I pull off him slowly and stand.
Turn around.
Hands flat against the door.
‘Fuck me.’
Behind me, his breathing goes ragged.
I can practically hear the fight happening inside him: risk calculation against want. Professional ruin against the fact that he’s already reaching for the lube.
‘Quick,’ he says hoarsely, more to himself than me.
Two fingers.
The stretch familiar now, my body opening around him easily despite the angle. Standing bent against a seminar-room door is objectively terrible posture for this, but wanting has obliterated practicality.
Then he pushes in.
My forehead drops hard against the wood.
Fuck.
The fullness hits wrong first, then adjusts, then lands devastatingly right, and the sound that tears out of me absolutely carries through the walls.
Fast.
Hard.
Urgent enough to feel dangerous.
I grip the door handle for leverage while he fucks into me with the kind of control that only barely counts as control anymore.
Locked university room. Tuesday afternoon. My lecturer inside me.
The rational response would be to stop.
I physically cannot.
Laurence’s mouth finds my ear.
‘Ewan.’
Just my name.
The Lancashire stripped completely bare of professionalism.
I come untouched against the door with a sound I don’t recognise as mine. The orgasm rips through me violently enough to blur the room at the edges, and behind me Laurence loses rhythm completely.
His thrusts stutter.
Then he buries himself deep and holds there with a rough broken sound against my shoulder, his whole body shaking.
Silence.
Our breathing.
The faint electrical hum of the dying projector in the corner.
