Jules kept his expression steady, letting Connor know he wasn’t toying with him at his next words. “You can have more. If you want it. You can have more of me.”
Connor’s hand stilled. For a beat, Jules thought he’d overplayed it. That the offer would trip whatever wire ran between Connor’s desire and his defenses.
Instead, Connor undid the button of Jules’s jeans.
Jules’s head tipped back, the crash of lust hitting him so hard he couldn’t watch. He heard the zipper come down, felt the cooler air, then it was the heat of Connor’s hand wrapping around him without the barrier of fabric.
He let out a long, low groan at the touch. It was… everything. Every fucking thing he wanted, needed, craved in a single connection. He would not last long at this rate.
Connor stroked him with intentional, measured pulls. Each one built on the last like he was testing a theory beforepresenting it to a class. Jules didn’t take offense to it at all. If this was how his Professor, the object of his affection, behaved, then Jules would sign up to be studied 24/7.
Jules’s hands found Connor’s shirt. He pulled the fabric, bringing them closer to the point where they were breathing the same air. At the nearness Jules could see the crack in Connor’s composure widening with every stroke. Connor’s breathing was as wrecked as his own. His free hand had moved to the back of Jules’s neck again, gripping, holding him in place as if Jules were going anywhere. As if there were anywhere else he’d rather be.
“You’re—” Connor started, then stopped. His grip tightened, making Jules moaned.
“What?” Jules managed. “What am I?”
Connor didn’t answer with words. He kissed him instead, pouring into action what he chose to avoid speaking. The man was falling apart at the seams. There was no doubt about it.
Jules kissed back with everything he had, one hand gripping the collar of Connor’s shirt, the other braced on the desk as his hips moved into Connor’s fist.
The orgasm hit him like a wall. Jules broke the kiss to gasp against Connor’s jaw, his body locking and shaking through it while Connor’s hand continued to stoke him every second of the release. Jules kept his eyes open, watching the expression on Connor’s face -- fascination, hunger, confusion.
Jules slumped forward. His forehead dropped to Connor’s shoulder. For a moment, the only sounds were their breathing and the absurd normality of a world that kept turning outside this office while seismic events had just occurred inside it.
Connor stepped back first, of course. He moved to the small sink in the corner of the office and washed his hands. The noise of the water felt more like warning alerts than something he’d heard his whole life.
Jules watched his professor from the desk, still sitting with his jeans undone and his composure in ruins. A pleasant, post-orgasmic haze softened the edges of his vision enough to keep him from overthinking what they’d just done.
Connor dried his hands with a paper towel thoroughly, then dropped it in the trash.
When he turned back to Jules, his face was unreadable. The mask was back, rebuilt in the time it took to cross the room.
But Jules didn’t get upset at the change. He’d seen behind it. Had felt it crack open under his mouth. He’d heard the sounds Connor had tried to swallow and failed.
There was no unseeing that for either of them.
“This can’t happen again.” Connor’s attempt at coldness was ruined as his gaze remained on Jules’s still exposed length.
Not wanting to seem as if he were playing at keeping the man distracted, Jules tugged his zipper up and buttoned his jeans. Then he slid off the desk, taking a second to make sure his legs were solid beneath him.
They were.Mostly.
“You keep saying things like that,” Jules said. He picked up the pen that had fallen to the floor. Set it back on the desk. “And then you do the opposite.”
Connor didn’t deny it. He couldn’t. The room smelled of sex. He hadn’t washed that away like he had his hand.
Jules picked up his bag from the chair, throwing it over his shoulder. He could feel Connor watching him, so he took his time, letting the man look. No matter what his professor said, he’d enjoyed himself and, if Jules were to bet on it, wanted a repeat.
Before he left as asked, Jules did something he hadn’t planned.
He grabbed up the pen on the desk, along with the notepad beside it. He wrote his number down with the initial J beside it. Ten digits, clean and legible.
He set the paper on the desk, right in the center of the space. Connor wouldn’t be able to miss it.
Connor approached his desk, making sure he took a wide berth from where Jules stood. He stared at the number.
“It’s your move now, Professor.”
