt from him before.
‘I couldn’t—’ he starts.
Doesn’t finish.
Good.
Don’t finish. Don’t think.
I grab his belt.
Practised now: buckle, button, zip. Four seconds. My personal best was three, but his cock’s already straining against the fabric and the extra second is because I want to feel the heat of him through the cloth before I free him.
There.
Hard and thick and leaking into my hand.
I’m on my knees before either of us has consciously decided on it.
The carpet is rough against my shins. Dusty institutional carpet that probably predates my birth. His cock in my mouth and the sound he makes—this bitten-off groan he tries to swallow and can’t—is worth every lie I’ve told to get here.
I take him deep.
My jaw aches almost immediately, and there’s no asking it to stop.
The taste of him: skin, salt, soap from this morning, the sharp slickness of pre-come when I drag my tongue beneath him where the vein runs thickest.
His hand in my hair.
Holding.
Not forcing. Just holding with this disbelieving tightness like he still cannot quite process the sight of someone on their knees for him in a university building at three in the afternoon.
A door slams somewhere down the corridor.
We freeze instantly.
His cock still warm between my lips. My fingers against his thigh. Neither of us breathing.
Footsteps.
Closer.
Past the room.
Keep going.
Silence again.
I look up.
He looks destroyed already. Glasses crooked. Lips bitten dark red. Pupils blown wide enough to erase most of the grey.
Christ.
For this—for twenty stolen minutes in a dead seminar room—he gets to stop being Dr Haldrey and become only a body.
