Asa
I trace a line on the whiteboard, my hand steady only through a sheer, agonizing act of will.
The marker squeaks with a high, thin protest that makes the back of my neck prickle.
I’m explaining the golden ratio in urban planning, but my mind is a frantic tally of sensations I can’t name without acknowledging the disaster currently unfolding beneath my skin.
The slickness is the worst of it. It’s a slow, cold dampness between my thighs, a constant reminder of the way my body settled into Jorak’s scent only hours ago after I dragged him home and stuffed him into that nest too.
Every time I shift my weight, the fabric of my pants catches against the moisture, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from losing the thread of my lecture. It’s not like a heat. This is different.
It’s a fever that won’t break. It’s a jagged, entropic hunger that feels like the static before a thunderstorm, a pressure building in my chest that makes the very air in the room feel too thin to breathe.
I look out at my students—mostly B-Class Guides and a scattering of low-level Alphas—and I see them as blurs of movement and color.
They’re equations I no longer know how to solve.
"The tension between the grid and the organic flow of the city is what prevents collapse," I say, my voice sounding distant, as if it belongs to someone standing three feet behind me.
I turn back to the board, my fingers trembling so violently I have to drop the marker.
It clatters on the tray, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet room.
"Professor Renwick?" A student in the front row, a girl with a kind face and an ESA-standard Guide pin on her lapel, tilts her head. "Are you alright? You look... flushed."
I force a smile, the muscles in my face feeling brittle. "The ventilation in the west wing has always been more of a suggestion than a reality, Miss Vance. We’ll end early today. Review the chapters on recursive patterns for Thursday."
I don’t wait for the usual trickle of questions or the polite nods of departure as I move toward the door with the stiff, careful movements. My blood is simmering, the Black Current I absorbed from Jorak yesterday acting like a catalyst in my veins, looking for a ground it can’t find.
The hallway is a gauntlet of sensory overload.
The smell of floor wax is an abrasive chemical burn.
The distant murmur of a crowded cafeteria is a roar of static.
I make it to my office, my breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches that burn my throat.
I fumble with my keys, the metal cold and biting against my palm, until the lock finally clicks over.
I fall into the room and slam the door shut, twisting the deadbolt with a finality that makes my knees buckle.
I lean my forehead against the cool wood of the door, closing my eyes, but the darkness is worse.
In the dark, I can feel the phantom weight of Jorak’s hands.
I can smell the black cedar and the sharp, medicinal bite of his whiskey-heavy scent.
I’m falling apart in a way that mathematics can’t account for. I move to my desk, my movements frantic, and sweep a stack of ungraded papers onto the floor.
I need... I don't know what I need, only that the space behind my ribs is pulling and screaming for something to fill the void.
I reach for my phone, my fingers slick with a cold sweat that smells faintly of vanilla and something far more primal.
I pull up the contact I shouldn't have, the one that makes my heart skip in a rhythm that would look like a cardiac event on a monitor.
I don't call. I can't. To call is to admit that the F-Class Guide the system discarded is now entirely, hopelessly dependent on the one thing that can destroy me.
I slide down the front of the desk until I’m sitting on the carpet, pulling my knees to my chest. The slickness is worse now, a heavy, dragging weight that makes me feel exposed even in my private sanctuary.
A soft knock at the door makes me jump, a jolt of electricity arcing through my spine. I freeze, holding my breath until it aches in my chest. It could be Mira. It could be a student. It could be Mercer Holt, come to collect the asset he didn't realize he owned.
"Asa."
The voice is low, a resonant vibration that passes through the wood of the door. "Go away," I rasp, my voice cracking. I don’t mean it. Every cell in my body is straining toward the sound of him, a microscopic realignment that I can’t stop. "I’m busy. I have... I have grading."
"Open the door, Asa. I can smell you from the end of the hall. You’re vibrating so hard I can hear it in the drywall."
I let out a sound that’s half-laugh, half-sob.
I reach up and turn the lock, but don't get up. I just stay there on the floor as the door swings inward, revealing the dark, towering shape of him. He’s still wearing the student-disguise tactical jacket, but his eyes are entirely Enigma, dark, hungry, and focused with a terrifying precision on me.
He steps inside and closes the door, the lock clicking back into place as he looks at the papers on the floor, the disarray of my desk, and then down at me. "You look like hell," he says, though his voice is rough, almost tender in its bluntness.
"I'm fine," I snap, trying to scramble to my feet. My legs feel like wet cardboard. "I just have a fever. It’s the ventilation. I told the department head months ago—"
He moves before I can finish the lie, fisting his hand in the front of my shirt, hauling me up until I’m pinned against the door. My body answers him instantly, the slickness between my legs turning into a flood.
"Don't lie to me," he growls, his face inches from mine. "I haven't slept. I've been sitting in that containment cell feeling you unravel across three miles of city. You’re dripping for me, Asa. I can hear your pulse from here."
A small whine pulls from my lips as I reach out and grab his wrists, my fingers digging into the leather of his jacket. "Then do something about it," I whisper, my pride collapsing into the void. "Because I can’t... I can’t think. I can’t breathe. Just fix it."
His eyes darken, the pupils expanding until the irises are just thin rings of gray.
He doesn't waste time with words. He crashes his mouth against mine, the kiss more of a collision than an invitation.
It tastes of desperation and salt, a messy, frantic exchange that leaves my lips bruised and my head spinning.
He drags me away from the door, and shoves me toward the desk. I go willingly, my hands fumbling with his belt as he starts to strip my jacket away. There’s no grace in it.
My shirt buttons pop as he pulls the fabric open, the plastic beads skittering across the floor.
He puts his hands on my waist, his palms hot and calloused, the contact the first moment of peace I’ve known since I woke up before tugging down my pants and underwear.
I let out a low, broken sound as he lifts me onto the edge of the desk, the wood cold against my thighs, providing a sharp contrast to the heat of his body.
"Please," I gasp, my legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him into the cradle of my hips. "Jorak, please."
"I've got you, baby," he mutters against the skin of my throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord of my neck. "I’ve got you, Asa. Stay still."
I can feel the hard, thick line of him straining against his pants, a physical manifestation of the need that’s been tearing at both of us.
He fumbles with his zipper, his breath coming in harsh, ragged bursts.
I reach down to help him, my fingers brushing against the hot, heavy length of his cock as it springs free.
It’s thick, the head already glistening with pre-cum that I catch on my thumb. I wrap my hand around him, my skin darker against his heat-flushed flesh, and stroke him once from base to tip. He lets out a deep, guttural sound that vibrates through my entire chest.
"You're so fucking wet," he says, his voice a jagged edge as he reaches between my legs.
He shoves two fingers inside me, roughly stretching me open using my slick.
I cry out, my head falling forward to his shoulder.
The sensation is overwhelming, the sudden fullness, the way he finds the spot that makes my toes curl with a single, brutal press.
I’m soaked, my ass clenching rhythmically around his fingers, begging for more as he gently grips my chin so that I’m looking up at him.
He watches me, his eyes never leaving mine as he pumps his hand in and out of me.
I can feel my own scent filling the small space, a heavy, sweet cloud of pear and vanilla that mingles with his darker musk.
"Now," I demand, my fingers digging into his shoulders, my nails likely leaving marks through his shirt. "Jorak, now. I need you inside me. Fuck me."
He doesn't need to be told twice. He pulls his fingers out, the absence of them a cold shock, and positions himself at my entrance. He’s thick, a blunt pressure that stretches me to the limit before he’s even begun to push.
He pauses, his hands gripping my hips so hard I know there will be bruises by morning.
"Look at me," he commands.
I open my eyes, my vision blurred with tears of pure, unadulterated need.
He’s there, a solid, terrifyingly real presence in a world that’s become a series of failing systems. He thrusts, a single, deep movement that buries him in me to the hilt.
I scream, the sound muffled by his mouth as he kisses me again, swallowing my gasp.
He’s just as huge as that first night, stretching me until I feel like I might break, but it’s exactly what I asked for.
I’m anchored, finally, to something that can hold me.
He starts to move, his rhythm fast and relentless, slamming his hips against mine with a force that makes the desk creak under us.