hi can i req an enemies to lovers type of situation with mature era (professor au) and like the reader is also a worker there and they CANTTTT stand each other but all the students love them and ship them tgt #Tension ORRRR they're both in the industry and people keep comparing them to each other which causes them to get off on the wrong foot but they eventually come to realize they're more similar than they think (like maybe he sudd watches an interview of her n he's like wait.....) (any era) teehee
pairing: matureeraprof!michael jackson x professor!female reader
synopsis: a traditionalist professor loses his legendary restraint to the one colleague who has challenged his curriculum for two years—proving that the most vicious academic warfare makes for the most devastatingly uninhibited surrender.
tags: mature content, explicit smut (minors dni!), porn with plot, age gap (reader is 30 / michael is 42), enemies to lovers (?), colleagues who hate each other, heavy tension, oral sex (f and m receiving), p in v sex, riding, missionary, finger sucking, kissing, fluff, mentions of insecurity, inaccurate (?) literature debates
word count: 12.6k (phew...)
an: thank you sm for this request anon! i've actually been thinking of a professor!mj smut and this was a perfect opportunity. this is too long but i wanted to establish their dynamic!
The department budget meetings were universally acknowledged as a form of torture–two hours of huge numbers and discussions on the allocations and procurements. But when it came to you and Michael, the rest of the faculty treated the meetings as their very own source of entertainment.
“I am simply suggesting,” Michael said, controlling his expressions beneath his silver reading glasses. “that allocating thirty percent of our elective funding to contemporary fiction is a disservice to our students’ analytical and holistic development.”
You kept your eyes fixed on the columnar pad, aggressively drawing a thick red line through the notes. “And I am simply suggesting, Professor Jackson, that if you actually listened to anyone under the age of forty, you’d realize that cultural relevance drives passion and eagerness to learn. But I suppose it’s easier to sit in your chair with a silver spoon up your mouth reading nineteenth-century prose while the rest of us actually try to keep students interested.”
Across the long mahogany table, the Dean of Arts let out a heavy sigh–rubbing the bridge of his nose, while two assistant lecturers exchanged a thrilled look.
Michael leaned back on his leather chair. He didn’t snap. He never did. Instead, his lips turned up into that irritating, polite smile that made her want to hurl her coffee mug across the room. “Your…enthusiasm is admirable.”
“Meeting adjourned,” the Dean announced quickly, practically not giving you space to react to Michael’s remark.
The room cleared out in a matter of seconds, the other professors murmuring to each other as they hurried down the hallway. You stayed behind, taking your time to stack your manila folders.
“You do that on purpose,” you muttered into the soft hum of the air conditioning unit.
Michael didn’t look up from his leather briefcase, his long, slender fingers neatly organizing his grading sheets. “Do what?”
“Condescend. You talk to me like I’m a graduate TA who accidentally entered the wrong room.”
Michael paused. He closed his briefcase with a loud snap, then slowly stood up, pulling the lapels of his navy blue blazer. He walked down the table, stopping just a few feet away, his gaze unreadable as he looked down at you.
Without the audience of the faculty, the polite mask dropped, revealing the competitive streak he kept under wraps.
“I don’t condescend,” he said softly, his voice dropping to that velvety register that always made your chest tighten. “I challenge you. Because frankly? You’re the only person in this entire department who refuses to compromise, and it’s exhausting.”
“Then stop pushing my buttons.”
“Stop giving me buttons to push,” he countered, a dangerous glint in his dark eyes.
You rolled your eyes, grabbing your bag and turning on your brown penny loafers. “Try not to sabotage my curriculum while I’m gone.”
The problem with hating Michael Jackson was that the entire student body was actively working against you.
By mid-semester, the university’s anonymous online student forum practically turned the two of you into a spectator sport. It started with an anonymous student posting about the two of you arguing in the cafeteria about the definition of post-modernism. Then came the students posting real time updates on the two of you.
You found out about the reality of the situation on a rainy Thursday evening when a sophomore named Nicole walked into your office for an essay feedback.
“So, for the thesis statement, I wanted to focus on the underlying yearning between the main characters,” Nicole explained, pointing to her draft, before giving a suspicious grin. “You know…that simmering energy where two people claim they vex each other but everyone else is waiting for them to let everything go?”
You blinked. “Nicole, this is an essay on Wuthering Heights,” you paused–a headache forming behind your eyes.
“Right, obviously,” Nicole giggled. “Oh, the whole block is talking about the panel next week. We’ve already made a betting pool on who cracks first during the Q&A,” she changes the subject.
“A betting pool?” you repeated, dread pooling in your stomach.
“Totally. It’s the most active board on the university server right now,” Nicole leaned in, her face bright with excitement. “The consensus is that you two argue way too intensely for it to just be about books.”
You spent the rest of the night staring at your computer screen, your cheeks burning with a mix of mortification and a weird, heavy flutter in your chest that you absolutely refused to acknowledge.
The night of the Faculty Panel, the auditorium was completely packed. Undergraduates were sitting on the steps, the energy in the room buzzing like a wrestling match rather than a literary debate.
You sat at the long table on the stage–dressed in a striped button up shirt, black tie, khaki-colored pencil skirt, and your usual brown penny loafers. A microphone was in front of you as you looked out at the crowd–frowning as you see students from the Science department.
What in the world? You thought.
Two seats down sat Michael. He looked frustratingly perfect— structured caramel brown blazer, his hair framing his face beautifully. He hadn’t looked at you once since you walked on stage.
For the first forty five minutes, the debate was civil. But as the moderator opened up to student questions, the atmosphere shifted.
“The question is for Professor Jackson and Miss –,” a junior from the back row announced, holding the microphone. “In regards to your conflicting views on emotional vulnerability in literature…Professor Jackson, you argue for total restraint and the traditionalist views, while Miss – advocated for raw honesty and welcoming the contemporary perspective. Don’t you think true passion requires breaking those boundaries and finding a balance?”
A collective ‘ooooh’ echoed through the auditorium. The other professors exchanged knowing glances, already adjusting in their seats.
Michael leaned into his microphone. "Restraint is not the absence of passion," he murmured, his voice echoing smoothly through the speakers. "Traditional structure exists to give passion a vessel. When you abandon all boundaries in favor of immediate expression, you don't get depth, you get chaos. True literary endurance relies on the agony of what is not said. The tension of holding back is where the real power lives."
He turned his head slowly, his dark eyes locking onto yours across the table. For the first time all semester, he wasn't looking at you with annoyance. The gaze was heavy and dripping with a sudden gravity.
Your breath caught. You pulled your microphone closer, your pulse suddenly racing against your ribs.
"Holding back isn't always the best literary choice, Professor," you countered, your voice steady despite the rapid drumming against your ribs. "Sometimes it's just an excuse to stay safe. You call it traditionalist restraint, but it looks a lot like fear. Fear that if you actually welcome the contemporary perspective, if you let your guard down and allow yourself to be raw, the passion will be too heavy for you to control. True balance means having the courage to let the boundaries break."
The auditorium went dead silent. The faint hum of the building's old ventilation system was the only sound left in the room. The students sat completely frozen, watching the two of you stare each other down, the unspoken, two-year-old friction between you finally laid bare under the stage lights.
Michael didn't blink. A small, subtle muscle twitched in his jaw, his eyes darkening behind his lenses as he took in your defiance, his mind clearly running a mile a minute behind that perfectly composed expression.
"Well," the moderator choked out, hurriedly shuffling her note cards to break the suffocating tension. "Thank you both. Let's...let's move on to the next question from the floor."
An hour later, you were back in the faculty lounge–waiting for the light drizzle of rain outside the glass panes of the building to pass.
The heavy door swung open, and the scent of rain, bergamot, musk, and sandalwood flooded the room.
You didn’t turn around. “If you came in here to tell me my argument was unprofessional, Michael, save your breath. The student asked a question, and I–”
“I don’t care about the argument,” Michael interrupted.
His voice wasn't soft anymore–devoid of the restraint he always prided himself on. It was low, rough, and standing right behind you.
You spun around, your back pressing against the low locker cabinets. Michael had thrown his blazer onto a chair. His glasses were gone, his eyes completely unshielded as he stepped into your space, shutting the distance between you until you could feel the heat radiating off his chest.
"Two years," Michael breathed, his long fingers reaching out, resting flat on the counter on either side of your hips, effectively trapping you. He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your lips. "Two years of you fighting me on every syllabus, every grade, every single sentence I speak."
"Professor," you whispered, though you didn't move an inch to escape. Your heart was hammering a frantic, deafening rhythm against your ribs.
"They have a betting pool," Michael murmured, a slow, wicked smile tugging at the corner of his lips, though his eyes remained intensely dark. "They think I hate you."
Michael leaned in a fraction closer, his nose brushing against yours, the agonizing slowburn of the entire semester collapsing into a single, breathless point of gravity. "I've spent two years trying to convince myself I did," he whispered against your lips before stepping back, handing you a small black umbrella–he knew you didn’t bring one.
“W–What?” you meekly squeak out.
But Michael did not react or reply to you. He simply grabbed his blazer, turned on his heels and left the room–leaving you in a flustered mess of confusion and a warmth spreading up your neck.
The next week, the building felt entirely too small.
You had spent nights tossing and turning, the phantom scent of his perfume practically embedded in your nostrils, your mind looping over his whispered confession like a broken record. By the time you arrived on campus, you were running entirely on pure adrenaline, and a desperate, clawing need to reset the boundary line between you. You needed the friction back. You needed him to be the infuriating, traditionalist Professor Jackson again, because whatever happened in the lounge last night was something you aren’t ready to face.
Stepping into the cramped copier room to prep your Monday handouts, you slammed the paper tray open with a little too much force.
"The machine didn't do anything to offend you," a low, smooth voice murmured from the doorway.
Your heart violently leaped into your throat. You spun around, your back hitting the edge of the industrial copier.
Michael stood in the threshold, looking entirely too collected for a man who had completely disoriented your sanity just two days prior. He was wearing a stark, crisp white button-down, the top two buttons undone, his silver-rimmed reading glasses were back on, perched firmly on his nose as he flipped through a grading rubric.
"I am fine, Professor," you said, your voice coming out sharper and faster than you intended. "I am just trying to fix this tray. Which wouldn't be broken if certain faculty members didn't abuse the machine for their ninety-page reading packets."
Michael raised an eyebrow, slowly stepping into the room. The space was tiny, barely enough for two people to pass each other–and as he closed the distance, the warmth radiating off him instantly made the air feel thick and suffocating.
"Is that a critique of my curriculum, or are you just looking for a reason to argue?" he asked softly, a tiny, infuriating hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. He stopped just a foot away, reaching past your shoulder to grab a stack of collated sheets from the output tray.
Your breath hitched. Your eyes locked onto his long fingers, then involuntarily drifted up the smooth skin of his forearm where his sleeves were rolled up. The memory of those exact fingers resting flat against the counter on either side of your hips last Friday flashed so vividly in your mind that you squeezed your eyes for a moment to collect yourself.
"I don't need a reason to argue with you," you muttered, desperately trying to keep your voice steady as you fumbled with a ream of paper. "You provide plenty of material on your own."
"Do I?" Michael murmured. He didn't step back. In fact, he shifted just an inch closer, his shoulder nearly brushing yours. He lowered his head slightly, looking at you over the rims of his glasses, his dark eyes intensely focused on your face. "You seem rattled today. Did you not sleep well?"
"I slept perfectly," you lied, your voice dropping an octave as you tried to glare at him, trying to summon every ounce of the academic rivalry that had kept you safe for two years. "I was just...thinking about how flawed your argument was. It's completely outdated."
Michael let out that soft, breathy chuckle, but it felt different today–heavier, slower. He took a single, deliberate step, his chest practically crowding you against the plastic frame of the copier. He reached out, his hand resting on the machine right next to your hand, his knuckles brushing against your pinky finger. The sliver of contact was dizzying.
"Outdated," he repeated, his voice dropping into that quiet, velvety register that made your knees feel violently weak. He leaned down a fraction, his gaze dropping to your lips for a split second before rising back to your eyes. "If it’s so outdated, why are you trembling?"
"It's the coffee," you squeaked out, your carefully constructed facade completely crumbling under the gravity of his proximity. You pressed yourself harder against the machine, your face burning, your breath coming in shallow, uneven intervals. "I really should switch to decaf you know–"
His lips twisted into a slow, devastatingly handsome smile that told you he knew what he was doing to you. He tapped his long fingers against the paper stack, finally straightening up and stepping back, breaking the spell just enough for the cool air of the room to rush back between you. "Have a good lecture. Try not to let my outdated perspective distract you too much."
He turned on his heel and slipped out of the room, leaving you gripping the edge of the copier tray, your chest heaving in the quiet room as you tried to remember how to breathe.
The relentless, rhythmic thump-thump of the department’s old radiator felt like a physical stab driving directly into your temple.
It was now mid-November, the sky outside the high faculty lounge windows a miserable gray. You sat hunched over your desk, one hand pressed firmly against your forehead, your eyes squeezed shut against the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights. Before you sat a towering mountain of midterm essays—unopened, unread, and due by tomorrow morning.
Your stomach let out a low, hollow growl, reminding you that your last meal had been a stale granola bar at six o'clock this morning. But the mere thought of navigating the noisy campus cafeteria made the nausea behind your eyes flare up with violent intensity. You couldn't move. You just stayed there, paralyzed in your swivel chair, letting the quiet misery of the migraine wash over you.
The heavy oak door swung open with a soft, familiar creak.
You didn't look up. You didn't have the strength to put up your usual defensive walls, even though the faint, unmistakable scent of sandalwood immediately told your brain exactly who had walked in. You just tightened your grip on your forehead, waiting for the inevitable sharp jab about your disorganized desk or your sluggish grading pace.
Instead, the soft patter of his loafers stopped a respectful distance away. The room went completely silent for a long moment.
"You look dead," Michael said softly.
His voice wasn't laced with the usual competitive edge, nor was it the breathy, dangerous whisper from the copier room. It was quiet. Carefully measured. Almost clinical in its gentleness.
"Gee, way to compliment a woman," you muttered into the palm of your hand, your voice sounding thick and strained even to your own ears. "Just...reviewing the contemporary prose you despise so much."
A subtle rustle of fabric followed. When you tentatively opened one eye, tilting your head up just a fraction, you saw that Michael had already set his leather briefcase down. He had taken off his glasses, folding them neatly into his breast pocket. He was looking down at you, his dark eyes narrowed in a focused, evaluating squint.
"You haven't touched your tea," he noted, gesturing to the entirely cold, untouched mug sitting at the edge of your desk. "Is it a migraine?"
"I'm fine," you whispered, the pitch of your own voice making your temple throb.
Michael didn't argue. He didn't offer an annoying counter-point. Instead, he smoothly turned on his heel and walked across the lounge. You closed your eyes again, expecting him to sit at his own desk and leave you to your self-inflicted misery.
A sharp click echoed through the room.
Suddenly, the harsh, aggressive buzz of the fluorescent lights vanished, plunging the faculty lounge into a soft, dim glow, illuminated only by the gray afternoon light filtering through the rain-streaked windows. The instant relief was so great you let out a long, involuntary sigh, your shoulders dropping an inch.
Before you could process the gesture, the soft sound of his footsteps returned.
"Lean back," Michael commanded quietly.
You opened your eyes. He was standing right beside your swivel chair. In his hand, he held a pristine, folded white handkerchief that smelled faintly of lavender.
"Michael, I have sixty essays to–"
"They can wait an hour," he interrupted, his voice dropping into a firm tone that brooked absolutely no argument. "And your students would prefer a coherent grade over one crammed as you sit here like a zombie. Now, please. Lean back."
Too exhausted to fight him, you let your head fall against the high back of the swivel chair, staring up at him through a blurred, painful haze.
Michael moved with an incredible, deliberate slowness. He leaned down, his large, beautiful hands reached out, and for a terrifying second, you thought he was going to touch your face—your heart did a frantic, ridiculous leap despite the pain.
"Close your eyes," he murmured.
You complied, shutting your eyes in the dim room. A moment later, the cool, damp weight of the handkerchief was gently laid across your forehead and eyes. The soothing, icy scent of peppermint and lavender immediately cut through the stale air of the lounge, numbing the sharp ache in your temples.
Then came the rustle of a brown paper bag being placed on your desk, right next to your keyboard.
"I bought a chicken salad sandwich from the cafeteria earlier," Michael’s voice drifted down, sounding closer than before. "I haven't touched it. You need to eat something."
You lay there under the cloth, a completely different kind of flush spreading up your neck. The hostility that had defined the last two years felt incredibly distant, melting away into the quiet, dim room.
"Thank you, Michael," you whispered meekly from beneath the handkerchief.
There was a long, heavy pause. For a second, you wondered if he had already stood up to leave. But then, you felt the incredibly light, ghost-like brush of his long fingers against the side of your hair, tucked carefully behind your ear, ensuring the fabric wouldn't slip.
"You're very welcome," Michael murmured, his voice incredibly soft, devoid of any restraint or games. "Eat the sandwich. I'll take the top twenty essays from your pile to my desk."
"Michael, no, with your bias, you'll fail them–”
A soft, breathy, genuine chuckle echoed beside your ear, warming the chilled air of the lounge. "I will be very fair. Now be quiet and rest."
The morning sun was surprisingly bright the next day as you walked down the corridor with a distinct, uncharacteristic spring in your step, your head completely clear of the violent throbbing that had ruined you the day before. In your hands, you carefully balanced a cardboard drink carrier holding a hot cup of decaf coffee and a small, grease-stained paper bag from the bakery down the street.
Your heart was doing acrobatics against your ribs—not from the usual defensive irritation, but from a genuine nervousness. You had spent the entire morning convincing yourself that this was a strictly professional transaction. A simple, polite way to thank him. He took twenty of your essays, you brought him breakfast. Restoring the balance.
Stopping outside the heavy door of the faculty lounge, you took a deep breath, adjusted your grip on the carrier, and pushed it open with your elbow.
The lounge was quiet, bathed in the soft morning light. Michael was already there, sitting at his large desk near the window. He looked entirely too elegant for a school morning, dressed in a crisp, blue button-down shirt with a subtle satin sheen, his reading glasses perched neatly on the bridge of his nose. Spread out across his desk were your students' contemporary essays, each one marked with his distinct handwriting in blue ink.
At the sound of the door, his dark eyes lifted from the pages, tracking you as you walked into the room.
"Good morning," Michael murmured, his voice quiet in the half empty lounge. He smoothly pulled his glasses down an inch, looking at you over the rims. "You look...significantly more alive today."
"The migraine is gone, thank you," you said, your voice coming out a little stiffer than you intended as you marched over to his desk. You carefully set the drink carrier down on an empty space on the wood of his desk, right next to his pens, before sliding the paper bag beside it. "This is for you. As a... professional courtesy. To balance the ledger."
Michael looked down at the offering, a subtle, intrigued lift to his eyebrows. He reached out, his long fingers wrapping around the hot paper cup, lifting it to read the handwritten marker on the lid.
"Decaf?" he noted, a soft, breathy hint of amusement coloring his voice.
"I remember you mentioned in the department meeting last month that regular caffeine disrupts your sleep schedule when you’re grading late," you muttered, suddenly looking anywhere but at his face, your cheeks warming slightly. "And there's a glazed donut in the bag. It's from the bakery near the train station."
Michael didn't answer right away. The silence stretched for a long, heavy moment, filled only by the distant sound of students chattering in the courtyard below.
Slowly, he leaned back in his leather chair, setting the coffee down. He pulled his reading glasses off completely, folding them and sliding them into his pocket, his dark eyes locked onto you with an intense, unshielded focus that made the safe facade feel impossible to maintain. The playful, wicked smirk from the copier room wasn't there. Instead, his expression was soft, a gentle, genuine warmth radiating from him that completely disarmed you.
"A donut," Michael repeated softly, his voice dropping into that low, velvety register. A beautiful, quiet smile broke across his face, tilting the corners of his lips in a way that made your breath catch. "That is thoughtful of you. Thank you."
"It's just a donut, Michael," you whispered meekly, your fingers instinctively gripping the edge of your clipboard like a shield. "Don't look too deeply into the subtext."
Michael let out a low, melodic chuckle, the sound rich and warm in the quiet lounge. He reached over, his long fingers gently tapping the stack of graded essays on his desk, sliding them toward you.
"The subtext is entirely clear," he murmured, his gaze rising to meet yours, dripping with the heat that had been building between you. He leaned forward just a fraction, his voice dropping an octave. "And for the record...your contemporary students aren't entirely devoid of merit. I only gave four of them a rewrite."
You let out a small, involuntary laugh, the last remnants of your defensive walls completely melting away in the morning light. "Quite the compliment from the traditionalist."
"I am capable of finding a balance," Michael whispered, his eyes holding yours with a heavy, deliberate certainty that told you he wasn't talking about the essays anymore. "When the perspective is right."
You took a step back, clutching the stack of graded essays to your chest like a shield, though the warmth radiating from the pages—or perhaps just from his proximity—was doing nothing to cool the flush on your cheeks.
"I have a 10:00 AM class," you stammered, clearing your throat in a desperate bid to reclaim a shred of your usual professional authority. "I should...I need to hand these back."
Michael’s smile lingered, small and knowing, as he picked up the paper bag. "Of course. Don't let me keep you from your duties."
Two days later, the shift between the two of you had become an anomaly in the humanities and arts department. The storm had cleared, replaced by a strange, heavy tension that everyone seemed to notice.
You were standing by the faculty mailboxes, sorting through a pile of publisher catalogs, when Professor Anderson from the Philosophy department wandered over. He leaned against the counter, holding a reheated slice of pepperoni pizza, and gave you a highly analytical look.
"You and Jackson didn't yell at each other once during the curriculum meeting yesterday," he noted, narrowing his eyes. "In fact, when you suggested adding the contemporary feminist anthology, he simply nodded and agreed. Are the two of you feeling alright?"
"We are just practicing proper manners, Arthur," you said, keeping your eyes trained on a catalog.
"It’s unsettling," Anderson muttered. "The TAs are very intrigued. The online forum has gone quiet because there's no new material to post. They think the two of you have reached a stalemate."
You forced a polite smile, grabbed your mail, and hurried down the hall before he could dissect you any further. But as you passed the classroom Michael is currently lecturing in, you could hear the faint, muffled sound of his voice slipping through the heavy wood.
Your eyes trailed near the doorknob for a fraction of a second before you shook yourself out of it and walked away.
The true test came on Friday evening.
The department was hosting its annual end-of-semester mixer in the library room. By 8:00 PM, the room was buzzing with faculty and graduate students, everyone nursing glasses of cheap white wine. You were trapped near the window–dressed in a casual black knitted form fitting dress, politely listening to the Dean talk about university parking adjustments, when you felt a sudden, familiar shift in the air.
The scent of that specific perfume you’ve grown to dread cut through the musty room.
"Good evening, Dean. Miss —," Michael’s smooth voice interrupted.
You looked up. He was wearing a structured black blazer over a dark silk button-down, his hair softly framing his face, his reading glasses tucked neatly into his breast pocket. He held two glasses of wine, smoothly extending one toward you.
"Michael," the Dean beamed. "We were just discussing the budget for the parking expansion."
Michael hummed, though his dark eyes didn't look at the Dean at all. They were fixed entirely on you, tracking the way the soft lamplight caught the line of your throat. "But if you'll excuse us, sir, I actually need to consult Miss – on a matter regarding the upcoming Marxist seminar."
"Ah," the Dean chuckled, completely oblivious to the sudden, suffocating gravity that had just draped over you. "Carry on, then."
The moment the Dean wandered off, Michael stepped into the empty space he left behind, effectively cutting you off from the rest of the crowded room. The soft murmur of faculty chatter faded into background noise.
"You've been avoiding me," Michael said softly, taking a sip of his wine. His voice was incredibly low, meant for your ears alone.
"I haven't been avoiding you, Professor," you whispered, holding the wine glass tightly to keep your fingers from trembling. "I've just been busy."
"Is that so?" Michael leaned in a fraction closer, his chest nearly brushing your shoulder. He set his wine glass down on a nearby display case, his long fingers resting flat on the polished wood, just inches from your hip. "Busy avoiding the faculty lounge? The classrooms I am lecturing at?"
Your breath caught. You looked up, meeting his gaze. The playful, competitive look he usually wore was completely gone, replaced by a raw, heavy intensity that made the entire room feel like it was spinning.
"Michael," you breathed, your voice barely audible over the clinking of glasses around you. "The students...everyone is watching."
"Let’s get out of here," he whispered against your ear, his breath hot and tingly on your skin. He tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes locking onto your lips before rising back to yours with a quiet, unyielding certainty.
Before you could formulate a sharp remark, Michael’s long fingers gently but firmly wrapped around your wrist. The heat of his bare skin against your pulse point sent a violent jolt straight up your spine.
Without a word, he guided you away from the velvet drapes and the soft glow of the library, navigating the crowded edges of the library with an effortless, quiet authority. You followed him blindly, your fingers instinctively tightening around the stem of your wine glass to keep the liquid from sloshing over the edge.
He pushed through a heavy gray door at the end of the corridor, leading you into a secluded, concrete stairwell. The door clicked shut behind you, instantly cutting off the ambient chatter of the mixer. The air out here was cool, smelling faintly of old dust, damp rain from the ventilation shaft, and the sudden, overwhelming rush of his cologne.
Michael didn’t stop until he had guided you down the first small flight of stairs, tucked neatly beneath the shadow of the concrete landing, completely hidden from the view of the door’s small glass window.
You backed up until the cool, rough surface of the concrete wall pressed against your shoulder blades. Michael stepped directly into your space, shutting down the distance so completely that your chest brushed against the soft fabric of his blazer with every ragged breath you took. He didn't trap you with his hands this time–he simply stood there, his tall frame looming over you, his eyes dark and entirely unshielded in the dim, amber safety light of the stairwell.
"Michael," you breathed, your voice echoing softly against the concrete. You lifted the wine glass, holding it between your chests like a pathetic barrier. "What are you doing? If anyone comes out here–"
"No one is coming out here," Michael interrupted, his voice a low, rough murmur that was entirely devoid of his usual academic poise. He reached out, his fingers gently wrapping around the mouth of your wine glass. Slowly, he took it from your trembling grip and set it down on the concrete step behind him, never once breaking eye contact.
When he turned back to you, the sheer gravity of his focus made your knees feel weak.
"Two years," you whispered. "Two years of you tearing apart my curriculum, judging my choices, fighting me on every single thing I brought to the table. If you didn't hate me...why were you always fighting me, Michael?"
Michael let out a soft, ragged breath, his chest heaving under his dark silk shirt. He stepped even closer, his thighs brushing against yours, the heat radiating off his body completely obliterating the chill of the stairwell.
"Because it was the only way I could handle being in the same room as you," he confessed softly, his voice dropping into a raw, velvety register that vibrated straight through you. He reached up, his large hand cradling the side of your neck, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a sudden, fierce tenderness. "Every time you argued with me, every time you showed us how intelligent you are, every time you looked at me with that stubborn defiance...all I wanted to do was pull you out of those meetings and do exactly what I’m about to do right now."
Your breath caught in your throat. "Michael–"
"I was terrified," he whispered against your lips, his dark eyes burning into yours. "Terrified of how much control you had over me without even trying. The restraint wasn't because I hated you. It was because I was trying to save myself from losing my mind."
"You've lost it now," you murmured, your hands finally reaching out, your fingers tangling into the soft velvet of his lapels, pulling him down.
"You’ll be correct," Michael breathed.
And then, the two years of that agonizing burn collapsed completely.
Michael leaned down and captured your lips in a kiss that was entirely unprofessorial—deep, bruising, and heavy with a frantic hunger that had been suppressed for far too long. A low, breathless sound escaped your throat as his hand slid down to your neck, his long fingers wrapping around you with a delicious pressure, pinning you firmly against the concrete wall.
The cool stone at your back contrasted sharply with the intoxicating, suffocating heat of his body. His tongue parted your lips with a smooth, demanding certainty, tasting faintly of the white wine and something so distinctly him.
Michael shifted closer, his knee sliding between your thighs, anchoring you to him as his kisses turned deeper, trailing a burning path from your lips down to the sensitive skin of your jawline, his damp hair brushing against your cheek. He let out a low, rough growl against your neck, his grip tightening slightly on your jaw, his thumb drawing circles on your skin, pulling you so flush against him that you could feel the frantic, erratic thumping of his heart beating in perfect synchronization with your own.
"Tell me to stop," Michael murmured against your skin, his voice thick and breathless, his fingers sliding on top of the strap of your dress. "Tell me to be the traditional schmuck you hate...tell me right now."
You pulled him back up by his lapels, your eyes half-lidded and dark with the same craving, looking directly into the face of the man who had been your rival and your most agonizing obsession.
"Don't you dare stop, Professor," you whispered.
Michael’s lips curved into a handsome, entirely undone smile before he crushed his mouth back against yours, completely shattering the last remaining boundaries between the two of you.
You pull your mouth back slightly, his wet lips seeking you out as you did.
“We shouldn’t do this here. We might get fired,” you breathed out, trying to gain back a semblance of dignity you’ve lost in this fire exit.
He ran his thumb on the dampness of your swollen lower lip. “I thought you were the modern one?” he smirks.
You roll your eyes before grabbing his arm. “Let’s just go, old man.”
Michael let out a soft, melodic chuckle, the sound vibrating deep in his chest as he watched you roll your eyes. Even in this moment—disheveled, breathless, and caught in the heat of a two year tension finally snapping he couldn't help but find you endearing.
"Old man?" he repeated, his voice still low and husky, though a glimmer of his usual playful charm had returned to his eyes. "Careful. You keep calling me that, and you might find out exactly how much energy this 'old man' still has."
As you began to lead him down the remaining flight of stairs of the fire exit, his hand slid down to catch yours, his long fingers interlacing with yours in a grip that was firm and certain.
As you stepped out of the dim light of the stairwell and toward the well lit university parking lot, you turned to look at him–making him slightly stumble from the sudden pause.
"Is your place around? My apartment is two train stations away," your eyes catch on the cool night air blowing his hair.
He hummed thoughtfully, a low sound in the back of his throat. "My place is much closer," he said, his voice regaining that smooth authority. "And much warmer."
The moment the heavy door to his house clicked shut behind you, Michael didn't even give you a chance to kick off your heels or take the foyer in—he had you backed against the wall, his body a sudden weight that demanded your entire attention.
The kiss wasn't like the one in the stairwell. This was deep, possessive, and hungry. It was the kiss of a man who was finally home, and you were the prize he had been chasing for two years.
His hands were everywhere at once—one palm flat against the wall beside your head, anchoring you, while the other slid into your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands to tilt your head back, exposing the line of your throat to his lips.
"Finally," he groaned against your mouth, the sound muffled and raw.
He broke the kiss just long enough to press his forehead against yours, both of you breathing as if you’d just run a marathon. His eyes were dark and burning with an intensity that made the air in the hallway feel thick and heavy.
"No more games," he whispered, his voice dropping to that low, commanding register that always made your heart skip. "No more pretending we want to tear each other apart."
“At least not in the way we were doing,” he added.
He trailed his lips down to the sensitive dip of your collarbone, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you gasp.
"You're mine tonight," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. "Do you understand?."
He pulled back just an inch, his gaze searching yours to see if you were ready to let go of that last shred of professional dignity.
"Tell me you're ready," he challenged softly, a small, lopsided smirk playing on his lips. "Tell me you're done playing games."
You didn’t succumb yet. You let your eyes wander down his handsome face and into the pale expanse of his neck.
“The traditional Professor Jackson, crumbling in front of me,” you challenged him, a dark glint in your eyes. “Guess I won in the students’ betting pool huh, you were the first to crumble.”
Michael froze for a split second, his eyes widening in surprise before a genuine laugh erupted from his throat.
He shook his head, an uncharacteristic boyish grin breaking through his features.
“Oh really?” he leans in closer. “Then why does it feel like I am the one who won.”
At that, you were lost for words. You swallowed hard as you felt yourself being unraveled by him.
“But if you want to talk about winning,” he whispered, his voice dropping into that smooth, authoritative tone, “then I’ll show you just how happy I lost to you.”
Without giving you a chance to retort, he captured your lips again, but this time there was no hesitation. He swept you up into his arms, his strength effortless as he began to carry you toward his bedroom, his kisses never breaking, blindly navigating his house, leaving you breathless and completely at his mercy.
When he finally reached his bedroom, he lowered you onto the soft, silk sheets with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the hunger in his eyes.
Before you could even catch your breath, he was over you, bracing himself on his forearms so he could look down at you. The moonlight filtered through the large windows, casting long, elegant shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the sheer intensity of his gaze.
“Beautiful,” he choked out as if he’s being tortured. He descended and planted a string of wet, languid kisses on your throat. His hands traveled down to slowly bunch up the hem of your dress, and efficiently peel it off you.
You were left in your unassuming pair of nude strapless bra and nude panties.
Suddenly, a wave of intense self-consciousness crashed through the haze of desire. The confident, argumentative facade you had worn for two years evaporated in an instant. Your arms instinctively moved up to cover your chest.
Michael felt the shift in your energy immediately. He was a man who lived by observation, he noticed the way your breath hitched, the way your eyes darted away, and most tellingly, the way your hands flew up to shield your chest, trying to hide yourself from his gaze.
He stopped his descent, his lips hovering just inches from your skin, and looked up.
"Hey," he murmured, his voice dropping into an incredibly gentle, quiet register that made your chest ache. He pulled away slightly to search your eyes, trying to meet your downcast gaze. "What is it? Did I...did I go too fast? I can stop."
"No, it's not...it's not that," you whispered, your face burning a mortified crimson in the dim light of his room. You tightened your arms around yourself, your voice cracking with a sudden, raw vulnerability. "It's just...I'm small, Michael."
Michael blinked, his brow furrowing behind a stray, damp curl that had fallen across his forehead. "I don't understand."
You swallowed hard, looking anywhere but at his face. "I've seen the types of women who usually try to get your attention at the university galas. The visiting lecturers...they're all so...voluptuous. I just assumed you liked your women big and full."
As the words left your mouth, you felt stupid as you heard yourself.
A heavy, profound silence fell over the both of you.
Michael hovered completely still, letting your words hang in the cool air. Then, a slow, incredibly tender expression softened his sharp features. He didn't make a witty jab, and he didn't use his sophisticated, professorial vocabulary to dissect your insecurity.
Instead, he simply reached out. His large, beautiful hands were warm and completely steady as they gently took hold of your wrists, gently but firmly coaxing your arms away from your chest and held them loosely, pinning them to the bed beside your head so you had no choice but to be seen.
"You think I care about the textbook definition of beauty?" Michael whispered, his voice incredibly low, vibrating with a fierce, quiet intensity.
He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow so he could truly take you in. His eyes traveled over you not with the clinical eye of a professor, but with the reverence of a man looking at a masterpiece. He lingered on the curve of your waist, the slope of your hips, and finally, the soft swell of your breasts.
"Look at me," he commanded softly.
You lifted your eyes to meet his. His dark eyes were burning, entirely unshielded, looking at you with a heavy, intoxicating hunger that made your breath hitch.
"I have spent two years looking at you across meeting tables, completely losing my train of thought because of the way you tilt your head when you're angry," Michael murmured, his thumb tracing your collarbone with a devastating, slow certainty. "I didn't fall for an abstract concept or a physical archetype. I fell for you. Every single inch of you is exactly what I've been starving for."
He leaned in, his nose brushing against yours, his breath hot and sweet against your lips. "You are more than enough. You are everything."
"You are perfection, the woman I’ve been craving for years," he whispered against your skin, his voice thick with conviction. "And if you ever try to hide from me again, I might just have to find a way to make sure you never want to cover up in my presence ever again."
Your face flushed red. “Y–You really are a literature professor.”
Michael bit his lower lip as he smiled. “I’m not just charming you with my words. When I speak, I mean them.”
The sound of your bra clasp clicking open was loud in the quiet of the room. Michael didn't rush. He was a man who understood the power of anticipation, and he knew that the most beautiful things in life were meant to be savored, not devoured. As the fabric fell away, he didn't immediately move to touch you. Instead, he stayed exactly where he was, hovering over you, his eyes drinking in the sight of you completely unburdened.
The moonlight seemed to cling to your skin, making you glow against the dark silk of his sheets. He looked at you with such profound, quiet intensity that it felt more intimate than the kiss had been. There was no judgment in his gaze, no comparison to some imaginary standard–only a deep, simmering hunger and a reverence that made your heart ache.
"God," he breathed, the word barely a whisper.
He reached out, his long, slender fingers tracing the softness of your waist before sliding upward. He was so careful, so incredibly gentle, as if he were afraid that a single heavy touch might shatter the moment. His fingertips grazed the underside of your breasts, a light, teasing pressure that sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core.
He watched your reaction closely, his eyes tracking the way your breath hitched and the way your skin pebbled under his touch. He saw the way your eyes fluttered shut, and a low, satisfied hum vibrated in his chest.
"See?" he murmured, his voice a velvet caress as he leaned down, his lips hovering just a fraction of an inch from your skin. "You don't need to hide. Not from me. Never from me."
He lowered his head, his mouth finally making contact. He didn't go for a deep, demanding kiss this time. Instead, he began to pepper light, feather soft kisses across your chest, his tongue tracing the swell of your breasts with agonizing slowness. He was worshiping you, treating every inch of your skin as if it were sacred ground.
As he moved, his hands wandered, one cupping you firmly while the other slid down to the waistband of your panties, his thumb hooking into the fabric. He looked up at you through his lashes, his dark eyes hooded and heavy with desire.
"You have no idea," he whispered, his voice thick and husky, "how many nights I spent imagining exactly how you would feel under my hands. How you would taste."
He leaned in, his lips brushing against your nipple, a soft, teasing graze that made you arch your back instinctively toward him.
"Now," he commanded softly, his gaze locking onto yours, "let me see my winner."
The sensation of his mouth warm, wet, and incredibly focused sent waves of heat crashing through you, making your head toss back against the pillows. Every time his tongue swirled around the peak of your breast, a fresh jolt of electricity raced down your spine, pooling heavily in your pelvis.
But as the cotton of your panties was peeled away, the cool air hit your damp skin, and the sudden vulnerability made you gasp.
Michael didn't look away. He didn't even pause his worship of your breasts. Instead, he shifted his weight, sliding down the bed with a predatory grace until he was positioned between your thighs. He looked up at you, his dark hair slightly mussed, his eyes dark and heavy with a hunger that was almost frightening in its intensity.
He saw the way you were glistening, the way your body was practically humming with the need he had awakened.
"Look at you," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that seemed to resonate in your very bones. "So ready for me."
He reached out, his long, elegant fingers spreading your damp folds as his face hovered just above you. He watched your hips lift instinctively toward him, a silent, desperate plea for contact.
"You're so beautiful when you're like this," he whispered, his gaze dropping to where you were most aroused. "No more sarcasm. No more rolling your eyes. Just this."
He leaned forward, his breath hot and teasing against your desire, making you tremble uncontrollably. He was being deliberate, agonizingly slow, savoring the way your body reacted to the mere promise of his touch.
"Do you want me?" he asked, his voice dropping to a commanding, velvet rasp. He looked up, his eyes locking onto yours, demanding an answer, demanding your honesty. "Tell me. Tell me exactly what you want me to do to you."
He didn't move to satisfy you just yet. He waited, his thumb finally making a slow, torturous circle on your inner thigh, watching your eyes cloud with hunger, waiting for you to break and admit just how much power he truly had over you.
“Please, Michael. I want you,” you choked out.
The moment the words left your lips, a low, guttural sound escaped his throat a mix of a groan and a triumphant laugh. He loved the way your voice broke, the way the poised, intellectual woman he had debated for two years had finally dissolved into a woman who was simply, desperately, needing him.
But he didn't move to enter you. Not yet.
"Please?" he repeated, his voice a dark, velvet caress. He let the word hang in the air between you, thick with tension. "That's a start, baby. But you know me. I don't like vague answers."
He leaned down, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, his breath hitching as he felt the heat radiating from you. He looked up at you through his lashes, his eyes hooded and predatory.
"Don't just tell me you want me," he whispered, his thumb applying a slow, rhythmic pressure that made your hips jerk upward. "Tell me how you want me. Do you want me to be gentle? Do you want me to take control?"
He leaned in closer, his tongue darting out to give a kitten lick directly on your swollen nub.
"Do you want to feel me everywhere?" He paused, his fingers teasing the very center of your arousal, watching your eyes blow wide with pleasure. "Be specific, baby. Tell me exactly how you want me to please you."
He was testing you, pushing you to strip away the last of your inhibitions. He wanted to hear the raw, unadulterated truth of your hunger, because he knew that once you gave it to him, he wouldn't stop until he had satisfied every single craving you possessed.
"Want your tongue on me. P–Please,” tears practically pricked your eyes in your arousal.
The sight of those tears–the sheer, unadulterated vulnerability in your eyes was the final thread to snap his legendary self control. To see the woman who had spent years standing toe to toe with him, challenging his intellect and defying his authority, reduced to this beautiful, trembling state of need...it was more intoxicating than any wine.
"Oh, baby..." he breathed, his voice cracking with a sudden, fierce tenderness.
He didn't just go for you–he made good on his promise.
His tongue, warm and incredibly skilled, made its first, sweeping contact. He didn't start with a light tease, he went straight to your clitoris, a firm, rhythmic stroke that was so sudden and so intense it forced a sharp, broken cry from your throat.
"Is that what you want?" he murmured against your skin, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that you felt as much as heard. He pulled back just enough to look up at you, his face flushed, his eyes dark with a primal hunger. "Is this what you've been dreaming about when you challenge me?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He knew.
He dove back in, his movements becoming more frantic, more demanding. He used his tongue with a devastating precision, swirling, flicking, and applying a pressure that was perfectly calibrated to drive you to the brink. He was relentless, his head moving in a steady, hypnotic rhythm that made the world outside the bedroom disappear.
He listened to you. He listened to the way your breath hitched, the way your voice rose in pitch, and the way you called his name like a prayer. Every time you arched your back or your fingers tangled desperately in his hair, he adjusted, pushing you harder, faster, deeper into the fray.
"That's it," he groaned against you, his voice muffled by your skin. "Give it to me. Let go. Just let go..."
He could feel the tension building in your thighs, the way your entire body was coiling like a spring, ready to snap. He sensed the exact moment the waves began to crash, and he didn't let up. He increased the pace, his tongue working with a fierce, focused intensity, determined to carry you all the way to the edge and hold you there until you were nothing but pure, unadulterated sensation.
Embarrassing wet sounds echoed in the room–syncopated with your sharp mewls.
The moment the wave crashed over you, the world seemed to tilt on its axis. Your entire body jolted, a silent, breathless gasp escaping your lips as the intense, rhythmic pressure of his tongue sent you spiraling into a blinding, white hot crescendo. Your thighs tightened instinctively, your muscles clenching around him in a desperate, involuntary rhythm as you rode the peak of the sensation.
Michael didn't pull away. He felt every tremor of your muscles against his face, and he leaned into it. He stayed right there, his tongue continuing its steady, grounding work even as you shook, helping you ride out the aftershocks, ensuring that the pleasure didn't just peak, but lingered, melting into your marrow.
When he finally felt your muscles begin to relax, he slowly pulled back, his breathing heavy and ragged. He didn't immediately move up the bed. Instead, he stayed there for a moment, looking up at you from between your knees.
His face was flushed, his dark hair a mess, and his eyes were filled with satisfaction.
Slowly, he crawled up the bed, his movements fluid and predatory once more, until he was hovering over you. He braced himself on his elbows, his chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath, his gaze searching yours.
"There she is," he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly caress. He reached up, his thumb gently brushing away one of the stray tears that had escaped your eyes, his touch incredibly tender. "There's my girl."
He leaned down, pressing a long, slow, lingering kiss to your forehead, then your eyelids, and finally your lips. It wasn't a kiss of hunger this time, but one of deep, soul stirring intimacy.
"You were incredible, baby," he murmured against your mouth, a small, satisfied smirk playing on his lips. "Absolutely incredible."
He shifted his weight, his body pressing firmly against yours, the heat between you still simmering. His eyes darkened again, the playful smirk fading into something much more serious, much more commanding.
In a sudden surge of confidence, you sit up and push him down on the bed. Kissing his earlobe as you move to shred his blazer off him, unbuttoning his shirt with a frantic desperation.
Michael let out a startled, breathless laugh as you flipped the script, the sudden strength in your movements catching him completely off guard. He fell back onto the silk sheets, his head lolling back as you descended upon him like a beautiful storm.
He was a man used to being the one in control, the one who set the pace and dictated the rhythm, but as your lips grazed his earlobe and your hands worked with a desperate, uncoordinated hunger, he found himself loving the loss of it. He watched you through hooded eyes, a look of pure, unadulterated fascination on his face.
When your tongue swirled against the pulse point of his throat, a sharp, involuntary gasp escaped him, his back arching slightly off the bed. His hands came up to rest on your hips, not to push you away, but to steady himself as your touch sent jolts of electricity through his entire frame.
As you fumbled with the buttons of his slacks, your fingers trembling with the same urgency he had felt moments ago, he reached down. He didn't let you struggle–he didn't want you to feel clumsy, even if he found the desperation incredibly endearing.
His long fingers covered yours, guiding them with practiced ease. He worked the fastening of his slacks with a smooth, decisive grace. He kicked them off, leaving him in just his boxers, though the tent you had noticed was impossible to ignore, straining against the fabric.
He reached up, his hands sliding into your hair, pulling your head back just enough so he could look you dead in the eyes. His gaze was dark, heavy with a hunger that was no longer just about pleasure, but about a deep, possessive need to claim you.
"Careful, baby,” he says.
You reached down to peel his boxers off. The moment the fabric gave way, Michael let out a long, shaky exhale, his head falling back against the pillows as he surrendered himself to your gaze.
As you stared at him, he could see the exact moment your breath hitched. He saw the way your pupils dilated, the way your gaze traced the length of him, lingering on the glistening beads of his arousal that caught the moonlight. He felt a surge of intense, masculine pride, but more than that, he felt a deep, primal connection to the way you were looking at him as if he were the only thing in the world that mattered.
When your tongue finally made contact, a single, sharp sound halfway between a gasp and a groan tore from his throat.
Your fingers reached up to gently pull his foreskin down, revealing the mauve of his swollen head. The sensation of your flat, warm tongue sliding from the very base of him all the way to the sensitive, swollen tip was almost too much to bear. It was a deliberate stroke that seemed to pull the very soul out of him. His hips bucked instinctively, a reflexive movement toward the heat of your mouth, and his hands flew to the sheets, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the fabric to keep from losing himself entirely.
"God, baby..." he choked out, his voice a wrecked, gravelly whisper.
He reached down, his fingers trembling as they found their way into your hair, not to pull you away, but to guide you, to urge you closer. He watched you through heavy, hooded lids, his eyes filled with a mixture of reverence and raw, unbridled lust. He watched the way your cheeks hollowed as you worked, the way your eyes never left his, challenging him even in the height of his pleasure.
"Don't stop," he commanded, his voice dropping to a low, authoritative rasp that vibrated through his entire body. "Don't you dare stop. Use that mouth. That mouth that drove me insane."
He arched his back, his muscles tensing, his entire being focused on the exquisite, sliding friction of your mouth. He was a man of immense self control, but as you continued that long, slow, devastating stroke, he knew he was teetering on the very edge of a precipice, and he was more than ready to fall.
Michael was lost. There was only the sensation of you–the heat of your mouth, the velvet pressure of your tongue, and the way you seemed to worship him with a ferocity that left him breathless.
When the climax finally hit him, it was violent and all consuming. He let out a low, guttural roar, his hips thrusting upward as he surrendered everything to you. He felt the rhythmic, powerful pulses of his release, the warmth of him filling your mouth, a primal exchange that felt more intimate than any words they had ever spoken.
As he slumped back against the pillows, his chest heaving, his eyes squeezed shut in a moment of pure bliss, he felt the teasing sensation of you pulling away.
He opened his eyes, his vision slightly blurred, to find you sitting back on your heels, looking up at him with a look of pure, unadulterated mischief. You were a vision of beautiful, delicious defiance.
He watched, mesmerized and completely undone, as you made a show of it. You held the weight of his release in your mouth, a silent, provocative display of your devotion, before slowly, deliberately, swallowing every last drop. When you finally opened your mouth, showing him the emptiness, a lopsided, stunned grin spread across his face.
"You...you are a menace," he rasped, his voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he cupped your jaw, his thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip. His eyes were dark, burning with a new kind of intensity.
He reaches out to squeeze your jaw firmly–not enough to hurt, but just enough to make your lips pucker and open slightly ajar.
Michael let out a soft, breathless chuckle at the sight of your lips, his fingers clutching on the soft curves of your cheeks. He was still reeling, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs, but the sheer audacity of your spirit was the most intoxicating thing he had ever experienced.
As he leaned in to taste the remnants of himself on your lips, his movements were slow, deliberate, and incredibly sensual. He traced the line of your chin, the edge of your teeth, and finally your lips, his tongue sweeping over you as he tasted his essence. Feeling a primal sort of hunger as he tasted himself on your skin.
When he finally pulled back, he saw the way your eyes were clouded with a beautiful, hazy daze–the look of a woman who had been thoroughly, wonderfully undone.
Then you spoke. "Can I ride you, professor?"
Michael froze for a fraction of a second, his dark eyes widening slightly before they darkened into something much more intense, much more predatory.
He didn't answer with words immediately. Instead, he reached down, his hands sliding firmly under your thighs, and with a single, powerful movement, he lifted you and swung your legs over his hips. He settled you directly on top of him, the friction of your heat meeting his arousal making him hiss through his teeth.
He gripped your waist, his fingers digging in just enough to let you know he was holding on, his gaze locked onto yours with an unwavering, authoritative heat.
"You're so hungry for me," he murmured, his eyes searching yours, demanding you meet his intensity. "Want to ride the man you loathed, huh?"
He gave your hips a firm, guiding nudge, a silent command to begin, his eyes never leaving yours as he waited to see just how much more of your composure you were willing to lose.
You bit your lower lip as you sank down, your hands coming up to clutch his shoulders, The girth of his length stretching you deliciously–the pain becoming something you’re seeking.
Michael’s breath hitched, a sharp, jagged sound that caught in the back of his throat as he felt you begin to descend. He watched you with an intensity that was almost overwhelming, his eyes tracking every micro expression on your face, every flicker of sensation that crossed your features.
As you sank down, he felt the incredible, tight friction of you stretching to accommodate him. He could feel the way your internal muscles pulsed and gripped him, a sensation so intense it made his entire body tremble.
“Y–You’re too big,” you whimpered as you stilled.
"Shhh, easy, baby... easy," he murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble, though his own eyes were burning with a fierce, hungry light.
He didn't let you struggle, he reached up, his large, warm hands sliding from your waist to the base of your skull, his fingers digging slightly into your skin to give you something to anchor yourself to. He watched your face, his gaze incredibly observant, reading the way your brow furrowed and the way your eyes squeezed shut.
"Look at me," he commanded softly, not because he wanted to distract you, but because he wanted to be the only thing you saw in the midst of that delicious pain. "Don't close your eyes. Stay with me."
As you struggled to take the full length of him, he leaned forward, pressing his chest against yours to provide a sense of stability. He began to move his hips in a tiny, microscopic upward tilt, a subtle, rhythmic nudge meant to help you find your rhythm, to help your body learn to accept him.
"You're doing so well," he whispered, his voice thick with pride and desire. "Just breathe. Slow, deep breaths for me, sweetheart. Let it happen. Let me in."
His thumb stroked the sensitive skin just below your ear. He was being patient, being the anchor you needed, but the way his hips were twitching, the way his breath was coming in short, heavy gasps, betrayed how much he was fighting to remain composed.
"You're so tight f’ me, so perfect," he groaned, his head falling back for a second as the sensation of you enveloping him reached a fever pitch. "Take it all. Take all of me. You were made for me."
He waited, his eyes locked onto yours, watching with a predator's patience.
The moment you finally bottomed out, sinking all the way down until there was no space left between your bodies, Michael let out a sound that was pure, unadulterated animalism. It was a low, guttural roar of triumph and sheer, overwhelming sensation.
You let out a loud, uninhibited groan, the sound of your pleasure electrifying the very air in the room. He felt the exact moment your clitoris made contact with the soft, warm thatch of hair at the base of his pelvis, the friction of the movement sending a jolt of lightning straight to his core.
"Yes," he gasped. His hands, which had been steadying you on your nape, slid down, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips with a possessive, bruising intensity. He needed to hold you there–he needed to feel the weight of you, the heat of you, the way you were perfectly, impossibly molded to him.
"That's it, baby...just like that," he groaned, his voice a wrecked, velvet rasp.
He began to move. He took control of the tempo, his hips rising to meet yours in a slow, grinding rhythm. He wasn't just thrusting, he was rotating his pelvis, a calculated, torturous movement designed to ensure that every single time you moved, you were being rubbed against that sensitive spot.
He watched your face with a beautiful focus. He saw the way your head tossed back, the way your lips were parted in a constant, breathless gasp, and the way your eyes were rolled back in pure, unadulterated ecstasy.
"Look at you," he whispered, his voice trembling with the effort of his own restraint. "Look at how you take me. So beautiful...so greedy for it."
He leaned up, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that was frantic and hungry, tasting the salt of your skin and the sweetness of your moans. He was driving you toward the edge, his movements becoming more deliberate, more powerful, as he felt your internal muscles beginning to quiver and tighten around him once more.
"Don't hold back," he commanded, his hips hitting yours with a firm, rhythmic thud that echoed the pounding of your hearts.
You looked down at him, your mouth dropping open in short ragged gasps as your hips struggled to grind down at him.
Michael was in a trance, a state of pure, sensory overload where the only thing that existed was the friction of your body against his and the rhythmic, grinding heat of your hips. He was watching you with a gaze so intense it felt like he was trying to memorize the very soul of you, his breathing coming in heavy, jagged lunges that mirrored your own.
Your eyes travel on his face, taking in his damp eyebrows, his wide eyes, and his swollen, pink lips. You can’t help but reach down, your finger breaking the trance of his gaze to slide into his mouth, he didn't flinch. Instead, his eyes widened a fraction more, a flash of dark, delighted surprise crossing his features.
He let out a muffled, vibrating hum against your finger, the sound resonating deep in his chest. He didn't try to pull away, he leaned into the sensation, his lips parting wider to accommodate you. His tongue instinctively swirled around your fingertip, tasting the salt of your skin and the lingering heat of your touch. He provided a suction around your fingertips, the sound echoing a loud squelch.
He looked up at you through his lashes, his expression a heady mix of submission and command. He was letting you play with him, letting you assert this small, beautiful dominance, but the way his hands tightened on your hips told a different story.
"Is this how contemporary girls fuck?" he asks, the words vibrating against your skin as he pulls back just enough to speak, his voice a wrecked, velvet rasp. His lips were indeed swollen, a deep, bruised pink, and they looked incredibly inviting.
He suddenly gripped your wrist, his fingers firm but gentle, and slowly, deliberately, guided your finger out of his mouth. He didn't let go of your hand, instead, he licked up your palm, his eyes never leaving yours.
"You want to play, baby?" he whispered, a dangerous, beautiful glint returning to his eyes. "You want to see how much you can get away with?"
In one fluid, powerful motion, he gripped your waist and surged upward, maneuvering both of you so he is now on top of you–his hips meeting yours with a sudden, forceful thrust that sent a shockwave of sensation through both of you. He caught your mouth in a bruising, hungry kiss, his tongue demanding entry as he increased the tempo of his grinding.
"Fuck," he growled against your lips, his movements becoming more frantic, more primal. "You're mine. Every inch of you is mine."
You twist and thrash under him, the sensation of his dick hammering inside you becoming too much.
“Kiss me,” you plead, desperate for an anchor.
The sound of your plea, so soft amidst the heavy, rhythmic sound of your bodies colliding, shattered whatever remaining composure Michael had left. He saw the tears shimmering in your eyes, the way they caught the dim light, and the sheer, desperate hunger in your gaze. It wasn't just about the physical sensation anymore–it was about the connection, the soul deep need to be consumed by him.
"Anything," he rasped, his voice breaking. "Anything you want, baby."
He devoured you. He surged downward, his hands sliding from your hips to cup your face, his fingers tangling in your hair to tilt your head back perfectly. His mouth crashed against yours with a ferocity that was almost overwhelming, a desperate, starving collision of lips and tongues. It was a kiss that tasted of sweat, salt, and an almost painful level of devotion.
As he kissed you, he didn't slow down. If anything, the plea seemed to possess him. He drove into you with a renewed, frantic energy, his hips hammering against yours in a relentless, driving rhythm. He wanted to drown out the world, to drown out the very concept of thought, leaving nothing behind but the sensation of being one single, pulsing entity.
He felt the tension in your body reaching a breaking point, the way your fingers dug into his shoulders, the way your breath hitched in a way that signaled the end was near. He could feel the tremors starting in your thighs, the way your internal muscles were beginning to spasm around him in a frantic, rhythmic dance.
"That's it...that's it," he urged, his voice a low, vibrating command. He increased the pace, his movements becoming shorter, harder, more urgent. "Don't hold back. Give it all to me. Give me everything!"
He was right there with you, teetering on the edge of the same precipice, his own climax building like a tidal wave, ready to crash over both of you and sweep everything else away.
He reached down, swiping his thumb rapidly on your clitoris–hungry for your release.
Michael saw the exact moment the world broke for you.
As his thumb made that final, violent, and perfectly placed stroke against your clitoris, he felt the shift in your body. He felt your entire frame go rigid, your muscles coiling like a spring before snapping into a state of pure, electric tension. When your thighs locked around his waist, clamping him tight against your heat, it was as if you were trying to fuse your soul to his.
The sound you made that high, broken cry as your neck surged upward and your eyes rolled back was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. It was the sound of total surrender.
"There she is!" he moaned, the sound torn from the depths of his lungs.
The sheer intensity of your climax, the way your internal walls began to spasm in a frantic, rhythmic milking of him, was the final trigger. Michael’s own control, which he had fought so hard to maintain, disintegrated completely.
He let out a choked, guttural groan, his head snapping into the mattress beside your head as his body shook violently. He thrust one last time, burying himself as deep as humanly possible inside you, his entire being focused on the sensation of your pulsing heat. He came with a force that felt like it was tearing the soul right out of his chest, his hips shuddering in a series of powerful, unrelenting pulses that seemed to go on forever.
For a long, long time, the only sound in the room was the frantic, ragged symphony of your breathing and the heavy, rhythmic thud of two hearts trying to find their way back to a normal tempo.
Slowly, the tremors began to fade. Michael didn't pull away. He stayed buried deep inside you, his body heavy and warm, his forehead resting against yours as he fought to catch his breath. His skin was slick with sweat, and his chest was heaving against yours in a desperate, synchronized rhythm.
He eventually pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were dark and heavy lidded. He reached up, his trembling fingers gently brushing the damp hair away from your face, his touch incredibly light, as if he were afraid you might shatter if he pressed too hard.
"Baby..." he whispered, his voice a broken, beautiful wreck of a sound. He leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth, then to your temple.
He let out a long, shaky exhale, a small, exhausted, but deeply satisfied smile tugging at his lips. He embraced you, tucking your head into the crook of his neck, his arms wrapping around you with a protective, possessive strength.
"So about that Marxist seminar…” he broke the silence with a lopsided grin.
“You fucker,” you laughed out as you pinched his cheek.
an: what do you guys think? my head hurt writing this omg i'm not used to writing so muchhh... divider credits to @pixopix
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