Chapter 3
TAJ
—Good Days by SZA
The rest of the lecture passes in a blur.
I try to pay attention, I really do. I write down headings, underline words that seem important, and I stare at the slides like something will magically sink in. But every few minutes, my mind goes on a journey that has me rocking a semi by the end of class.
“He’s good,” Luká? says as he slides his notebook and pens back into his bag
“Uh-uh,” I reply absently.
My eyes are fixed on Professor Sawyer even as my classmates begin filing out.
He’s gathering his notes, speaking briefly to someone near the first row—and I’m here trying to figure out how to approach him.
I silently curse myself. Why did I never bother to be social with lecturers before?
Now, if I suddenly start hovering around the new one, people will notice.
My classmates love gossiping more than their coursework, and I don’t need them creating more theories about me.
And he’s not even the first Nigerian lecturer we’ve had, so I can’t use that as an excuse either.
“You okay?” Luká? asks.
I glance over, and he’s standing beside his chair now, one hand on his hip as he studies me.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I offer him a quick smile. “I’ll catch up with you, I have a question.”
Luká? immediately looks suspicious, probably because I’ve never stayed behind to ask a lecturer anything in my life. But before he can say that out loud, I grab my bag and stand.
“I’ll see you later,” I tell him, moving before he can stop me.
Students continue streaming towards the door as I make my way down the steps to the front.
A few are packing up their stuff slowly, but one by one they leave, until even Luká? is disappearing with one last confused glance over his shoulder.
By the time I reach the stage, the lecture hall is empty.
Professor Sawyer is slipping a paper into his folder when I reach him.
Up close, he’s somehow worse; he’s way hotter than he looked from a distance.
I stop in front of him and smile before I can help it.
“Hi, Prof,” I say.
There is something about him that makes my mouth pull into a smile. It happened at the club too. Like the second I’m near him, I want his attention. I want him looking at me.
His eyes lift to mine, and that same mortified expression settles back over his face. “Hi, Taj.”
Even hearing my name in his voice does something silly to my insides.
“I’ve been searching everywhere for you,” I confess. “I even went back to the club in case you were there.”
“Uhm, Taj. I don’t think—”
“Don’t say anything yet,” I cut in, already knowing what he’s about to say. “Where’s your office? I have more classes now, but I can come and see you when I’m done.”
He blinks at me and shakes his head. “That’s not a good idea.”
I step closer before I can think better of it, closing the small space between us, enough to feel the faint brush of his breath, and for one stupid second, I forget every sensible thought I’ve ever had.
“It’s just to have a conversation,” I say, almost pleading. “Just hear me out.”
His jaw tightens and he steps back. “Third floor, room 328.”
Relief moves through me so fast and my grin grows wider. “Thanks.” I turn before he can change his mind, heading for the door to catch my next class.
I should have skipped it. Actually, I should’ve skipped the rest of the day because just like previous lecture, I hear almost nothing in European Law.
Roman Law is a complete waste of time. Even Business and Competition Law, which is my favourite class, can’t hold my attention for more than five minutes.
The only thing on my mind is how exactly to convince my lecturer to sleep with me.
By the end of my last class, I’m out of my seat before Luká? can trap me with the questions I know have been building in his head all day.
I don’t even look back as I head straight for the elevator, pressing the button for the third floor impatiently.
The ride up feels slow, and the moment the doors slide open, I’m moving again, my steps echoing against the floor as I scan the room numbers. 322, 324, 326. And there, 328.
I reach the door just as it opens from the inside, and I nearly walk straight into the dean as he steps out.
He gives me a startled look that I barely register.
I compose myself, mutter an apology and wait until he’s out of sight.
I then knock once before pushing the door open without waiting for an answer.
Professor Sawyer is standing by the bookshelves with one arm lifted, reaching for a book on the top shelf.
For a moment, I forget why I’m here. His shirt draws tighter over his narrow waist, and when he shifts, I catch the outline of a firm stomach beneath the fabric, enough for me to imagine the ridges hidden there.
God, he looks so good. Everything about him looks put together, and dangerous to my concentration.
He turns at the sound of the door opening, his whole body going still when he sees me.
I drop my bag on the floor and just stand there, staring at him.
For a second, neither of us moves. Then he straightens and gives me this little smile, uncertain and hopeful at the same time, and something inside me snaps.
I reach behind me and engage the lock, then I cross the space between us in only a few strides.
His mouth opens, maybe to speak, maybe to ask what I’m doing, but I don’t give him the chance.
I grab his tie to tug him to me, and I crash my mouth onto his.
His back hits the bookshelf with a soft oomph, the book in his hand slipping free and thudding on the floor somewhere beside us.
He doesn’t kiss me back, but he doesn’t resist or stop me either.
His hands stay loose at his sides while I take what I’ve been dreaming about for the past two days.
I catch his lower lip between my teeth and nibble gently.
The sound he makes is low and helpless and so unbelievably sexy it goes straight through me.
I nibble on his lip again just to hear that sound twice.
His mouth is slightly slack, so I slide my tongue between his lips, tracing the inside edges, asking and demanding all at once. He breathes out, “Fuck,” before opening for me.
Everything changes after that, his hands leave his sides and grip my waist, fingers digging into my skin like he needs proof I’m real.
He kisses me back with a hunger that almost knocks the breath out of me, warm and deep and devastatingly good.
My head is spinning from it, from him, from how quickly this turned from me taking control to the both of us losing it.
I’ll agree to anything he says if he keeps kissing me like this.
The heat between us dials up fast, our hands start roaming with no clear path, grabbing at shoulders, backs, hips, anything within reach.
I move closer to him until our bodies are flush, needing to feel all of him.
And I do. I feel his hard cock against mine; a rush of pleasure shoots through me.
God, the friction is out of this world, both of us pouring the same broken little sound into each other’s mouth.
We keep kissing, moving against each other in short, desperate presses that robs me of my ability to think.
My pulse is racing, my lips are swollen, but I’m nowhere near done with him.
Without thinking, I slide a hand between us and undo his zip, then mine, my movement clumsy with urgency.
I bring my dick out and reach for him, only to realise he’s already freed himself.
Fuck! The sight of him hits me harder than I expected.
Worse, his cock already feels familiar even though I’ve only had him once.
I line us up, my cock resting against his, and drag my thumb through the precum pooling at his tip before smoothing it over both our shafts.
Then I give the first slow stroke. We both groan at the same time, his whole body folding forward into me, knees shaking, forehead nearly brushing my shoulder.
I steady myself with one hand on the bookshelf behind him, bracing there so I can cage him and keep him exactly where I want him.
I return my focus to stroking us in tandem, keeping a steady glide, his broken little gasps and moans mixing with my grunts.
Our kisses simmers into something softer, the frantic hunger melting into something more languid.
Tongue brushes tongue while I keep stroking us, my whole body singing with the pleasure of it; with the satisfaction of having him again after spending every waking hour thinking and dreaming about him.
He breaks the kiss, and I miss his mouth instantly. The loss barely lasts a second before he drags his tongue along my jaw, then up to the shell of my ear. “Why can’t I resist you?” he whispers before biting down lightly.
The sting sends a jolt through me. “I can’t resist you, either,” I tell him; my voice comes out rough enough to surprise me.
I tighten my grip and start stroking us faster. A deep moan tears out of him. “Yes,” he hisses, hips jerking into my hand. “Just like that.”
His head falls back and knocks against the shelf, throat exposed, lips parted.
His words spur me on, and I move even faster, chasing the release building inside me.
His grip on my waist tightens—then he starts rolling his hips into my fist. Jesus Christ. A shiver rips through me so hard that my knees almost give out.
The slick slide of him against me, the pressure from the tight hole of my fist, the way he keeps meeting every stroke like he wants more of it .
. . all of it feels too good. It only takes a little bit more before my balls draw up tight, and then I come with a rough groan, my body jerking as my orgasm tears through me in hot waves.
I dimly register my cum making a mess between us, some of it landing on his shirt, some on his skin, and the rest probably on the floor, but I’m far too boneless to investigate.
My head drops forward, the world reduced to the sound of my pulse hammering in my ears as I breathe through the aftershocks.
Through the haze, I realise he’s still going and chasing his own release, using my cum as lube.
My softened cock slips free from my hand, but I tighten my grip around him instead.
I focus on the way his body starts to lose rhythm.
His movements turn erratic, his grip on my waist almost bruising now.
I lift my head to look at him. His eyes are half shut, his chest heaving; he looks wrecked in the most beautiful way.
“Come for me,” I whisper in his ears, and I feel him falter instantly. His thrust stutters, his back arching as he spills into my hand. “Fuck, that is so hot,” I mutter under my breath, dragging my tongue along the outer edge of his ear.
His grip on my waist slackens, but he doesn’t let go of me.
We stay pressed together as we try to catch our breaths.
I let my eyes travel across his face . .
. his eyes are fully closed now, lashes resting against his cheeks; his lips are slightly parted, that same faint upward curve still there like his mouth doesn’t know how to not look pleased.
I trace the line of his jaw in my head, the shape of his cheekbones, the fullness of his lips, imagining it wrapped around my cock; it twitches even though I’m just coming down from an orgasm.
My gaze drifts over his shoulders, his chest, the strength in his arms still wrapped around me loosely, and God, he is sex on a stick.
I wonder how other men could exist in his vicinity and not sport a boner all day.
I look back up at his face. He chooses that exact moment to open his eyes. There’s a beat of silence between us, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he runs a hand over his face.
He takes a breath and says, “This can’t happen again.”