Page 15 of Swipe My Alpha
"I can't knot you here."
"The hell you can't."
"Jude, the door doesn't lock and my advisor's office is twelve feet away."
"I don't care."
"You'll care when Dr. Albright finds us tied together on my desk."
He makes a frustrated, desperate noise that's half growl and half whine. I wrap my hand around both of us, his cock and mine, slick and precome making everything wet and hot and slippery, and I stroke us together. Fast and tight. He grabs my shoulders and buries his face in my neck and breathes me in, right at the scent gland. The rush of heat through the bond is so intense I almost come on the spot.
"Hate you," he pants against my skin. "Hate you for being responsible."
"I know."
He comes first. Hot and pulsing between us, coating my hand and his stomach, his teeth sinking into my shoulder hard enough that I'll have a bruise tomorrow. I follow him seconds later, groaning into his hair, my hand still working us through it.
We stay like that. Pressed together, panting, sticky and wrecked in my ruined office. His forehead is against my collarbone and his breathing is slowing down. I've got one hand in his hair and the other braced on the desk. Neither of us moves.
"Rhys," he says eventually. Quietly.
"Yeah."
"What are we going to do?"
I don't have an answer. He's my student. I'm his TA. There's a claiming bite on his neck that I put there and a bond between us that gets louder every time we're in the same room. The university has rules about this. My program has rules about this. My own moral code has rules about this, or it did, before he walked through my door smelling like everything I've ever wanted.
"I don't know," I say. "But I don't want you to run again."
He pulls back. Looks at me. His eyes are still a little glassy, his hair is a disaster, and there's a hickey forming on his collarbone that I don't remember making. He looks wrecked and beautiful and tired.
"I'm not running," he says. "I'm here. I showed up. That's all I've got right now."
"That's enough."
He holds my gaze for a long moment. Then he nods, once, and hops off the desk and starts looking for his clothes. I hand him his briefs. He pulls them on, finds his jeans in a heap by the bookshelf, grimaces at the state of my desk.
"You have slick on your response papers," he says.
I look. I do. "I'll reprint them."
"This is the most unprofessional thing that has ever happened in academia."
"Probably not."
"Definitely top five." He pulls his shirt over his head and picks up his backpack. Stands by the door. Looks back at me. For the first time since the hotel, the wall behind his eyes isn't all the way up. It's cracked. Just a little. Just enough.
"Same time Thursday?" he says. It's a joke but it isn't.
"Office hours are two to four."
"I'll pencil you in." He opens the door, glances both ways down the hall like he's checking for witnesses, and slips out.
The door closes. My office smells like him. Like us. Like sex and honey and cedar and the start of something I'm not smart enough to name but too far gone to stop.
I sit down in my chair. It's the only surface that doesn't have slick on it.
My phone buzzes. KnotMe. I open it without thinking.
