Sebastian was still brooding about his attraction to Tristan when he met R.J. for dinner and drinks at a trendy sushi restaurant in Buckhead. He’d arrived before R.J. and was already ensconced at a table with a Scotch, trying to sip it like a civilized person instead of gulping it to make himself stop having fantasies about a student.
R.J. raised an eyebrow at the Scotch as he sat across from Sebastian at the table. “Wow. Scotch already? You usually start with a beer.”
“What are you, my boyfriend?” There was a bit more of a bite than Sebastian intended to the words. He sighed into his glass and took another sip, mentally chiding himself to calm the fuck down.
“No, but if I was gay, I’d probably be totally into you,” R.J. said, unconcerned, barely even looking at Sebastian as he examined the menu. “Well, maybe if you had an attitude adjustment. What’s with you lately, anyway?” He set the menu aside. “Your asshole levels have been raised to previously unrecorded numbers these last few days, Seb. What’s up?”
Sebastian felt comfortable talking to R.J. about this, if no one else. R.J. was more than a fellow colleague, he was a friend. “I . . . Ugh, this is so stupid I can’t believe I’m about to say it. I have . . . inappropriate interest in a student.”
R.J. just looked at him, so Sebastian stared intently at his glass and ran the tip of his finger around the edge. “The hockey player. Before you ask.”
“And that’s . . . stupid?” R.J.’s voice sounded amused. “I thought you were down with appreciating the eye candy?”
Sebastian shrugged. “I am. But I think— I think this might be mutual. And that can’t happen.”
There was a moment of awkward silence—at least, it was awkward to Sebastian—and then R.J. said, very carefully, “But you haven’t done anything, right?”
Sebastian shook his head. “No.”
“You haven’t, like, sent him a racy email or asked him to stay after for a special tutoring session, right?”
“Of course not.”
R.J. studied him. “But you think he’d be into that. If you did, I mean.”
This was exactly what Sebastian didn’t want to think about, and had, of course, spent all weekend thinking about. “Yes. But I won’t.”
“The class is only for a few more weeks, though, right?” R.J. asked. “What’s stopping you from pursuing something after grades are turned in? Are you thinking he’s going to show up in another class of yours in the future?”
“I hope to God not,” Sebastian said with a frown. He didn’t think he could handle Tristan in those sweatpants for a second longer than he had to. Too tempting. “And just because he wouldn’t be my student doesn’t take away the part where he is now.”
R.J. rolled his eyes, clearly not as perturbed by the idea as Sebastian. “Dude. You went to grad school, right? Half my professors were married to former students.”
So that phenomenon wasn’t limited to the field of sociology. “Yes, but do you know what those professors have that I don’t?”
“Uh.” R.J. snorted. “Should I really answer that?”
Before Sebastian could say anything, the waitress came to take their order. He really wanted another Scotch, but made himself stick to water and a light beer. He’d hoped that R.J. would drop the subject once the waitress left, but mathematicians, Sebastian was learning, were relentless.
“I know what you’re going to say,” R.J. informed him, tucking into the edamame appetizer Sebastian had ordered when he’d first arrived. “That you don’t have tenure, and they do. But, Seb, man, do you really think you’d be the first nontenured professor to have a relationship with a former student?”
“Why would that matter? It doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.” Sebastian took a few pieces of edamame. “I appreciate that you’re trying to find the bright side here, R.J., but you don’t have to try and convince me it would be anything other than a mistake.”
“Well.” R.J. peered at him thoughtfully. “I understand that you don’t want anything to happen while he’s still your student. But if you guys are into each other, and he’s finished with sociology at the end of the summer . . . I’m still not seeing what the big deal would be if you two hooked up.” R.J. lifted his glass and grinned. “Plus, you’d totally be my hero if you hooked up with a hot professional hockey player and somehow scored me some tickets.”
Sebastian glared, but the liquor had done its job and taken some of the heat out of it. “Can we please not talk about this anymore? And you can’t say anything about this to anyone. I’m serious. He’s not out. Honestly, I shouldn’t even have told you, but I needed to talk to someone I trust.”
R.J. set his glass down and raised his hands, palms out. “I would never repeat what you tell me to anyone, especially about something like this. I promise. And now that I know you’re being a broody asshole because you have a crush on one of your students, we can move on.” He laughed, clearly unperturbed by Sebastian’s scowl.
Sebastian didn’t bother to respond to that. Maybe he did have a bit of a crush on Tristan, and maybe he was being a little too hard on himself. So what if Tristan apparently returned his interest? He knew he wouldn’t do a thing about it, and even though there would technically be nothing wrong with him pursuing Tristan after the semester grades were turned in . . . No. He’d worked too hard to get where he was, and he didn’t want to do anything to fuck that up.
The conversation switched to other topics, but before they left, R.J. clapped him on the shoulder and said, “So, hey, even if you decide not to go after hockey boy when the semester ends, that doesn’t mean he won’t try something. If he’s into you.”
“It doesn’t change anything.” Sebastian was beginning to wish he’d kept his mouth shut.
“At least think about it,” R.J. cajoled, tossing some cash on the table.
That definitely wasn’t going to be a problem. Sebastian had a hard time not thinking about Tristan, especially when he was at home by himself.
In class he played it cool and looked at Tristan as little as possible, though it did nothing to lessen his attraction. Every now and then Sebastian would find Tristan staring at him, and he’d feel the heat flare up between them. Still, Sebastian stuck to his guns and limited their eye-fucking as much as he could . . . until the day of Tristan’s final presentation arrived.
The students were supposed to present their papers in front of the class, and Tristan’s time slot was the first one for the day. Sebastian had prepared himself by getting off in the shower while having inappropriate fantasies of his student in there with him, sucking his cock to earn a good grade. It wasn’t the first time he’d ever had that fantasy, of course, but it was the first time he had someone specific in mind. Sebastian hoped that indulging in the fantasy might make it easier to sit in the lecture hall and listen to Tristan give his talk about LGBT issues in professional sports, especially considering Sebastian’s professional interest in the topic at hand.
But, as Sebastian settled in his seat and waited, it looked as if maybe Tristan wasn’t going to show up. Frowning, Sebastian crossed his legs and checked his watch, noticing the time inch closer to the start of class. If Tristan was late, he’d miss his spot and that would severely impact his grade. All of the implications of that began to whirl like a maelstrom in Sebastian’s mind, and he was momentarily paralyzed with visions of himself in a very uncomfortable meeting with the dean, when the door opened just in time, and Tristan came in.
Or, more appropriately, rushed in. He was breathing hard, which meant he’d probably run all the way from the parking lot, and his hair was still damp as if from a shower. He was wearing a Venom shirt (the first time, to Sebastian’s knowledge, that he’d done so) and those goddamn gray sweatpants. He gave Sebastian what could only be described as a harried look and said amidst his attempts to catch his breath, “I’m sorry I’m late, Professor.”
There’d been something similar in that shower fantasy, and Sebastian was glad he was sitting down. He waved a hand. “Get yourself together and prepare for your presentation, Mr. Holt.”
Tristan took a few deep breaths, raked his hand through his hair, and grabbed a folder out of his messenger bag. He gave his classmates a sheepish smile. “I haven’t slept through my alarm in about two years. Sorry to make everyone wait.”
It was such a sincere, effortlessly conscientious thing to do that Sebastian wondered if the universe was trying to torment him. The problem was, his interest in Tristan wasn’t only sexual, and seeing what a decent and kind man he was, well, that wasn’t helping his determination to pretend Tristan didn’t exist until after the grades were in.
Tristan started talking, and Sebastian wanted nothing more than to focus on the material and the subject matter . . . until he noticed that in his apparent hurry, Tristan hadn’t bothered to put on underwear beneath his sweatpants. No matter how Sebastian tried to keep his eyes from straying lower, it was impossible. He couldn’t think beyond the hot rush of blood going straight to his own dick, and his mouth was practically dry as he struggled to keep a neutral expression. It wasn’t working—in fact, he probably looked like he was glaring daggers at both Tristan and his cock.
When Tristan was finished with his presentation, it took Sebastian until halfway through the next one to calm down. And, for the life of him, he couldn’t honestly say if it was a decent presentation or not. All he kept thinking about was how this was the last class meeting, and in under a week, the grades would be in and all the dirty thoughts Sebastian was having could technically become a reality.
Going to Professor Cruz’s office was probably a bad idea. The worst idea. No one had to tell Tristan that. He knew it as he walked down the stairs, as he surreptitiously checked the hall to ensure none of his classmates had spotted him following their professor, as he rapped a quick knock on the door and pushed it open to duck inside without waiting for an answer.
Professor Cruz paused in the middle of setting his messenger bag on top of his desk and stared at Tristan, surprise marking his features.
After a second, he cleared his throat. “What can I help you with, Mr. Holt? Office hours don’t start until two.”
Tristan closed the door and leaned back against it, his heavy book bag digging into his spine. “I wanted to ask what you thought of my presentation, seeing as I don’t think you actually listened to a word of it.”
Professor Cruz arched a dark, imperious brow and stopped fussing with his bag to meet Tristan’s gaze directly. “Excuse me?”
“I’m pretty sure you were too busy eye-fucking me and glaring at my cock to hear anything I was saying.” Tristan shoved his hands into the pockets of his sweats, and sure enough, Professor Cruz’s attention shot straight to his crotch. “I couldn’t find a clean jock before I left my apartment. I figured no one would care or even notice . . . but you did, didn’t you?”
A muscle ticked along Professor Cruz’s jaw, but he stayed silent.
“Yeah, you noticed,” Tristan went on. “That’s why you looked so mad the whole time. And maybe it means I’m kind of twisted, but that pissed-off scowl of yours never fails to make my dick hard.”
After another beat of silence, Professor Cruz shook his head. “This is extremely inappropriate, Mr. Holt.”
“I don’t think you really want me to be appropriate.” Tristan straightened and took a step forward.
Professor Cruz held up a hand, halting him in his tracks. “No. We’re not doing this here.”
Tristan allowed himself a smile. “Not here. But we are doing it.”
Professor Cruz sucked in a deep, slow breath and dropped his hand to his side. “Your final grade should be posted by Friday.”
And that was all he said.
Tristan’s smile dimmed. He’d swaggered in here like a cocky asshole, so sure of Professor Cruz’s attraction after the eye-fucking he’d received during his presentation. Now, his confidence wavered.
“Um.” He looked around the room, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as a flush crawled up his neck. His gaze settled on the album print hanging behind Professor Cruz’s desk, and he pulled back his shoulders, regaining some of his boldness. “There’s a Floyd cover band playing at Terminal West on Saturday,” Tristan said, referencing a popular Atlanta music venue. “I was thinking of going to see them. They’re supposed to be really good. I’m stoked.” Before Professor Cruz could reply, he added, “You should come and check it out.”
He forced himself to casually stroll from the room without waiting for an answer—even though a huge, humiliated part of him wanted to tuck tail and run like his ass was on fire.
He’d expressed his interest, possibly making a fool of himself in the process. Now the ball was in Professor Cruz’s court. If he didn’t show up at Terminal West, Tristan would call it a wrap and start getting the hell over this stupid crush.