Priya
Jackson’s studio is not what I expected.
It’s in the old art building on the edge of campus, the one that used to be a warehouse before the university converted it. The space is large and open, with high ceilings, exposed brick walls, and enormous windows that let in natural light.
And it’s filled with art.
Canvases are stacked against the walls, some finished, some in progress. Paint supplies are organized on industrial shelving. There’s a drafting table covered in sketches, a workbench with tattoo equipment, and in the corner, a large canvas on an easel that takes my breath away.
Bold strokes of color that somehow capture emotion more than exact features. She looks fierce and vulnerable simultaneously, caught in a moment of raw feeling.
“You painted this?” I ask, unable to look away.
“Yeah.” Jackson sets his backpack down, suddenly looking uncertain. “It’s for my senior show. Not quite finished yet.”
“It’s incredible.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I’m not being polite. It’s genuinely incredible.” I move closer, studying the brushwork. “The way you captured the emotion without being literal… that’s really talented, Jackson.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Thanks. Most people don’t get what I’m trying to do with my work.”
“Most people are idiots.” I joke, hoping to lighten the mood between us.
He laughs, a real laugh, not the cocky chuckle he uses with the team. “Careful, Sharma. You almost sounded human there.”
“I am human. I just don’t advertise it.”
“Why not?”
“Because being human means having weaknesses. And I can’t afford weaknesses.” I set my bag on the clear table. “Should we start studying?”
“In a minute.” He’s looking at me with an intensity that makes my skin warm. “Can I ask you something first?”
“If it’s about Chemistry—”
“It’s not. Why do you always pull back? Every time we have a moment, you retreat into being the perfect student.”
“Because that’s what I am. The perfect student. That’s the only version of me that matters.”
“Bullshit.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.” He steps closer. “You’re more than grades and clinical rotations and living up to your parents’ expectations. You’re allowed to be messy. To want things. To be more than perfect.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know you bite your lip when you’re concentrating.
I know your eyes light up when you’re explaining something you’re passionate about.
I know you noticed my tattoo and thought it was beautiful.
I know you want to touch me again, but you’re too scared to admit it.
” How can he tell all those things in the short space of time we’ve been spending time together.
He’s noticed things about me, I don’t think people I spend all day with have picked up about me.
My heart is racing. “That’s not—I don’t—”
“You’re lying.” He’s close now, close enough that I can smell his cologne. “You’ve been thinking about it since Thursday. About having your hands on me. About what it would be like if it wasn’t for a grade.”
“This is inappropriate.”
“Why? Because you’re my TA? We’re both adults. Both consenting. Both clearly attracted to each other.”
“I could lose my position—”
“Only if someone finds out.” His voice drops lower. “And I’m very good at keeping secrets.” The last words come out in a whisper.
I should leave. Should grab my bag and walk out and request a different TA assignment and never think about Jackson Rivera again.
Instead, I hear myself say, “We can’t.”
“But you want to.”
“That’s not the point.”
“That’s exactly the point.” He reaches up, tucking that loose strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering against my skin. “Tell me you don’t feel this and I’ll back off. Tell me you’re not thinking about what it would be like if I kissed you right now.”
I can’t. I can’t lie to him when he’s looking at me like that, when his hand is still touching my face, when every nerve in my body is screaming at me to close the distance between us.
“Jackson…”
“Say it, Priya. Tell me you don’t want this.”
The use of my first name breaks something in me.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
“Can’t what?”
“Can’t tell you I don’t want it. Because I do. God help me, I do.”
He kisses me before I can even stop him.
It’s not gentle. Not tentative. It’s hungry and desperate and everything I’ve been denying for weeks. His hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back, and I’m kissing him back with a passion I didn’t know I had.
I’ve kissed guys before. I had a boyfriend sophomore year who was perfectly nice and perfectly boring. But this, this is different. This is fire and need and the complete dissolution of every rule I’ve ever followed.
Jackson’s other hand finds my waist, pulling me closer, and I can feel the heat of his body through our clothes. I press against him, wanting more, needing more, completely forgetting why this is a bad idea.
His lips move from my mouth to my jaw, trailing kisses down my neck that make me gasp.
“Priya,” he murmurs against my skin. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”
“Since Thursday?”
“Since the first tutoring session. When you got all bossy about molecular bonding, I couldn’t stop thinking about what you’d sound like if you were bossy about other things.”
I should be offended. Instead, heat pools low in my stomach.
“We can’t do this,” I say, even as my hands slide up his chest, feeling the muscles I mapped so clinically days ago.
“We’re doing it.”
“We’ll get caught.”
“Not if we’re careful.” He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark with desire. “I’m not asking for a public relationship. I’m asking for this. For us. In private. Where no one has to know.”
“A secret.”
“A secret.”
It’s a terrible idea. Reckless and stupid and everything I’ve never allowed myself to be.
“Okay,” I hear myself say, and I’m already regretting it.
“Yeah?”
“Yes. But rules. We need rules.”
He grins. “Of course you need rules.”
“I’m serious. No one can know. Not your teammates, not my friends, not anyone.”
“Agreed.”
“We keep it professional in public. I’m still your TA. You’re still my anatomy subject.”
“I can do that.”
“And if either of us wants to stop, we stop. No questions, no hard feelings.”
“Deal.” He kisses me again, softer this time. “Any other rules, Sharma?”
“Yes. Stop calling me Sharma when we’re alone.”
“What should I call you?”
“Priya. My name is Priya.”
“Priya,” he says, like he’s tasting it. “I like it.”
“Good. Now kiss me again before I remember all the reasons this is a bad idea.”
He does, and for the first time in my life, I let myself stop thinking and just feel.
He pulls me closer, one hand sliding to the small of my back as the kiss deepens. This time there’s no hesitation, his mouth is warm, insistent, and I melt into it, my fingers threading through his hair. The taste of him is addictive, a little mint and pure male heat.
We stumble backward until my shoulders hit the wall of my small apartment. His body presses against mine, solid and eager, and I can already feel how hard he is through his jeans. A low sound escapes his throat when I rock my hips forward, teasing him.
“Priya…” he murmurs against my lips, like my name is something sacred.
His hands slide under my blouse, palms hot against my skin as he pushes the fabric up.
I lift my arms and let him tug it off, my bra following a second later.
The cool air hits my breasts, nipples tightening instantly.
He groans at the sight, cupping them reverently before leaning down to take one into his mouth.
I gasp, arching into him as his tongue swirls around the sensitive peak.
My hands fumble with his shirt buttons until I give up and yank it open, buttons scattering.
His chest is firm, warm skin over lean muscle, the kind I’ve stared at too many times during dissections and demonstrations. Now I get to touch.
He drops to his knees, kissing down my stomach while his fingers work my pants open. In one smooth motion, he tugs them down along with my panties. I step out of them, suddenly bare in front of him. His eyes darken with hunger as he looks up at me.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he breathes.
Then his mouth is on me.
I cry out, head falling back against the wall as his tongue parts my folds and finds my clit.
He’s relentless, licking, sucking, two fingers sliding inside me and curling just right.
My thighs tremble. I grip his hair tighter, hips rolling against his face as pleasure coils tight and fast in my belly.
“Don’t stop—ah—right there.”
He growls against me and doubles down. The orgasm hits hard, ripping through me in shuddering waves. I moan his name, legs nearly buckling as he keeps licking me through it.
When I finally come down, he stands, lips glossy, eyes wild. I reach for his belt, desperate now. His cock springs free, thick, hard, the tip already slick. I wrap my hand around him and stroke, loving the way he hisses through his teeth.
“Bed,” I manage.
We barely make it there. He lifts me, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carries me the few steps and lays me down. I pull him on top of me, kissing him deeply as I feel the blunt head of his cock nudge against my entrance.
I pause, breathing ragged. “Condom?”
“In my pocket.” He grabs one fast, rolls it on, then settles between my thighs again. This time when he pushes in, it’s slow, inch by inch, stretching me open until he’s buried to the hilt. We both groan at the feeling.
“Priya… you feel so fucking good.”
He starts moving, deep, rolling thrusts that hit every perfect spot. I cling to his back, nails digging in as pleasure builds again. Our bodies slap together, sweat-slick and urgent. He kisses my neck, my breasts, my mouth, everywhere he can reach.
I wrap my legs higher around him, taking him deeper. “Harder.”
He obeys, driving into me with powerful strokes. The headboard bangs against the wall. My second orgasm crashes over me without warning, pussy clenching tight around him. He curses, hips stuttering as he follows right after, groaning my name into my neck as he comes hard.
We stay locked together, panting, hearts hammering. He presses soft kisses to my shoulder, my jaw, my lips, gentle now that the storm has passed.
“Still professional in public?” he murmurs, a lazy smile in his voice.
I laugh breathlessly and pull him down for another kiss.
“Absolutely. But right now… we’re very off the clock.”