Slowly.
‘Understand me clearly.’
The low voice does something to the room. To my spine. To every stupid, waiting part of me.
‘I am not going to pretend I was swept away by an eighteen-year-old. I am the adult in this room. I am choosing this with both eyes open. Do you understand me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Say it properly.’
‘Yes, Dr Haldrey.’
Not obedience. Precision.
He closes them for half a second. The title in his own kitchen, from a boy in his own t-shirt, something he wasn’t ready for, noted for later, to be used without mercy.
Then the speech stops, and the morning turns.
He keeps me in the chair. Doesn’t move me to another room. Doesn’t even move me to the table. There is only the kitchen, the wooden chair I’m already on, and the man already standing between my knees.
Whatever he had decided, the restraint lasts exactly the length ofyes, Dr Haldreybefore it shatters.
He kisses me before I’ve finished saying it.
Nothing like the slow kiss from upstairs, or the tender kiss from the shower. This is the kiss from last night’s hallway, the one that started this whole problem. Fast, open, teeth at my bottom lip, and tongue behind that.
His hands go straight up my ribs under the cotton of the T-shirt I am wearing, which is his T-shirt, which makes the gesture complicated in a way my brain has no time to file.
The palms are warm.
I am still sitting on his kitchen chair, and the whole thing has moved fromwe are talking seriouslytowe are not talking at allin the space of one sentence.
He gets both hands under my thighs and pulls me forward, right to the edge, so my hips are at the front of the chair and my back hits the chair-back. The chair scrapes once against the floor.
‘Haldrey.’
‘It’s all right.’
It is not all right. It is a kitchen chair. It is very obviously not designed for this.
Then he steps between my thighs and presses in, the whole length of him through denim, through the joggers he lent me, a single unbroken line of hip against hip.
My hands go up the back of his T-shirt. His skin is hot, the muscle along his spine tightening under my palms.
He rocks forward once. Slow. Testing if the chair holds.
The chair holds.
He rocks forward again, less slowly, and the friction through two layers of fabric catches the whole front of me at once.
My cock was half-hard from the speech.I am the adult. I am choosing this.
It is not half-hard anymore.
It is painfully hard and trapped against the seam of his joggers, and his cock is equally hard pressed against mine through his own fabric, and the wood of the chair is pushing back under me with every roll of his hips, and this is not going to take long.
‘Dr Haldrey.’
