“Miss Guillaume? Any insight to share?”

I snap to attention as Professor Sullivan mauls my last name, but gets just close enough to catch my ear. “Huh? Oh, uh….” My textbook blurs in front of me. When class started, we were reading about the Akedah; the slide on the projector, however, has a list of obscure saints. How long was I zoned out?

The professor raises her eyebrow. Time’s up.

“Anyone else?” she asks the room, lingering on me for just a second. I exhale when her eyes finally slide away from mine.

I wish I could say Religious Studies was the exception, but I’ve been doing this all day: resolve to focus, fail, repeat. I can’t stop thinking about him.

“When I finally do let you….”

At first, I think my undoing is the fault of my libido. Purely physical, lust consuming me. It’s only when I see Teague in the cafeteria, refilling a water bottle with orange soda from the machine, and I feel myself smiling, that I realize there might be something else here.

I actually miss him. As excited as I am for tonight and the promised “explosion,” I’m most excited simply to see him.

That, I think, is the craziest part of all.

At nine o’clock on the dot, I hear the quietest tap at the front door.

It makes me smirk; she’s excited. Eager to learn.

Of course, it’s not like I can claim to be Mr. Cool and Collected, here. I thought about her all day, everything from last night in my bed, to the way she spoke about every painting we studied together. The connection between us is more than physical, that much is clear.

The fact I hop up from the couch, instantly nervous when she knocks, proves that.

“Hey,” she whispers. Her cheeks are red from the cold. It feels like winter today, not the tail end of summer.

“Hi. Come in.” I step aside. She shuffles into the foyer and lets me take her coat, then kicks her shoes off onto the welcome mat when she notices I’m barefoot, too. We stand there a minute, smiling and fidgeting.

“Would it, uh….” I scratch my neck and debate if the direct approach is best. “Would it be safe to assume we both want to go straight to the bedroom?”

Breton laughs. The sound splashes across us like cool water, relaxing and energizing at once. “Yes,” she says, and starts up the stairs with me in tow. “Not that I don’t want to visit. I’ve just…been thinking about this a lot.”

I watch her butt as she climbs the stairs. The stronger the urge to undress her gets, the less nervous I feel. When I take the risk and cup it in my hand, she giggles, but doesn’t stop me.

Tonight, my plan was to take things slow—draw out the experience as long as possible. I’m not so sure, suddenly, that I can take it.

As soon as we get into my room, we kiss. Which one of us makes the move first, I can’t tell.

After Teague undresses me—slow, gentle, as though he’s seeing me naked for the first time—I get under his comforter. It smells like his cologne, clean and complex at the same time.

He undresses himself quickly, flexing playfully while I stare—he’s a lot more cut than I expected—then climbs in beside me. When he kisses me, he holds my face in both his hands.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers. I try to thank him, but inhale a sharp breath, instead, as he reaches down between us and pushes his fingers inside.

“Teague,” I sigh happily, finally releasing that tension I’ve carried for twenty-four hours straight. I feel my muscles relax as he kisses me again.

His fingers work me to my peak quickly. And, just like before, he stops without letting me reach it.

“Now?” he asks, brushing my hair back from my face.

I nod, probably way too ardently—but I’ve been waiting for this all day. “Yes.”

Teague laughs, sending a deviant little shiver through me. “No, no, I need to hear you ask, Breton.” He cradles my face in his hand again, firmer this time, and makes me look at him. “Ask me to fuck you. Beg me.”

My heart kicks up. I feel faint as I force the words out: “Please, Teague…fuck me.” My voice stutters on the words; I’m not sure I’ve ever said them out loud, before.

No one’s ever told me to.

Teague lets go of my face and kisses me so deeply, I don’t even notice him positioning himself at my entrance. When he starts to push inside, I moan against his mouth. He’s gentle, but not slow; I’m full, stretched to and maybe even beyond my limit, in less than three seconds.

He sighs in his throat. “You’re so tight. Is this.... I’m not your first, am I?”

I don’t know if he wants the truth, or if this is some kind of role-play. I settle on truth and shake my head.

“Oh. I, uh...I’ve never been with someone your age, so...I figured it was possible.” He shakes his head at himself. “I should’ve known better, though.”

As he speaks, he sinks just a little farther inside. “Why?” I ask. I can barely get the word out.

“Because…well, look at you,” he says, laughing. “You’re stunning, you’re smart—I can’t imagine you don’t get attention.”

I try to answer, maybe explain how I find most guys immature and boring, the initial spark gone as fast as it appears—but as he ends his sentence he withdraws and thrusts, hard. The pain melts with pleasure and I can’t respond.

His hips rock against me, his member filling me over and over again, as I close my eyes. The fullness and pressure should bother me, but they don’t. It’s the emptiness when he retreats that bothers me, actually. The only solace I find is in the fact that every time he pulls back, I know he’ll push inside of me again.

“Teague,” I say, and, just like yesterday, my voice doesn’t sound like mine; it sounds like a cat mewing, or wind skating through the trees. “I’m so close.” The words are wrung out of me, dripping from my mouth.

He pumps into me harder, faster, and bends his head down to lick my breasts. I’m too short for him to reach my nipples and thrust at this angle, so he pinches the sensitive, burning nubs instead. I cry out that if he keeps doing that, I’ll come.

“I know,” is all he says. He doesn’t stop.

“Oh...God...” I moan, the words swelling above us, stretched like ribbon as I arch my back and the sensations begin. I feel my sex quaking around him in the mechanical sense, that physical plane, but at some other level I’m beyond my body. The pleasure bubbles in my brain like sparkling water. Every part of me is on fire and alive as I remember his promise: When I finally let you, it’ll be explosive.

When the satellite that is my body comes crashing back to earth, I open my eyes, gasping. Teague just stares.

“That,” he said, “looked crazy intense.”

I try to laugh but can’t. Not yet. “Yes” is all I can say.

He runs his knuckles across my cheek, his touch a jolting comfort. “Is it safe to come inside you?” he asks.

“I’m on the shot,” I manage. It occurs to me that he might want to be begged for this, too, so I take a deep breath and add, “Please come inside me.”

He seems surprised, so maybe he wasn’t expecting that, after all. Still: I can tell he likes it, and I feel a strange sense of pride for having done it.

His thrusts resume; within a few seconds, he drops his head, resting his forehead against mine, and whispers, “I’m coming…God, Breton.” His body slowly goes limp as releases into me.

We lie there, him still on top, and catch our breath, stifling it as though we’re in his office again and need to be quiet. When he rolls off, I sit up shakily and touch the soreness between my legs, then lie back down, still not ready to move.

“Breton?”

I glance at him. He rises on one elbow and kisses me so passionately, you’d think it was the beginning of our session, not the end. It actually leaves me weaker than anything else he’s done so far. I don’t know how it’s possible.

We rest a while before getting dressed. When I open my door to head downstairs, I look back at her, thinking she’s right behind me. Instead, she’s sitting on the edge of my bed, looking unsure.

It’s how I feel, too. Like suddenly, we can’t remember why we did any of this, even though we both know: we needed it. At least, I did.

“Look, I understand that this isn’t...an ideal arrangement.” I sit beside her, our thighs touching.

“What is the arrangement, exactly?” She watches as I place my hand overtop hers on her leg, my fingers fitting into the spaces between hers. “I mean, are we...together? Dating? Just a fling?”

I look at her. When she finally looks back, I ask, “What do you want?”

“I’m not sure,” she says softly. “I really like you.”

This makes me smile, bittersweet. “I really like you, too.”

“Can we just...keep doing this, for now?” She reaches up and fixes the button I missed. “Talking about art, having sex and hanging out, and see where we end up?”

“If that’s what you want.”

She gives me a withering look, her hands dropping back to her sides. “I thought you said you wanted control.”

I laugh. “That’s only when it comes to sex. And even then, I’d never do anything you aren’t comfortable with.” I pause. “But, yeah, if you want to play it by ear for a while, we can.”

“It’s just...we can’t exactly do the traditional relationship, anyway, right? Going on dates and meeting each other’s parents, all that.”

I shake my head. “It definitely won’t be easy, hiding it all the time. And if you want out now, I’ll understand.”

“And, what, just pretend tonight never happened?” She elbows me. “Sorry—can’t forget the best sex of my life that easily.”

This gets my attention. “The best of your life?”

She nods and smiles down at her shoes. “Guess I’m into this quasi-kinky, controlling stuff, after all. Who knew?”

I hook my fingers under her chin, lifting it so I can kiss her. “I had a feeling.”