Pairing: John Price/Reader
AU - Professor!Price & TA!Reader
MDNI - 18+ (minors and ageless blogs WILL BE BLOCKED)
Part 2 of 2 (part 1 here)
Read on ao3
♡
Kate Laswell is the only person John tells about you. It’s her guidance he seeks when he realizes how far up the creek without a paddle he is. Figures you have your confidant, he may as well assume his own. He’s known her longer than anyone else, and he knows she knows all the loopholes, since she faced a vaguely similar situation a few semesters before. All worked out well for her, so there’s hope for him, too, right?
John sits in her office, door locked and lights off. It’s safer that way; far less potential for eavesdroppers and interruptions.
“Oh, you’re in deep on this one, Price,” Kate chides with a grin over the edge of her coffee mug.
“That’s putting it mildly. What am I supposed to do here, Kate? It feels like every decision I make is wrong.”
“Why don’t you start by telling me about her,” she implores as she takes a sip, a soft smile etched into her fine-lined features.
He ponders for a moment on where to start, but when the dam breaks, it all just spills out. Nothing and everything, all at once. He tells Kate how fucking beautiful he thinks you are, all the things he absolutely adores about you, even the tiny little details, like your stupid red pen and the time he saw you yell at a vending machine on a bad day. He tells her about the way you work so well with students, and how helpful you are to him; what a stellar conversationalist you are, but how well you listen as well. He tells her about how you always make him laugh, how reassuring and kind and caring you are, how you really are every single thing he’s ever wanted rolled into one singular being, and he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about that very thing since -
“You’re falling in love, aren’t you?”
“Aw, hell, Kate… What kind of pubescent horseshit - ”
“Answer the question, John.”
“Kate - “
“Yes or no, Price.” Her voice is firm but friendly, telling him to cut the shit and at least consider the possibility.
In a stunned silence, John sits with his thoughts for a moment, eyes locked on Kate as she cocks an eyebrow. He thinks back on his short-lived first marriage, how that the military was both the beginning and end of it. Felt more like convenience and holding off loneliness in his time between deployments than it ever did truly being in love. The second, while lasting exponentially longer, also felt equally as devoid. While he cared for that second wife on some level, it didn’t quite reach the depth of how he feels now, how he feels about you. If neither bout rang of actual, genuine emotional connection, then he can say with absolute honesty that, no, John Price has never really been in love. Not until now.
Everything around him seems to slow to a stop. He can no longer hear the ticking of the clock on the wall, only the rhythmic pounding in his chest. It’s like a switch is flicked, and the lightbulb in his head brightens until it bursts, sending fragments flying into every corner. He’s not stupid enough to try to touch that filament, so he allows it to settle. In a haze of falling glass, suddenly it all makes sense to him again. A revelation that he can’t tamp down now that it’s been put into words.
“...yeah, I think I am.”
Every nerve in his body is alight, begging him to scream it from the rooftops, make sure the whole world knows.
He can’t yet, but he wants to.
“Christ,” he mutters instead, raking a hand through his hair. “I’ve gone and fucked all this up, haven’t I?”
“Perhaps,” Kate muses, tucking an errant blonde strand behind her ear before folding her empty hands together on the desktop. “I mean, you did reject the poor girl at a very opportune - not to mention vulnerable - moment…” She sighs. “But I don’t think you’re completely beyond the realm of forgiveness. Find the right way to apologize to her, and she may start to let you back in.”
He’s unusually hesitant. Apologies have never been his strong suit. He’s painfully headstrong, rarely wrong and rarer to admit, so this is new territory. Mentally, he ticks off all the clichés, like flowers or a box of chocolates with a little card of a briefly expressed remorse or a surprise picnic where he spills his guts to you in hopes of some form of clemency. He wants to plan something bigger, more grandiose, more romantic, but Kate interjects before he can even begin.
“I can see the gears turning. Stop overthinking it, John. Just buy the girl some damn flowers, and tell her you’re sorry.”
♡
He did it. Bought you flowers, that is. Early this morning, he picked up a big fall arrangement in a stunning crystal vase. Took him way too fucking long to choose and he was almost late, but John’s pretty sure it’ll all be worth the look on that gorgeous face of yours when you see it. He takes his time placing it perfectly on your desk, giving you the fullest view upon first sight, and he tucks a little white envelope under the edge of the glass.
It took quite a bit of time for him to even write the note inside. He wanted to convey how he feels without dragging out a full confession of just how hopelessly head-over-heels he is; that goal seemed to fall short beneath the tip of the pen as he all but outright tells you he loves you in neatly corded letters. The words on the page felt sufficient at the time, and he has to shut himself in his office to stop himself from second guessing to the point of re-writing it or just throwing it away period.
When the light kicks on in your office a few minutes after the start of his day, John feels his stomach flip. He hears a striking thud and a gasp of ‘aww’, and he’s cursing inwardly that he just had to have a student come in right at 8:00. After a few beats of silence, he hears a couple sniffles, and it has him a bit worried. Mr. Garrick would probably be understanding if he wanted to pop in and check on you, but he continues to talk to John like he doesn’t notice it, even if his expression softens just a little and his eyes dart to the side each time he hears it, too.
“So, does this mean you’re looking forward to finishing it?” John asks in earnest. Kyle had been quite vocal all semester about how much he was looking forward to exploring Stephen King’s Carrie, especially with it falling right around Halloween. It’s been a long time since John’s seen anyone but you get excited about his choice novels, even if they do tend to change every year.
“I actually, uh, finished it last week,” Kyle admits shyly. “Honestly, I just couldn’t put it down. I couldn’t just stop at her turning around to go home after all the shit she blew up! I needed to know what happened next, so I read ahead.”
Well, there’s no way John can be upset about that. It’s not every day one of these kids expressed interest in anything they’re reading. More often than not, they bitch about the amount of reading - if they even do it, that is. He can always tell the students that use Cliffs Notes or Sparknotes instead of actually doing the reading. So, the fact that Kyle, even just one student, is genuinely enjoying it - no, genuinely looking forward to reading more - seems to make all the work John’s put into this semester worth the while.
They go back and forth for a while, discussing the thematic elements and John details the rationale behind the novel’s subsequent banning in a majority of American schools. It’s a long geekfest between the two of them, and the only disruption is Mr. Garrick’s sudden realization that he’d stayed far too long and was late for his class.
“Thanks again, Professor Price!” he chirps, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I’m really looking forward to what’s next!”
He darts out of the room, practically slamming the door behind him. John cringes as the latch bounces into the frame, and he sighs heavily, grateful for today’s break in his normally hectic schedule. Only two students on his books today; one of which is already out of the way, the other not until this afternoon. Gives him time to do more overthinking while he waits for you to free up.
Settling himself further into his chair, John logs into his desktop and starts inputting grades from last week. Keeping his hands busy will help in keeping his mind busy, considering the small second voice in your office. From the sounds of it, it’s Ms. Graves.
It fascinates him, the way the two of you interact. You speak with her much differently than the other students who occupy your days without classes. There’s a much more candid sense of honesty, and he’s never heard either of you speak with such raw enthusiasm.
“What about ’Lullaby’ by the Cure?” he hears Pia ask.
“Good choice; how about Echo & the Bunnymen’s ‘the Killing Moon’?” you respond. He hears a hum of consideration, a few exchanged whispers - and some laughter - and that gets his attention.
Yeah, fuck it. He’s too invested in eavesdropping now to continue to pretend to be busy.
He hears the exchange of several more artists: the Cramps, Electric Light Orchestra, Prince, Oingo Boingo, the Doors, Bowie, Blondie, Siouxsie and the Banshees; all of which strike him with a baton of nostalgia. Lots of favorites in there, especially music he enjoyed growing up; some of his father’s top choices, too.. He’s only marginally impressed that the two of you can volley like this; you do enjoy 90s boy bands, after all. Bound to know plenty, eh?
Speaking of which, he hears Pia thank you for your suggestions. Her backpack rattles as he’s sure she’s tossing it on her shoulder, and he hears your office door close. He’s pretty certain you’ll have another appointment coming in soon, so he takes the opportunity to pop over.
“What was that about?” he asks from the now open doorway, expression curious. You look up from your laptop and smile more sincerely than he’s observed in a while, and John sees that big bouquet sitting front and center on your desk. That stirs his stomach and wakes the butterflies, fresh from the cocoons he’d tried to build over the weekend. They flutter this way and that, and he’s filled with a renewed desire to kiss you; one that never wanes, but ebbs and flows in intensity. Right now? Oh, right now, he wants to so god damn bad…
“Pia learns better with music. She listens while she reads, and it helps her remember the content when she listens to it again. Her grade has improved a lot since we started making playlists together.”
It sends a wave of warmth through his chest, the thought that you’ve been doing this for a few weeks. You’re arguably more dedicated to his students than he is at times, which says quite a bit. He’s pretty sure the look on his face matches up to those cartoons a lot of his students watch - what’s it called? Oh! Anime! He looks like every character that’s ever seen food or a pretty girl - heart eyes, pink cheeks, and an open mouth bordering on drooling.
“We sit down together at the start of every unit and make a playlist that matches the decade. Helps keep her centered in the story and prevents overlap so no information bleeds over from another book. It’s remarkable, reading her work and seeing her test scores; she’s really flourishing, Professor Price.”
John’s awestruck.
“Oh! Can I ask a favor?” Your inquiry draws his eyebrow up, implying you may ask. “Would you be willing to let her listen to music during the final? I’m willing to go old school, if you’re worried she’ll cheat; I have an old iPod at home that I can load up with the music, and we can keep it locked in your office until then. You’re welcome to go through it, too, just to make sure nothings hidden or anything. I just really - “
“Hey,” John says softly, effectively silencing you. “If you think she’ll do better being allowed to listen to music, we can make that work, love. I trust your judgment.”
If the incoming is any indicator, the flowers were the right call. You’re thawing, spring seemingly on its way, and Price will have to send Kate some sort of gift of gratitude.
You leap from your desk, and the next thing he knows, you’re throwing your arms around his neck, giving him a tight squeeze. He doesn’t register what’s happening in time to wrap himself around you, palms rising to meet you a beat too slow, and he finds himself missing the warmth radiating from your skin as you step back just as quickly. Your hands clasp in front of your chest, and you’re positively beaming.
“Thank you, Professor! I… We really appreciate it. Pia is going to be so happy!”
He can’t fight off the smile on his face. It’s absolutely adorable when you get excited; you’re wearing the same expression as the day he agreed to dance with you. He refuses to let this end the same way, so he takes a different path.
“She seems different with you,” he notes aloud. “Definitely not the same Ms. Graves I see in class.”
“Oh, I, uh… I know her pretty well outside of class. I… dated her brother for a while when I was doing my undergrad work.” You don’t seem too pleased to admit the latter, judging by your expression and the sudden appearance of nerves. He’d be lying if he said he was pleased to hear it. His stomach gnarls itself at the mere thought of you being with anyone else. To consider that someone else has kissed you, touched you, made love to you; that’s enough to make him crazy if he dwells on it too long.
Don’t get him wrong, he’s under no illusion that you’re some sort of saint, even if just the sound of your voice is pure heaven. You’ve spoken about your dating history before, though it’s typically just in overheard fragments to Mr. MacTavish.
“How long?” He wants to clap a hand over his mouth, but it’s too late. The words came out, and he can’t take them back or play it off like he isn’t actually curious. Instead, he stays still, hoping the look on his face reads as if this is friendly conversation and not him prying where he oughtn’t.
You seem surprised by his question, and his blood floods with panic.
“You don’t have to answer that,” he quickly throws out, raising his hands. “I’m so sorry; that was inappropriate.”
“Two years.” You shrug like it’s nothing, and John swallows his gum by accident. He wasn’t expecting that. Maybe a few dates, a couple months tops, but two years? Doesn’t seem possible for a guy like Phillip Graves to sustain a relationship that long, given his penchant for obnoxiously blatant flirtation and his wandering gaze, practically eye-fucking anything with a pulse.
"What happened?" Fuck it. He's going to be a Nosy Nellie. It’s selfish and shady, but he can learn a lot from this. Come hell or high water, he swears he’ll treat you better. He’ll take the lessons learned from lesser men’s fallacies (and/or women’s; he’s got some questions after the last conversation he eavesdropped on between you and Johnny).
“He couldn’t seem to stop flirting with other people, and I’m pretty sure he loved his car more than he ever loved me.” Your laugh is dry and humorless, but your wry smile does extend to your eyes. That tells him you’re over it. The hurt you may have felt when it happened doesn’t linger. Good news for John.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he replies, trying his best to be sympathetic. You shrug again.
“What are you sorry for? You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t still feel bad that it happened. You deserve better than that.”
He wants to tell you what you really deserve; how you deserve a man, not a man-child. You deserve a man who’s going to take good care of you, worship you, love you selflessly. Someone who will make you breakfast, warm up your car for you in the winter, hold your hand every chance they get. Someone who only has eyes for you. Someone like John.
But he can’t say that, so he doesn’t.
“Yeah, I do,” you agree with a nod. “Know someone who wants to treat me right?”
You say it with a laugh, and John smiles hesitantly, choosing his next words carefully.
“Yeah, I think I might.”
“Oh, yeah? Anybody I know?” It’s coy and cute. You know exactly what he means; he has a feeling you just want to hear him say it. I’d treat you right, honey. Let me show you. He pulls his lower lip between his teeth, giving you a look that feels way too suggestive for the current environment.
“Yeah. I think you know him pretty well, actually,” he shrugs, nonchalantly holding his expression. “He’d be good to you.”
“Well, slip him my number, would ya? I could do with a nice date night soon.” You throw him a wink before turning back to your laptop, and John slowly slinks back into his office. Before he can close the door, you call for him again. He pops his head back in and sees his white envelope held up between your index and middle fingers, the flap torn open.
“Thank you for the flowers, sir. They’re beautiful.”
♡
There’s a rule in film: if you mention a gun in the first act, it must go off in the second. That’s not directly how the quote itself goes and this most certainly isn’t a film, but it still rings true.
It was only a matter of time before the proverbial gun went off, now that Price has inquired into your history with Phillip Graves. He didn’t expect it to happen so soon, though. Only a week passes before the soon-to-be-graduate rears his ugly little head.
“Oh, feminism, huh?”
The voice comes from your office, sultry and low, just barely within a range for John to hear it. His skin prickles, hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He knows that voice; it’s the very one that’s haunted him for days now, whispering sweet nothings into your ear and holding you close in a way John is desperate to, but cannot yet. It’s Graves, the little prick, and that makes him nauseous.
You’re trying your hardest to explain the running theme of feminism in Carrie with the unit coming to a close, and Phillip’s ignoring the help you offer in favor of instead taking certain liberties with twisting everything you say into some sort of line or innuendo. Like that would ever work on you; you’re too smart not to see through that bullshit. You shut him down every time and ask him to focus on the material so you don’t have to deal with him next semester.
Still, it wrenches John’s gut in a way that bleeds him of his patience. He meant it when he said you deserve better than Phillip, and after the things you told him, there’s no fucking way he’s letting that weasel worm his way back in. You would never, he knows, but he doesn’t want Phillip having even the slightest sliver of hope.
Before he can stop himself, he’s knocking at the dividing door.
“Come in,” you call sweetly. He opens the door and sticks his head in, plastering the kindest, fakest smile on his face. You return the look as Graves sucks at his teeth, looking markedly impatient and making his irritation known.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” John says, syrup seeping into his tone. “But I think I might have accidentally deleted my gradebook. Can I borrow you for two quick seconds?”
“Of course,” you answer, tone laced with a bit more haste than either man apparently anticipated. “Excuse me just a moment, Mr. Graves. I’ll be right back in.”
You stand and push in your chair, making John’s stomach leap in the process. You’ve got on that burnt orange corduroy skirt that hugs your hips the way he’d someday like his hands to do and a plain, black, long sleeve top that matches the cling. It does nothing to disguise your perfect figure, his ideal figure, thrusting his erratically-beating heart into his throat entirely involuntarily. He never forgets how beautiful you are, not even for a second, but the visual reminders are always welcome.
He can feel the relief rolling off you in waves. Your expression stays neutral as you smooth out your skirt. There’s a gentle sway in your steps as you round the desk and follow John into his office. As he closes the door gently, you bee-line for his computer. A few clicks, and you look to him over your shoulder, perplexed, while he moves to stand behind you.
“Professor, your gradebook is fine. It’s right here.” You point at the monitor, and John nods.
“I know.”
“Then why - “
The words die on your tongue as John’s hands delicately close around the curve of your jaw. He hears the softest hitch in your breathing as he leans forward, half-lidded eyes searching your expression for any indicator that you want him to stop. He owes you that much.
“I should’ve done this weeks ago,” he murmurs, stroking a thumb across your cheek.
“John, what are you - “
His lips crash into yours, mouths meshing together like pieces of a puzzle, a perfect fit. It feels like centuries he’s waited for this moment, and the fire it spurs in his soul feels only comparable to the sun, licking up his throat like a solar flare.
You’re hesitant at first, rightfully so, but it doesn’t last long before that flame of desire kindles within you, and you melt into him, body molding to his. A particular breadth of warmth spreads across his chest as your hands come to rest against it. The tips of your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, twisting it in your fist as you tug him impossibly closer. He’ll take the time to map and memorize every inch of you when he isn’t so consumed by the way you move in tandem without faltering as you become so wholly entangled with each other.
As his arms ensnare your waist in a vise-like hold, one of your hands, so soft and kind, nails painted a pretty shade of plum, threads itself into his hair. John has to bite down to stop himself from outright moaning into your mouth, the favored fantasy that often played out while he masturbated seemingly coming to life just in one movement. Your lower lip somehow gets trapped between his teeth, though, and you are the one to moan, hushed and soft, just for him to hear.
Fuck, if that doesn’t fuel the fire inside his abdomen. He’ll do anything, any-fucking-thing, to hear that sound again and again and again.
He walks you backwards until he feels the edge of his desk pressing against your backside. The hold he had on your waist is abandoned in favor of assuming a sturdy grip on the back of your soft thighs. No warning is given when he suddenly lifts you, depositing you on the top of his desk. He slots himself between your knees and leans over you, still wrapped in this heated exchange. The tip of your tongue flickers against his only briefly, and it makes him borderline feral with want.
Your thighs get one little squeeze before John lands one hand on your back and the other just below your ear. He guides you down until he’s practically laying on top of you. Instinct guides your legs to hitch over his hips, and he’s well aware that you can feel the growing bulge in his slacks pressing up against your covered center. He ruts into you feverishly and mindlessly, desperately chasing another of those sweet little noises.
He almost whines when he feels you pulling away from him, mouths separating only for you to press your forehead against his. There’s an attempt to reconnect on his behalf, but you decline with the softest whisper of his name.
“John, there’s still a student in my office.” He can feel the smile on your lips as he moves to your neck. His lips seal over a spot where he can feel your pulse racing. It sends more blood south, having even the slightest inkling that you’re just as affected as he is, and he struggles to stave off the urge to rip a hole in the middle of your pantyhose and see just how affected you are.
“So?” he grunts, nose nudging your ear lobe as he lowers his voice more. “Let the little bastard sit there. Let him hear how a real man treats a fuckin’ prize like you.”
You swat his chest playfully, chiding him for encouraging you to shirk your responsibilities; the responsibilities assigned to you by him, no less. Your thighs squeeze his midsection again when you guide his face back to yours, stealing another peck before holding his gaze with a softer expression.
“He’s a nightmare, I know, but he’s still paying for a quality education. Just give me ten minutes to wrap this up, and I’m all yours.”
I’m all yours - those three simple words loop in his head, a phrase he’s ached for, longed to hear, for months. His heart clenches at the thought; summer nights on the porch swing, his hand on your thigh while he drives, letting you fall asleep on his chest. He wants it all. He wants every inch of love and affection you can offer and wants to give his in return. In this moment, the way you’re looking at him through your lashes, it’s so sorely tempting to say three different words back. He can’t yet, but he wants to.
“I hate to seem impatient, love, but I don’t think I can wait another ten minutes.” His thumb strokes across your cheek endearingly, and just beneath his finger tips, he can feel your heartbeat hammering away. “Don’t know how I ever lasted a minute without you now that I’ve got little taste of ya.”
You let him kiss you again, chaste and tender, a stark contrast to the frenzy he felt in the minutes before.
“You always been such a sweet-talker, Price?” you whisper with a grin, reaching up to brush a loose strand of hair away from his forehead. He huffs out a muted laugh, trying to stifle his amusement. “Keep it up, and I might just let you keep me.”
John’s quiet a moment, basking in your borderline ethereal glow, before he murmurs, “I like the sound of that.”
A beat passes, appreciative and intimate glances exchanged, the two of you sharing breath. Oh, how hard-pressed he is to move, to allow the contact to dissipate, to willingly let you out of his arms, his sight, to shoo away the little leech awaiting on the other side of the door. It’s unfathomable, in his mind. Months of waiting, weeks of agonizing, and now that he’s got you exactly where he wants you, he has to let you go for even a second? Inconceivable. Preposterous.
With a gentle palm against his chest, though, you manage to convince him. He wraps his fingers around yours and lifts himself off of you with a checked grunt. God, you look beautiful like this - splayed out across the top of his desk, skirt rucked up higher than would be decent to make room for his large frame to slot between your thighs, chest rising and falling steadily, though you still seem breathless. The sight alone requires him to reach down with his unoccupied hand and adjust his stiff length just to make the wait bearable.
He pulls you to your feet, still careful to keep you close to him. Graceful touches follow as he helps you right your hair and smooth out your clothing. When nothing wayward is left to stall, you press your lips to his one more time and turn on your heel, eyes promising a swift return as he plants himself back in his chair.
♡
It doesn’t go further than that for the remaining weeks of the semester, but that doesn’t mean Price isn’t counting down the days. While there’s still plenty of heated makeout sessions and aggressively building sexual tension, he finds other ways to show his affection in the interim; he brings you coffee every morning, walks you to your car after hours because it gets dark out far earlier in the winter, sets the heater in the lecture hall a few degrees higher than he’d like to ensure you’re comfortable throughout classes.
Restraint is gentlemanly. Just because he’s no longer deterring himself from chasing you doesn’t mean he’s willing to forgo all the rules. Though he’s following his heart down a path that leads straight to you, his stubbornness won’t allow him to jeopardize your future. Plausible deniability until you’re safely under the tutelage of another professor.
He discussed the transfer with you long before requesting it. You were surprisingly amenable to making the change once John made it clear that it wasn’t based on your performance. He adores you, admires the work you’ve put in for both him and his students, and he’d be remiss if he let you think for a second that you’ve been anything less than perfect.
No, no. He only broached the subject in hopes of fostering the seed you’d planted months ago. The little seed that is only now peeking through the topsoil. A burgeoning affair of the heart that he’s hoping to see blossom into something far more beautiful very soon, something you can grow together. He’s already fully committed to making sure it gets plenty of water and sunshine, but having you remain his TA would flood the garden and keep the skies cloudy. Nothing could flourish unhindered that way.
That’s not quite how he phrased it to you, though. He still plays his cards close to his chest and has yet to confess the full extent of his feelings. You’ve off-handedly mentioned bits and pieces of your near future plans - plans that John’s certainly a part of - but any discussion about where your entanglement is headed beyond stolen kisses has been… unclear. He’s not a presumptuous man. It’s not his place to assume you’re on the same page, to assume you want an actual relationship with him.
So, to avoid the pressure of expectations or labels, he simply said, “I’d feel better about seeing where this goes if you were under another instructor. It would be unfair of me to ask you to wait another semester. You don’t deserve to be kept a secret, love.”
The request was put in shortly after, though Simon had already signed off on it over a week before John even mentioned it to you.
He only briefly second guesses that decision seeing you now, hovering in the doorway between offices. You look as beautiful as always, sporting a simple, sensible sweater dress that accentuates your delightfully buxom figure. What’s unusual is the mournful smile on your lips and the banker’s box in your hands.
Your watery eyes, swimming with unshed tears, scan over his office. You sigh heavily through your nose, biting your lip to stop it from quivering. John is immediately thrust into comfort mode, ready to soothe whatever savage beast has upset you so.
“What’s the matter, sweet girl?” he asks softly, pushing aside the last of the stack of final exams atop his desk. Those can wait a bit longer; another day if need be.
“Oh, nothing,” you answer, clearly willing your voice not to crack. “Just a little sad that this is the last day. I’m really going to miss my office.”
It’s the little sniffle that follows that makes his chest ache. He’s smart enough to read between the lines. This has nothing to do with your office.
Without thought, Price automatically pushes his chair back and stands, shortening the distance that separates you in just a few strides. He takes the box from your hands, setting it in the empty seat closest to you. You’re looking at the floor now, avoiding his gaze. A curled finger beneath your chin tilts your head back up and gives you to choice but to look at him.
“Don’t you give me that nonsense,” he chides with a soft smile. “What is it really, darling? Tell me what’s on your mind.”
A few stray tears fall between blinks, and John is quick to wipe them away with the pad of his thumb. He’s sure you can see every ounce of worry etched into his features, even as much as he’s trying to mask it.
“I’m scared, John.” The admission surprises him. “I don’t like change. I don’t like not knowing what to expect.”
“I promise you, my dear, everything is going to be perfectly fine. Professor Riley will take excellent care of you. He’s a wealth of knowledge; well-versed, brilliant. I trust him. As for your office, it’ll be exactly as you leave it any time you want to come visit.”
“It’s not just that,” you interject, chewing at the inside of your cheek. There’s something more on the tip of your tongue, and he tilts his head just enough to prompt you to say it. “I just… I won’t get to spend as much time with you, will I?”
Price frowns.
“You’ll have all the time you want with me. Needn’t but ask, and I’ll be right there.”
That’s not what he wants to say. What he wants is to tell you that he’d sooner have you planted in his lap every second of every day so he never has to be away from you, that he doesn’t particularly enjoy the thought of sharing your time with any other man for any period of time (even if it is just Simon), that he values every fleeting moment he spends with you over any material thing in existence...
“It’s not just about what I want, John,” you counter in a hushed, wobbly voice. “What do you want?”
He sighs, taking your pretty face in his large hands. His mind is racing through a rolodex of anything and everything he could possibly say to keep that more lax, collected façade he’s curated intact; but the second he feels another tear drip onto his hand, it all goes out the window. He asks you to look at him, and you do. You look up at him with those bright, kind, teary eyes, and any ounce of resolve or restraint left in John’s body crumbles to bits. He takes a long blink and just lets the words come out how they may, consequences be damned.
“I want you. Whatever you’re ready for, whatever you’re willing to give, I just want you.”
Words are often said to carry weight; some far too heavy, some not quite so, but all with their own heft. Like rocks tied to the soul, his grandmother used to say. Choose them wisely, and use them with caution, lest you be burdened by the stones in your mind. But John Price has never felt so weightless and free as the moment a syrupy, surreptitious smile settles on his lips and he utters a phrase he didn’t ever anticipate using before even taking you on a proper date: “I love you.”
Your expression softens. Dumbstruck, your mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. Your eyes search through even the deepest recesses of his, looking for some sign of deception or jest, but there is none to be found. Never will be. Not with him.
After a few beats of silence, John clears his throat, admittedly a bit sheepish.
“You don’t have to say it back. Just couldn’t -”
“No, John, I-I… I love you, too.”
He doesn’t waste even a fraction of a second pulling you into him further for a searing kiss, one you melt into as soon as his lips meet yours. It’s nothing like the dozens of times he’s kissed you before; there’s nothing frantic or frenzied or feverish about it this time. True, it gets his heart racing all the same. His blood still sings with the same carnal cravings. But his mind and body do not share the driver’s seat this time. No, this time, his heart has the wheel.
It’s almost instantaneous, how hard he gets while just kissing you. Happens every time, but this is the first where he doesn’t feel such an innate need to hide it from you. He has nothing left to hide anymore.
You’re held there in a languid but torrid lip-lock until your fingers curl into the collar of his sweater, like you’re trying to pull him impossibly closer. The first little tug begs for more, and John takes a step forward to grant your wish, effectively backing you into the wall. The second tug draws his hands downward, skating oh so gracefully along your sides until his firm grip settles around the curve of your hips. He gives you a gentle squeeze there, just tense enough to make you gasp before he licks into your mouth.
The feeling of his tongue sliding past your teeth seems to spark something wild in you. You abandon the give of his collar, instead weaving your fingers through his hair. An experimental tug makes him grunt - something you seem to like given the way your back arches from the wall, canting your hips up into his. John takes the opportunity to wedge his knees between your thighs, pressing securely against your clothed cunt. Your tongue prods his back as you grind into him a time or two, and like an electric shock, the motion has him pulling back just enough to speak clearly.
“You want me, pretty girl?” he asks gruffly, breathlessly. It’s near impossible to stop his eyes from migrating, but the way you’re fighting the urge to let your eyes roll back when you rub yourself against him again keeps him entranced. “Tell me, baby. Tell me what you want.”
“Just… Just want you,” you pant, biting your lip, failing to hide the sweet little whimper that slips out.
“Yeah? That all you want, sweetie? You already have me. I’m all yours.”
“You know what I mean, John.”
He chuckles.
“You’ll need to be more specific than that, love. I haven’t spent all semester with a TA that can’t use her words, have I?” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “That won’t do at all, my love. Tell me exactly what you want, and I might just give it to you.”
“I-I want - oh fuck - I want your cock stuffed so deep i-inside me that I can f-feel it for days.” You whine, assuming a steady pace. It’s the most gorgeous sound he’s ever heard. “Need you to fill me up. Been waiting for months, John.”
His mind goes blank. He’s dumbfounded. An entire dictionary at his disposal, and the only word that comes out of his mouth in response is a hushed, “Fuck.”
You seem to have usurped his confidence, based on the way you’re looking at him as you whisper, “Let me show you.”
Before he can process any of it, you’re guiding him back to his chair and sinking to your knees. Deft fingers make quick work of his belt while you mouth openly along the bulge in his slacks. He swears he’s dreaming when those dark blue nails unfasten the button and begin to pull down his zipper.
Something in him short-circuits when he looks down and sees the wet patch you’ve left just above his knee. Either you’ve soaked through your panties, or you don’t have any on; he’ll find out which is the case soon enough, but it’s enough to keep him hard for hours.
His eyes dart back to your face, and you’re looking up at him expectantly, tugging his pants and briefs down in tandem, asking him so very sweetly to have a seat. Like a well-trained dog, he obeys, lower layers shoved to his ankles. Tugging a hair tie from your wrist, you make quick work of pulling your hair back. Once done, you only break eye contact to trail a fingertip down his throbbing erection, a haughty smirk tugging at your lips every time it twitches beneath your touch.
“You’ve got the prettiest dick I’ve ever seen,” you mutter, palming it as it lays against his stomach just enough to incite a sharp gasp.
“Don’t tease me, woman,” he groans. “Been waitin’ just as long.”
Almost too delicately, you wrap your hand around his cock, middle finger and thumb barely missing each other. You give him a tight squeeze, making those fingers meet as you painstakingly slowly begin to pump the base. His head falls back against the chair with a muted thud, and the second his eyes close, you have your lips wrapped around his tip.
Your tongue flickers over that sensitive spot just below the head, and John sees white spots behind his eyelids. It’s been so long since anything has felt this good. In fact, he’s not sure if anything ever has. Nothing compares to you. Not by a long shot.
As heavy as those eyelids feel, he lifts his head, forcing himself to watch you work so he can commit every second to memory. That warm, wet, wanton mouth of yours just keeps sucking him deeper, worshiping each inch you take with appreciative hums and whimpers. The pressure is perfect, especially with your tongue pressed to the underside. Your soft hand works the length you’ve yet to reach, the drool leaking from your lips lubing it up for you.
When he finally nudges the back of your throat, you gag, but you don’t pull back. You push just a little farther first, forcing him into the start of the curve and giving him a swallow. What in the actual fuck did John Price ever do right to deserve an angel like you, huh? How in the hell did he ever get this fucking lucky?
The moment your head starts bobbing in his lap, he swears he’s actually died and gone to heaven, or rather, the closest thing he believes in. He has a deathgrip on the arm of his chair, and to ground himself, he has to put one hand on the back of your head; not pushing, not guiding, just resting to keep himself from floating away entirely.
It’s almost overwhelming, just how god damn good you feel. He’ll never get over it. He’ll never get used to it.
You haven’t stopped stroking that extra length since you started, but the other hand is conspicuously absent. He wonders what that hand is up to, but he can see the smallest sense of movement in your shoulder, and he knows exactly what you’re doing.
“Hands on my legs, love. Don’t you dare touch that cunt,” he growls, renewed confidence seeping down to his marrow. Pretty eyes narrowing just slightly, you place your other hand on his thigh. He can feel how wet your two middle fingers are, slick against his skin. The noise that comes out of him is one he doesn’t recognize - somewhere between a whimper and a moan, but somehow neither - as he grabs your wrist and pulls that hand to his lips. Taking those two fingers, he licks them clean. You’re just as delectable as he imagined, and the need to get his mouth on you rears its head. That little voice in the back of his head tells him you deserve it; it’s only right that he shows you how much he truly loves you after making you wait so long.
You pull his cock from your mouth with a wet pop, kitten-licking the tip between ragged breaths. Still pumping him and keeping pace, you duck your head down a little more. You begin alternating between sucking on his balls and tracing the seam up the middle. It’s only a few switches, but it feels like dozens before you start sucking on his dick again. His hips buck involuntarily, grip on your head tightening when he feels every muscle his abdomen tensing.
“Gonna cum if you don’t ease up,” he warns, but you continue with a hum. He has no choice but to guide you away by your hair, and he just about cums anyway at the sight of you.
Your makeup is smeared, little gray streaks running the length of your face. Your entire chin is glistening in the low warmth of the fading sunlight from the window. A few small, silvery strings of saliva and precum keep you connected just a second longer. Any hope you may have started the day with that your lipgloss would stay put was dashed by the first kiss, but is now an absolute impossibility. John almost feels bad about ruining your morning’s work, and by almost, he means not at all. The smile on your face is more than well worth it.
He stands, pushing the chair back with his legs.
“Get that gorgeous arse of yours on the desk, love.”
Divesting himself of his remaining clothing, he sees your eyes widen just a hair.
“Jesus, John,” you whisper, gaze roving his body like it’s a modern marvel. “You’re fucking perfect.”
“You’re one to bloody talk,” he retorts, letting the hem of his sweater fall from his hand. It crumples into a pile with his slacks, and he’s back on you sooner than it hits the floor.
Another blistering kiss, and he can taste himself on your tongue. It’s heady and intoxicating. Enough so that he’s already laying you back on top of the desk, just like the first time he kissed you.
Like muscle memory, your legs come up astride his waist, and his hands are rucking your dress up over your hips. You only break away from him long enough to pull it the rest of the way off before pulling him back in. The hands used to guide you down work tirelessly to unhook your bra, and both offending garments are tossed aside carelessly. He’ll help you find them later.
He’s the one to disengage this time, the one to stare, the one marveling at the wonder before him. To say you’re beautiful, gorgeous, or any other synonym in his repertoire would be a disservice. There really is no word in the English language - or any other, for that matter - that really captures just how breathtaking you are. Every curve, every line, every mark, mole, freckle, dimple, it merely confirms what he’s surmised from the start: you are perfect.
A slew of words escape him, none of which are coherent to either of you, between the kisses he places along your jaw, down your neck, across your chest. His large hands cup your breasts, pushing them together in the middle. He seals his lips around one of your nipples and lets his tongue move in mindless patterns, adding little sucks or nibbles when he hears you give him a little sigh. The other gets the same treatment immediately following, but he doesn’t forget his mission. A mere detour won’t derail him.
John makes his way down your stomach in a slow trail, leaving hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses. Your hand is in his hair again, and you’re watching him like a hawk, brows furrowed in a throes of ardor.
Another prediction is seasoned as fact when he reaches your pussy. He doesn’t recall any underwear being removed, and yet, you’re bare to him. The evidence of your arousal extends from your lips to your inner thighs, and his cock throbs tirelessly between his legs at the mere thought of his effect on you.
“Cheeky little minx,” he comments, heated breaths washing over your slit. “Were you planning on tonight going this way?”
Almost bashfully, you shake your head.
“I don’t like panty lines,” you cop. “Don’t think anyone else needs to imagine what’s under my clothes.”
He huffs out a chuckle before taking a knee, hitching yours over his shoulders. His arms circle beneath your ass, wrapping around until those big paws are settled on your hips. The tips of his fingers dig into the meat as he hauls you closer to the edge of the desk.
“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, sweetheart,” he murmurs between the kisses he lays against your skin, kissing up one thigh, then the other, never taking his eyes off yours while he licks the slick from his lips. “Most stunning creature I’ve seen in all my life. Don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you.”
You’re not given the chance to respond before he descends, licking a stripe through your folds with the flat of his tongue. You yelp, grabbing a fistful of his hair. He feels your legs tense, but his hold keeps them from closing around him. As much as he’ll enjoy the free earmuffs on the impending colder nights, he wants you spread out right now.
He drinks you down, savoring how good you taste. You’re keening high in your throat, pulling his hair, digging your heels into his scapulae; he’d gladly spend the rest of his life between your legs if you’d let him.
The tip of his tongue nudges your swollen clit. You arch off the desk, panting. He sucks it between his lips, putting just the right pressure on it in a thrumming cycle. The sounds you’re making whisper of being close to the edge, and he wants to keep pushing.
“John, please,” you whine, squirming in his iron grip. “I want your fingers.”
He releases your clit, flicks his tongue over it one more time just to see you jolt. If you’re going to ask so sweetly, who is he to deny you?
“Yes, ma’am.”
Untangling one arm, Price wastes no time guiding his middle finger into your sopping entrance. It slides in like this is where it belongs. He uses the opposite thumb and forefinger to spread you open, eagerly easing a second finger in.
His hands are much larger than yours; thicker, longer fingers, meatier palms, knotted and scarred knuckles from his time in the service. Two of his digits equal three of yours. He’s gentle, cautious, and the addition of his ring finger lures him into a trance of wonderment, watching with rapt attention as your hole flutters, stretching to accommodate him.
You clench around him, a scarcely audible hiss sneaking between your teeth. The depth he reaches is far more than you’d ever manage on your own, he knows, and when he crooks his fingers, catching that sweet spot, you bow up again, grinding down into his hand.
The blissed out look you aim at him sparks the frenzy, and he’s ravenous, devouring you like a man starved. Lapping at your clit, hand keeping a steady pace, it doesn’t take long before you’re issuing a warning that you’re close.
“Cum for me, pretty girl. Not stoppin’ ‘til you do.”
Your thighs clamp down around him when his efforts double. A dull thunk is barely heard as you throw your head back, and almost on cue, your walls are squeezing him, pulsating as a sharp bout of convulsion hits. He can’t make out the words you’re saying, so he tenderly guides you back down from the peak until you release him.
The heave of your chest as you try to catch your breath gives him pause. While he’s desperate to feel you wrapped around him, milking him for all he’s worth, he’d still be plenty satisfied finishing himself off at home if you needed a break. You look absolutely wrecked already, smeared makeup and mussed hair, sweat beading above your brow. He’s clearly done a number on you already, but when you spread those perfect legs again and start palming your tits in a way that makes his mouth water, John finds himself grabbing a throw pillow from the couch beneath the window.
In a rare display of raw, brute strength, he gathers both your legs in one arm and lifts your ass from the desk just enough to wedge the pillow in. He’s bumped into his own desk enough times to know what a nasty mark it can create, and he’ll be damned if you’re left with any bruises other than the ones he creates with the intimate intent of branding you as his.
“You ready, love?” he asks softly, guiding his drooling cock through your folds. Your wetness slicks him up nicely as you nod, tacking on a gentle ‘please’.
His tip settles in just the right place, and he pushes home in one fell stroke. Your eyes roll back, mouth falling open in a silent moan, and John feels as if the air has been punched from his lungs. He has to steady himself to keep from cumming right then by holding just beneath your rib cage, the natural curve of your waist. It fits so immaculately in his hands, and it roots him into place.
This is real. You’re real. You’re really here, and this is really happening.
“John,” you mewl, placing a delicate hand over one of his.
“Just… Gimme a second, sweetheart,” he mutters with a kind squeeze. “Feels too fuckin’ good bein’ inside you like this.”
One moment bleeds into another, and you’re so patient as he collects himself. No push, no prod, no protest; just the tips of your fingers tracing the veins in the back of his hand until he’s ready. When he is, he gives you a gentle tap of confirmation before experimentally rolling his hips.
He groans, the feeling still so intense as he works in shallow thrusts. You fit him like a glove, like you were made for him and him alone, like you’re meant to be his. A step away from the precipice does him no favors; he knows he’s not going to last long. With the way you’re wrapped around him, looking up at him with a degree of reverence reserved for someone who hand-painted all the stars in the night sky just for you, how could he?
His hips draw back further each stroke now, and he begins to pick up his pace. The meat of his thighs claps against your ass as he pulls your hips towards him at every collision. Your nails bite into his forearms. Every sound you make fuels his primal need to hear more, and he knows he’s hitting all the right spots when you’re slurring out swears and babbling nearly incoherently beneath him.
A bead of sweat drips down to the hollow of his throat. He glances down at where you’re joined, watching your sweet cunt stretch to swallow down his thick cock. A milky white ring has formed around the base. As many times as he’d pictured this exact moment, nothing in the most feral corners of his imagination could’ve conjured something so inherently erotic. Seeing his length disappear inside you over and over assures that he’ll never be satisfied with fucking his fist again, not after this.
The pad of his calloused thumb finds your swollen clit with ease. He rubs in tight, calculated circles, applying a little more pressure when you nearly shriek his name. He needs to see you come undone for him again.
“That feel good, love?” You nod. “Yeah? You like that, huh? Can feel that pretty pussy squeezin’ me. You’re takin’ me so well, honey.”
You’re barely coherent beneath him as he drives into that spot that keeps you breathless. He doesn’t know what you’re begging for, but you keep saying ‘please’. You’re trying so hard to keep your eyes on him, and they keep threatening to roll back. The sight only spurs him on.
Any semblance of control is lost when you warn him that you’re close again. Words of encouragement pour out like a fountain before he can process what he’s saying. Your whole body tenses, walls clamping down around his length in even pulses, and John folds himself over you, fucking you through the waves.
“Shit, I - oh, fuck! - John, I-I… I love you.” You struggle to get it out between pants and moan and whines, but his heart soars all the same. He ruts into you feverishly, peppering your face with sloppy kisses as he chases that high. There’s no controlling the near whimpers that escape him as your orgasm pushes him to the brink of his own.
“‘Bout to cum, baby. Where do you want it?” he sighs into your mouth.
“Inside - please, want you to cum inside me.”
That’s what does him in. He pushes as deep as he can, tip kissing your cervix as he pumps rope after rope of warm white into you. The edges of his vision blur. He can’t remember a time in his life that he’s cum so hard, but he knows it won’t be the last. Not when there are too many months to make up for.
One more kiss, and he whispers back, “I love you, too.”
This...this is so delicious...it's a whole meal.
No wait...that's a damn whole buffet 😩 I've been waiting for this part every day since you uploaded the first chapter and it was so fucking worth it!
