Page 45 of Office Hours
We sit like that, the quiet pressing in. It feels, for the first time, like I’m seeing the man instead of the professor, the hard shell of authority melted into something vulnerable. I want to tell him everything. I want to say nothing at all.
He shifts a little closer, wine forgotten. “I want to see you again,” he says, voice almost hoarse. “Outside of class. Not just—” He gestures, helpless, at the candles and the dishes and the wreckage of dinner. “Not just occasionally for special dinners. I mean, every week. Maybe every day.”
I nod, heart jackhammering. “I want that too.”
“We’ll have to be careful,” he says, “but I don’t want to stop. Not unless you say so.”
“I won’t,” I promise, and I mean it.
He grins, and it’s like the first day of spring. “You know, you’re kind of amazing.”
I look away, embarrassed. “I don’t feel amazing. I feel like a science experiment that’s about to blow up.”
He cups my face, gentle but insistent. “Don’t.” The word is simple, but it settles something in me.
He kisses me, this time with no urgency. It’s a slow burn, a confession, a hope. I melt into him, and the need that’s been building all night turns molten.
He pulls back, just enough to rest his forehead against mine. “I want to do this right, Simone.”
I smile gently. “You mean, you want to ask my dad for permission? He’s gone, remember?”
He laughs, but there’s a catch in it. “No. I mean I want you to feel safe. Treasured. I gave you the wrong impression before.”
I blink, thrown by the word. “Treasured?”
He nods, his eyes almost shy. “Yeah. I’m not good at saying it, but I want you to feel like you’re the only thing that matters when we’re together.”
The words crash over me, and for a second, I can’t breathe. Nobody’s ever said anything like that to me. Not in a way that felt real.
“Okay,” I whisper, tasting the word like chocolate.
He kisses me again, and this time, I feel it everywhere.
“I already do feel treasured,” I say, when we break apart.
His hands are gentle, but there’s nothing gentle about the way he’s looking at me.
The air is thick with wanting.
He stands, takes my hand, and leads me upstairs, our footsteps light and slow, like we’re both afraid the spell might break if we hurry.
But there’s nothing fragile about this.
Not now.
Not ever.
The master bedroomis straight out of a magazine: dark wood, a California king with sheets that probably cost more than my car, a single huge photograph of some remote Scottish coast over the headboard. The room smells like Liam—cedar and something male and musky, like expensive gin—and for the first time in my life I feel small in a way that is not even a little bit bad.
He kisses me at the threshold, slow and searching. My dress is simple, but he takes time with the straps, the zipper, like he’s undoing a secret. When I step out of it, I’m naked except for the sheer blue panties I picked to match my mood. He runs his thumb along the waistband, deliberate, savoring the texture.
“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, and the words land lower than my stomach.
I undo the top two buttons on his shirt, but he lifts my chin. “Let me,” he says, voice deeper. He strips for me, slow, then pulls me into his chest. His body is absurd—broad, strong, built for protection or punishment, but never anything in between. I bury my face in his shoulder and inhale, wanting to crawl inside his bones.
He bends and lifts me like I’m made of nothing, deposits me in the middle of the bed. His mouth is everywhere at once: neck, collarbone, the point where my shoulder meets my throat. I arch into him, greedy, and he smiles against my skin.
There’s no rush this time, no frantic energy. Every move is purposeful. He teases my nipples with his tongue, then drags his hand down my belly, nails leaving little comet trails of sensation. He kisses just above my hip bone, then again lower, so that by the time he pulls down my panties I’m ready to beg.
