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He drops to his knees in front of me. His hands go to my belt. He looks up at me, his pupils blown wide with lust, and the jealousy and the anger and my crush all collapse into the same stupid heat.

“I’ve thought about this for months,” he says, working the buckle free, popping the button, and dragging the zipper down as if he has any right. “This. You against your desk. Me on my knees in front of you. Showing you what I wanted every time you sat on my fucking lap.”

My brain attempts to file that into something that makes sense, but it fails.

He tugs my jeans and underwear down just far enough to free me. I’m already hard. Embarrassingly hard. And then his mouth is on me, and I’m gone.

The tip of his tongue swipes over my swollen head, dipping into the slit. He hums, and I can feel it all the way to my balls. He does it again, slower, like he’s licking an ice cream cone, and my hips jerk before I can stop them. His palm pins me to the desk.

“Mmmm, no, I’m controlling the pace, Quinn.”

He sucks my head between his lips, rolling his tongue over me some more. It’s tight and hot and wet. Then he takes more of me. Spit runs down my shaft and he uses it, fist twisting on the downstroke while his mouth works the rest, cheeks hollowed, eyes on my face like he wants to watch me fall apart.

A wet sound fills the room. It’s obscene. And hot. I can hear myself breathing like I’ve been running. His tongue drags along the underside, his lips kissing and sucking along the way. Then he presses hot open-mouthed kisses to my balls, and when he draws them into his mouth, I see stars. Oh. My legs start to shake and my fingers find his hair as he slides his mouth back up the length of me, leaving spit behind.

His hand leaves my hip, sliding around my thigh and between my legs, his fingers and palm spreading my legs enough for air to hit the crack of my ass. I jolt when his finger brushes my hole.

“Daniel—”

He pulls off with a slick pop. His mouth is red and puffy, just like it gets when we kiss. “Want me to stop?”

I should tell him yes. Instead, I shake my head frantically, because stopping now might actually kill me. He chuckles softly, and the sound vibrates against my over heated skin.

He spits into his fingers. I watch him do it, transfixed. Then that hand goes back between my legs, and the pad of one finger traces my rim, spreading the moisture around. Circling and pressing hard enough that I feel sparks of electricity from nerve endings I didn’t know existed.

“Oh.” It comes out on a punch of air. “That’s⁠—”

“Yeah?” He sounds as wrecked as I feel. He takes me into his mouth again, while he keeps that light, filthy pressure, rubbing, not pushing inside, just letting me feel how close he actually is. Every time he swallows around me, his finger presses a little firmer. Not inside. Just enough that my whole body lights up as though he found a switch I nobody told me about.

I like it.

The thought spreads through me stupid and bright. I like it. I rock back onto his touch without meaning to, and a noise comes out of me I will never forget.

Daniel groans around my cock like I just gave him a gift. He takes me deeper, messy now, spit on his chin, and the finger keeps working that tight furl until I’m panting and holding his hair too hard, and I can’t tell which sensation is going to finish me.

“I’m—I can’t⁠—”

I try to pull him off. He doesn’t let me, he sucks harder, his finger rubbing tight little circles, and I come with a broken sound, pulsing onto his tongue. My thighs shake, and I lean the top of my ass cheeks against the desk for support. He swallows. Keeping a gentle pressure on me through it until I’m oversensitive and twitching, then he eases off and presses one last kiss to my hip like an apology for ruining me.

I sag against the desk. Jeans around my thighs. Brain empty.

He stays on his knees, forehead pressed against my stomach, breathing like he just came off the ice. I stare at the ceiling and wait for any of the anger to come back. It doesn’t. In its place is the knowledge that this changes everything.

All I have right now is the leftover tremors of my body and the ghost of his fingers where I unexpectedly, inconveniently, wanted more.

THIRTY-SEVEN

DANIEL

Fuck my self-imposed rules.

I cling to Quinn, my arms wrapped around his middle, still on my aching knees. His shirt is fisted in my hands. He tastes like salt, and I can’t stop hearing the little sound he made when I put my fingers where I wasn’t sure he’d let me. My jaw is sore. I don’t care.

I want this. I want him. And he wants this, too. You don’t come apart like that on a person you don’t still like.

More than friends. He’s ambitious, too. He’ll understand the hours I need to spend on my degree. He’ll probably make sure I do my homework. He won’t let me slack off. And I might be drunk on lust right now, but the thoughts feel right in a way the box I shoved my feelings into.

I press my mouth to the skin above his waistband, then look up.