“No,” he says. I see the lines in his forehead disappear as he relaxes: once again, he’s become the smooth, confident guy I caught just a glimpse of in his office. “That’s my job.”

His hand skates along the inside of my thigh. Even through the fabric, his touch feels white-hot.

“But first,” he adds, “do you want to hear what I was imagining today, when you caught me?”

“Yes.” I spit out the word before he finishes his question, which makes him smile.

“I was imagining you,” he says, pressing his fingers against the crotch of my pants for just a second, “kneeling in front of me...and sucking my cock until your eyes start watering.”

His words are so blunt, I instinctively recoil—but the rush of wetness in my panties betrays it. His breath travels down my back as he kisses my neck. I close my eyes and see swirls of neon, fireworks on a long exposure, as he reveals his fantasy to me.

Suddenly, I want nothing more than to make it real.

“Can I?” I ask. My voice is strangled in my throat. I want this so much, I don’t know what I’ll do if he doesn’t say yes.

I picture him in that chair again, his hand wrapped around his erection, eyes shut and his Adam’s apple bobbing. He was thinking of you, I tell myself. It sends a shiver straight through me.

I’ve never felt this before: not just instant attraction to someone, but one so strong it makes me forget everything else. Like the fact I don’t know very much about him, or that this probably goes against every rule the university has.

“Can you what?” He studies my face, confused for just a second, already so wrapped up in what he’s doing to me through my pants that he’s forgotten. Then, as it dawns on him, his eyebrows raise. I see that smile twitch at his mouth.

That’s a green light, if I ever saw one. I push my hair off my shoulders, slide off the bed, and lower myself to my knees in front of him.

His erection flinches as I slip down his layers—heavy dress pants, boxer briefs—and take it into my hand. He’s bigger than the other guys I’ve had, at camp and prom, parties in somebody’s basement.

I tell him this. His smile is sideways, tinged with a kind of boyish pride, and makes me want to do this for him even more.

When I push his tip into the pursed O of my mouth, he exhales deeply and puts one hand on the back of my head. I swallow inch after inch, tucking him into my throat like he belongs there. I know better than to take him deeper than I can handle—I’m not exactly new at this, after all—yet here I am, plunging him as deep into my throat as possible, even as tears gather in my eyes.

It’s what he wants, isn’t it?

“Yes,” he says, nearly doubling over. His eyes bore into mine, and I know he’s noticed the tears; that might be why he doubled over in the first place.

I love that I’m the one bringing him this pleasure, making his fantasy, even if it’s just a few hours old, come true.

“Breton,” he manages, stroking my hair, “can I finger you?” He asks like he knows I’ll say yes, like he isn’t really asking. He’s telling.

As I get to my feet and wipe my mouth, he grabs my wrists and pulls me down for a kiss. It’s rougher than the others, like a storm drawing me in, and all I can do—all I want to do—is surrender.

Breton shivers when I grab the bottom of her sweater and the tank top underneath, but goes statue-still as I lift them up and off her, tossing them behind us in a heap. I slide her leggings down and kneel in front of her as she sits in my spot at the edge of the bed.

“I, um...I haven’t shaved,” she says, in this shaky, embarrassed voice that drives me up a wall.

I don’t know if she means her legs—which I’m not even noticing—or her bikini area, which I honestly couldn’t care less about, but I think it’s cute she’s getting flustered over it.

“That’s fine,” I laugh, hooking a finger into the waist of her panties and tugging them down around her thighs. Her sex is covered in a fine layer of hair, clipped and dark. As I let her underwear fall to the floor, I notice the damp spot in the fabric.

When my mouth makes contact, she bucks against my face and whimpers.

“Oh, God.” Her hands wind into my hair, grabbing at it like a lifeline.

I swirl my tongue between her lips, tasting her. Her knees shake when I plunge my tongue as far inside as I can.

“Lie down,” I order, and can’t help but smile when she does it immediately, no questions asked.

I get between her legs and run my tongue along her inner thigh, teasing, before giving her what she wants.

She doesn’t even have to tell me she’s close; I can tell just by her breath, the tightness, how her thighs twitch on either side of my head. When I know she’s almost at the point of no return, I stop.

My tongue, my fingers, all of it: I just stop, frozen, as she squirms under my touch and silently begs me to continue.

Then, when I’m sure her orgasm’s ebbed away, I start again.

“Increases the anticipation,” I explain, with my mouth against her sex. Every time my tongue grazes it, she lets out a soft noise I can’t get enough of. “Whenever I get you close but don’t let you come, it builds. When I finally do let you come...it’ll be explosive.” I say this last part as I push a third finger into her tight, slick hole, which makes her scream. She stifles it by biting her own arm, thrown across her face.

When she adjusts to the new fullness, she asks, “Wait...let me come?”

I lift my head again. “Is that a problem?”

Her heart is racing. I see a flash of fear in her eyes, that moment when a woman who’s never been with a man like me hears something she’s never heard. Like, Let you come.

Take it all.

I’m in charge.

And some of them don’t like it, which is fair. Everyone’s different; I learned that in my early twenties, when I played the field like I never planned to stop. It’s been a while, but I still remember: some women didn’t like giving up control, any of it, and I respected that. We always parted ways soon after—I mean, we had to; we were incompatible—but I understood.

Some of them, though? That fear turned into pure, wet lust. They’d hear me say those things and realize they loved the idea of giving up control, putting me in charge. Taking it like good girls.

I stare at her eyes and wait. Which kind of woman will Breton Guillaume be?

She wets her lips, the bottom shaking just a bit. I feel her muscles squeeze my fingers when she says, “No. That’s...that’s not a problem.”

Teague bites back a smile. He thrusts his fingers against my G-spot again; I’m so full and stretched it should be painful, but the feeling just engulfs me, dragging me under like a tide I can breathe inside.

“I like control,” he says, watching me twitch and toss my head, my mouth struggling to form words, although I’m not even sure what I’d say. Curse words? His name? All I can think is, Oh, God, over and over. I can’t believe I’m here, in a professor’s bedroom, letting him do whatever he wants.

“Not in a crazy way,” he adds, which briefly makes me wonder if there’s a reason he’s single. “Just...in the bedroom, I like being the one calling the shots.” He pauses his motions. I feel his breath against me and wish desperately he’d lick it again. “I enjoy overwhelming women,” he whispers. “Making them feel the most intense pleasure possible, until they can’t even think.”

Well, he’s definitely accomplishing that. I hear an edge in his voice, like he’s asking me if I can handle this dynamic. Like he’s daring me to, really.

I still can’t conjure up any words, so I just close my eyes and nod.

“Okay, then,” he says, and only now do I hear his smile.

Then he moves his fingers again, which pulls me back under so fast I hold my breath. His tongue going back to work forces me to gasp, the air burning inside my lungs. Everything is building again, the ingredients of an explosion gathering inside me.

I don’t—can’t—tell him that I’m close, but I know he knows. He stops just as the edge slips near, leaving me teetering. A cry of pain and frustration leaves me when he takes his fingers out, pulls his mouth away, and holds himself over my body. I see the cord of his necklace again, a flash of silver inside his shirt, but it hangs too low in the fabric to see what it is.

He lowers his mouth to my ear. I prepare myself for whatever dirty little secret he’s about to whisper, all the filthy things he plans on doing to me.

“Tomorrow,” he says.

Then he lifts himself back off me, stands, and passes me my clothes.

I sit up, the room tilting. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” he repeats.

“But…but I thought….”

Teague grins and runs his fingers through my hair. “I told you,” he says. “When I finally let you, it’ll be explosive.” His smile flickers as he grows serious, back to the real world, all around us. “We should take our time doing this, at least a little.”

We shouldn’t be doing this at all, I think, but I don’t say it. I don’t have to.

We get dressed. The pleasure is still there, silent but electric between us. Only now, it’s joined by fear. This isn’t safe, what we’re doing.

And we could stop it, right now. It isn’t too late. It might even be easy—one night, one memory, something we can forget as soon as the semester’s over. No risk.

“So tomorrow, same time, same place,” he says downstairs in the entryway as I shuffle my feet, preparing for the cold jog back to my dorm, my muscles still on fire from his teasing. I’m not sure how I’ll get to sleep with so much tension inside, waiting for release.

It isn’t too late.

“Tomorrow,” I echo. My new mantra, apparently.

My knees shake when he kisses me goodbye.