3. Jules #2
“This is a terrible idea,” Connor stated, as if the words would warn Jules away.
“Yes, Professor. It really is.” Jules closed the last few inches between them.
Kissing Connor Thorne was nothing like he’d imagined.
In his head, it had been smooth and natural.
The culmination of a long campaign to get himself in the other man’s orbit.
He’d close the distance, Connor would resist for a moment, and then the wall would come down and Jules would finally, finally know what years of wanting tasted like.
The reality was rougher. It was hotter and more desperate than he’d planned.
Connor didn’t move when Jules’s lips met his. For one horrible, suspended second, he was completely still. Mouth closed. Body rigid. Every line of him locked down in an obvious show of discomfort.
As Jules prepared himself to pull back, that was when Connor’s hand came up.
It wrapped around the nape of Jules’s neck with a deliberate pressure that pulled Jules closer instead of pushing him away.
Connor kissed him back with an undeniable sense of urgency.
His teeth caught Jules’s lower lip, tugging in a way that went straight to his cock.
Connor’s grip tightened when Jules made a sound that was a mix of relief and starvation.
Jules’s hands found Connor’s waistcoat, fisting the fabric, pulling at it. Because the man who’d spent two encounters being untouchable was kissing him like they were made to do this.
Connor had ruined Jules with this kiss. How could he kiss anyone else after having perfection?
“This doesn’t—” Connor pulled back an inch, breath ragged, his hand still on Jules’s neck. “This doesn’t mean anything.”
“Okay,” Jules said, and kissed him again, shutting up the fucking stupid words from a fucking perfect mouth on a fucking perfect man.
Connor made a sound this time. Low. Rough. His hands dropped to Jules’s hips and gripped hard enough that Jules felt each individual finger like a brand.
Yes, please.
He wanted to be marked. Wanted to walk out of this office with the memory of Connor’s hands pressed into his skin.
Jules broke the kiss long enough to breathe. “You don’t do this,” he echoed, checking in with the man who’d fought this connection.
Connor’s eyes were darker than Jules had ever seen them. The grey had gone almost black, his normal clinical detachment completely gone. In its place was raw emotion, unmistakable to anyone who might’ve seen him then.
“I don’t,” he confirmed. His thumb traced the line of Jules’s hip bone through his jeans. The move was a deliberate, devastating contradiction.
“Then tell me to stop, Professor.”
Connor’s gaze dropped to Jules’s mouth again. Then it moved lower, tracing down his throat and over his collarbone. Jules was thankful he’d chosen the shirt he had. It very clearly appealed to the other man.
“Sit down,” Connor demanded.
The order landed like a current through Jules’s entire body. Connor’s eyes flickered toward the desk, letting him know where he’d meant. The implication settled into Jules’s bloodstream and went south so fast he had to palm his dick to stave the ache.
He sat on the edge of the desk carefully, his eyes locked on Connor. Papers shifted beneath him. A pen rolled off the side and hit the floor with a sharp sound neither of them acknowledged.
Connor stepped between Jules’s parted knees. His hands found Jules’s thighs, pressing them wider. Jules’s breath caught hard enough that it echoed off the walls.
“For the record,” Connor said, his voice barely above a whisper, “I am not attracted to men.”
Jules looked up at him. At the darkened eyes and the parted mouth and the hands that were gripping his thighs like they had no intention of letting go.
“Sure. Whatever you need to tell yourself.”
Something flared in Connor’s expression. It burned through Jules, stealing a touch of his confidence. His hands slid up Jules’s thigh and found the very obvious, very hard line of an erection through his jeans.
Jules’s hips jerked forward without permission. “Fuck.”
Connor’s grip was steady. Exploratory in a way that was clearly unfamiliar and yet didn’t hesitate. He palmed Jules through the denim with enough pressure to tease without being painful. His thumb dragged along Jules’s length, as if measuring him against whatever mental picture Connor had.
The thought of his professor imaging the shape and size of his cock had Jules grabbing the edge of the desk. He wanted to thrust into Connor’s hand so badly his vision blurred, but some instinct told him to hold still. To let Connor lead. This wasn’t a moment for Jules to take.
This was a man crossing a line he’d drawn for himself, and if Jules pushed too hard, Connor would retreat behind it.
With every ounce of control he could muster, Jules held still.
He let Connor touch him freely. Jules let the sounds fall out of his mouth without filtering them because Connor was watching his reactions with an intensity that bordered on clinical.
It was then it registered, in a flash of clarity, that this was how Connor processed life -- through data and observation.
Even now, with his hand on another man for what Jules was willing to bet was the first time, Connor Thorne kept his composure. He didn’t let on he was inexperienced. Didn’t give an ounce of hesitancy.
It was the hottest thing Jules had ever experienced.
“Connor.” Jules said his name deliberately. Not Professor. His name. “Look at me.”
The other man’s eyes snapped to his instantly. Pupils blown. Jaw tight. A muscle working overtime in his cheek.
Jules kept his expression steady, letting Connor know he wasn’t toying with him at his next words. “You can have more. If you want it. You can have more of me.”
Connor’s hand stilled. For a beat, Jules thought he’d overplayed it. That the offer would trip whatever wire ran between Connor’s desire and his defenses.
Instead, Connor undid the button of Jules’s jeans.
Jules’s head tipped back, the crash of lust hitting him so hard he couldn’t watch. He heard the zipper come down, felt the cooler air, then it was the heat of Connor’s hand wrapping around him without the barrier of fabric.
He let out a long, low groan at the touch. It was… everything. Every fucking thing he wanted, needed, craved in a single connection. He would not last long at this rate.
Connor stroked him with intentional, measured pulls. Each one built on the last like he was testing a theory before presenting it to a class. Jules didn’t take offense to it at all. If this was how his Professor, the object of his affection, behaved, then Jules would sign up to be studied 24/7.
Jules’s hands found Connor’s shirt. He pulled the fabric, bringing them closer to the point where they were breathing the same air.
At the nearness Jules could see the crack in Connor’s composure widening with every stroke.
Connor’s breathing was as wrecked as his own.
His free hand had moved to the back of Jules’s neck again, gripping, holding him in place as if Jules were going anywhere.
As if there were anywhere else he’d rather be.