By the time they finished loading the last donation bags into the car, Chris barely resembled the guy who had stared nervously at a loose tie that morning.
The blond missionary stepped closer again, smiling as he reached up automatically for Chris’s collar.
“Hold still.”
Chris obeyed instantly.
Careful fingers straightened the tie knot beneath his chin, tightening it just slightly until it sat perfectly centered. The dark-haired missionary smoothed the front of Chris’s shirt flat against his chest, brushing invisible wrinkles away.
“There,” he said warmly. “Now you look right.”
Chris glanced down at himself.
White shirt.
Dark tie.
Pressed trousers.
Polished haircut.
Clean collar buttoned all the way up.
And strangely… it felt natural now.
Not forced anymore.
Like this was simply who he was supposed to look like.
—
“We’ve got one more place to show you,” the blond missionary said.
The drive ended at a bright, spotless Mormon clothing and book store attached beside the chapel.
Chris stared a little as they walked inside.
Shelves everywhere.
Scriptures.
Family photos.
Rows of folded shirts organized by color.
Ties hanging in perfect lines.
Polos.
Belts.
Dress shoes.
Soft church music playing overhead.
The atmosphere itself felt calm. Controlled. Clean.
“This is for members and investigators,” the dark-haired missionary explained. “Anything you need, we’ll help you get.”
Chris blinked. “I… don’t really have money for all this.”
Both missionaries smiled immediately.
“It’s taken care of.”
That sentence hit him harder than expected.
Taken care of.
The blond missionary began pulling shirts from shelves almost immediately.
“Light blue works for you.”
“And this one.”
“Oh, definitely this tie.”
Soon Chris stood between them while they built piles in his arms.
White short-sleeves.
Blue button-downs.
Soft polos.
Dark trousers.
Brown belt.
Black belt.
New undershirts.
Socks.
Shoes.
Even folded sweaters.
Every time Chris hesitated, one of them gently reassured him.
“You deserve decent things.”
“You should look respectable.”
“People feel better when they dress properly.”
And somewhere deep inside the conditioning already planted in his mind, those words rooted themselves further.
Chris found himself actually enjoying it.
The order.
The neatness.
The structure.
At one point he caught his reflection in a mirror wearing a fitted pale-blue shirt while the missionaries adjusted another tie against his chest.
And for the first time in years…
he liked how he looked.
—
Back home, the transformation became almost ceremonial.
The missionaries carried armfuls of folded clothing into the bedroom.
Together they reorganized the entire closet.
White shirts lined up evenly.
Blue shirts grouped together.
Polos folded perfectly.
Trousers hung by shade.
Shoes aligned beneath them.
Ties rolled carefully into drawers.
The dark-haired missionary even adjusted the spacing between hangers until everything sat perfectly symmetrical.
Chris stood nearby watching silently.
His old closet had once been stuffed with random hoodies and wrinkled clothes shoved everywhere.
Now it looked almost peaceful.
The blond missionary placed a hand on Chris’s shoulder.
“Your environment shapes your mind.”
Chris nodded slowly.
“Yes…”
When they finally prepared to leave, both missionaries looked genuinely proud of him.
“You’re doing well, Chris.”
“We’ll see you tomorrow.”
Chris stood in the doorway watching them walk away down the sidewalk.
For a moment the house felt strangely quiet without them.
But not empty.
Purposeful.
—
That evening he sat on the edge of his neatly made bed reading from the Book of Mormon beneath the warm bedside lamp.
His tie was still perfectly straight.
Every few pages he found himself absently smoothing his collar or adjusting his cuffs.
Hours passed quietly.
The more he read, the calmer he felt.
Then suddenly a thought entered his mind with startling clarity.
I should pray.
The urge felt overwhelming.
Natural.
Necessary.
Before he fully realized it, he was already kneeling beside the coffee table with folded hands, eyes closed.
The room stayed silent except for his soft breathing.
And afterward, when he stood again, something inside him felt lighter.
Cleaner.
Chris glanced toward the open closet.
Rows of organized shirts waited there perfectly.
His eyes moved slowly across the colors until they settled on one shirt in particular.
A pale blue short-sleeve button-down.
He stepped closer almost instinctively.
Carefully removed his white shirt.
Then slipped the blue one on.
The fabric felt soft and cool against his skin.
He started buttoning it.
One button.
Then another.
Then another.
Until finally he fastened the very top button snugly at his throat.
Chris looked down at himself quietly.
Blue shirt tucked neatly into dark trousers.
Belt centered.
Hair combed perfectly.
Collar closed fully.
He stood there for a long moment in silence.
Then unconsciously, almost tenderly…
he smoothed the front of the shirt flat against his chest.
She could not understand the talk about passion. Love she knew, but passion was something beyond her experience. It suggested something beyond one's control. Something she had no wish to experience.
Summary: Even though you were one of the top students in his class, Professor Barnes had always been cold to you. You had tolerated his indifference all semester, but when his end-of-term dinner party invites went out and you weren't on the list, you decided it was the last straw—it was time to confront him about it and find out what the hell his problem was. The answer would surprise you.
Warnings: Smut, unprotected sex (wrap it up, kids). 18+ only, no minors.
A/N: Oops I Professor Bucky'd again. If you've read this before, no you haven't.
You’d signed up for his class because the subject intrigued you. You’d always been a Faulkner nerd and it seemed as good a seminar as any to choose in the final year of your graduate program. Academically speaking, you’d heard good things about Professor Barnes—he was an excellent teacher, thoughtful, an expert in his field, and just generally affable. You’d heard he was especially giving of his time and energy, always available during office hours, even making time for his students outside of class: chatting over coffee, sometimes even hosting dinners for his star pupils at his home off-campus. You liked that and you wanted to be a part of it. You’d had enough of professors who’d grown lazy and indifferent in their tenure. You wanted someone who actually cared about the subject and the students interested in it.
You were always a straight-A student and, if you did say so yourself, one of the brightest in your program. So you were understandably confused when, from the very first day of class, Professor Barnes didn’t respond to you. He wasn’t rude exactly—just standoffish and more than a bit cold. You knew he took his work seriously and could be a bit formal in the classroom, but that wasn’t it. It seemed almost as if he had something against you. He wouldn’t look at you when you spoke in class, always shuffling with his papers or staring past you as if you were boring him.
He was animated and engaged when others were talking, and he seemed friendly outside the classroom to everyone but you. You would have started to doubt your intelligence but you always received the highest marks on your papers. On top of that, he always made some excuse as to why he couldn’t meet with you during his office hours. His schedule always seemed to be full, his attention always turned to others. He’d even turned you down when you’d asked him to be your thesis advisor, claiming he’d already taken on too many students and simply didn’t have the time. But it was the dinner he was hosting towards the end of the semester that was the last straw.
He’d sent an email to those students you knew to be the top of the class, inviting them to a small dinner party. You were excluded, despite the fact that you should have been among that group, and it hurt you more than it should have. If you were honest with yourself, it wasn’t just your academic pride that was injured. You couldn’t deny your attraction to him, and you’d stopped trying long ago, but you never once let on. You were completely professional in your interactions with him, always all business, never giving any indication that you sometimes let your mind wander to inappropriate places during his lectures—wondering what he might look like stripped of his blazer and tie and the khaki pants he always wore that hugged the curve of his ass. Some of the other students flirted with him shamelessly, but whether he was too clueless to notice or too professional to respond you didn’t know. You would never dream of doing something like that, though. While you would have loved to have coffee with him one-on-one, or talk shop over dinner and wine at his house, you were hurt mostly because you didn’t understand why he didn’t like you. You wouldn’t go so far as to say he hated you, but he definitely had something against you and you needed to know what it was. The end of the semester was rapidly approaching, you had nothing left to lose, and you decided it was time to confront him about it.
You didn’t bother making an appointment. You knew he’d just turn you down as always. You just showed up early for his office hours and waited for him to arrive. There was no one else there and whatever excuse he might make, you weren’t taking no for an answer. He arrived at 4 o’clock on the dot, fumbling with his keys as he made his way down the hall. You were seated in the chair next to his office door and he didn’t notice you until he was practically on top of you. When he saw you he dropped his keychain to the floor. You bent down to pick it up for him but he waved you off and got it himself.
“I don’t remember you making an appointment,” he said coldly, and you felt the heat rise to your cheeks—it was almost enough to send you running off in embarrassment… almost.
He was still searching for the key to his office door, and when he found it you noticed his hands were shaking as he put the key to the lock.
“I don’t have an appointment,” you said, “but I just really need to talk to you.”
He got the door open and stepped inside but you didn’t dare follow him. He stood in the doorway, looking up, down, and around—everywhere but in your eyes.
“Um… now isn’t…. uh… it’s not a good time for me,” he said, fumbling with his words, picking at a non-existent piece of lint on his blazer sleeve.
“It never seems to be a good time with you,” you said, no longer trying to keep the annoyance out of your voice. “I promise I’ll only take a few minutes of your precious time.”
“I can’t,” he said. “I have finals to grade and an appointment with someone soon. I just can’t fit you in today. I’m sorry.”
He looked in your eyes then, for the first time maybe ever, and you could see he was truly apologetic—almost sad even. You couldn’t help but notice he had beautiful eyes. He only looked at you for a second or two, but through his half-frame glasses, you noticed the stormy ocean shade of blue which he’d always kept hidden from you. When he blinked they were gone, back to staring at the floor where his feet shuffled, betraying his unease. Or maybe it was guilt. Either way, you knew intrinsically he was lying about having an appointment and you were done playing games.
“I’m sorry, Professor Barnes, but I’m really tired of you blowing me off. I’ve been patient with you. I’m a good student. Don’t you think you owe me at least five minutes of your time?”
He sighed deep and you worried you may have overstepped, but he looked up at you after a beat or two.
“You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry. Please come in.”
You entered his office and you were struck immediately by the musty smell of the old books that filled the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the walls. His desk was deep mahogany, thick and sturdy looking, and he had a high wingback chair upholstered in studded leather the same rich shade of brown. You’d never seen the inside of his office but it looked exactly as you imagined it might: traditional, bookish, and a bit stuffy—not unlike the man himself. It brought a smile to your face and he looked at you with a quizzical expression before looking away again and shuffling papers around on his desk.
“Take a seat,” he said. “So, uh, what can I do for you exactly?”
He sat in his chair, which creaked a bit under his weight. He was solidly built, at least as far as you could tell underneath his signature blazer with the suede elbow patches, a navy V-neck sweater over a white dress shirt buttoned to the very top, and a tie knotted so tight you didn’t know how he was even breathing. His gaze lingered on his desktop, scattered with files and papers and miscellany, but you could tell he wasn’t looking at anything in particular.
“I just need to talk to you about something. It’s been bugging me for a while and I just-”
He cut you off and sprung out of his chair.
“Is it hot in here? It’s really hot in here.”
It wasn’t hot at all but he went to open the window. It was jammed, though, and he couldn’t get it open no matter how hard he tried. You heard him curse under his breath, which came as a surprise. You’d never heard him say anything even remotely unprofessional before but you liked it. It sounded funny coming from him, and more than a little bit sexy given his usual straight-edge demeanor, and you had to bite your lip to keep from laughing. He resigned himself to the fact that the window would remain shut despite his efforts and he sighed as he took off his blazer and hung it on a nearby coat rack. You could see the sweat beading on his brow and he paced the floor a bit You could tell he wanted to take his sweater off, too, but he was reticent. He gave in, though, and when he shed another layer and turned to fold it you got a good look at his ass in those khakis he always wore. You made yourself look away. You couldn’t be distracted—not now.
“Are you OK, Professor?”
He didn’t look at you when he answered.
“I’m fine… I just… I think I might be coming down with something. You probably shouldn’t stay long. Wouldn’t want to get you sick during finals.”
He flashed you an awkward half-smile though he wasn’t looking at you, and he rolled his shirtsleeves up, revealing a little bit of forearm you’d never seen before. You let yourself stare for a moment too long. He’d always kept his body well hidden, but having shed his protective layers you could see his arms were strong and muscular, and just as veiny as those mesmerizing hands you’d watched countless times—fiddling with his papers or his watch or scribbling notes. He sat back down in his chair, the desk a fortress between you, and clasped his hands together. You were losing focus fast. It was now or never.
“I’ll make this quick since I know you’ve got an appointment coming,” you said, your voice letting him know that you knew he was lying.
He looked down at his watch and back up to you. He had a guilty look in his eyes and he was looking through you, not at you.
“Yeah, I… um… I don’t… sorry, what were you saying?”
You took a deep breath and began.
“I’m just going to cut to the chase here because I know you’re a busy man. It’s obvious you have some sort of problem with me. I don’t know if I did something or said something or what, but you obviously don’t like me very much and I just need to understand what I did wrong.”
He took his glasses off briefly and wiped his brow with the back of his hand before putting them back on. He was sweating and fidgety, and though it should have been contagious, you weren’t uncomfortable. If you were honest, you liked the fact you were making him squirm—that you were finally the one in control.
“I’m not quite sure why you feel that way,” he said, but his tone was unconvincing.
He knew and he just wouldn’t say, but you weren’t leaving Barnes’s office without an answer. You were starting to get angry now but you tried to keep yourself calm and collected.
“Well, for starters, you don’t pay attention to me when I talk in class. I try to contribute like everyone else, and you seem to take an interest when other people have something to say, but with me… you make me feel like I’m boring you. And I know I’m not stupid. My grades prove that. I just don’t get it. Every time I try to talk to you, you blow me off; every time I try to make an appointment you are busy. And then there’s the dinner…”
You paused. You hadn’t planned on bringing that up but it just came out and there was no taking it back now. He was staring down at his desk, running a hand through his dark brown hair and down to his face to his chin where just a bit of stubble was visible. It was very unlike him—Professor Barnes was always clean-shaven and completely put together—but it was a good look on him.
Since he obviously had no intention of responding, you continued. “I wasn’t going to bring it up. It’s not really any of my business who you choose to invite to your home—I know that—but it… well… it hurt my feelings a little.”
He looked up at you then, straight at you this time, and he finally spoke.
“I never meant to hurt your feelings,” he said. He sounded genuine and you kept your eyes locked on him. You didn’t know if you’d get this chance again. “I’m so sorry if I did.”
“I just don’t understand…”
“It’s not you,” he said. “It really isn’t.”
“Then what?” you snapped.
You hadn’t meant to raise your voice but you didn’t care. He looked down again, his hands buried in his hair, and took a long pause. There was a pregnant silence in the room but you weren’t going to break it. After a while, he finally started to speak.
“You’re one of the brightest students I’ve ever had the pleasure of teaching,” he said. “I mean it—I’m not just saying that. I feel like sometimes when you speak, I’m learning from you. And I do owe you an explanation, it’s just that…”
He trailed off but you weren’t letting him off the hook.
“What is it?” you asked, calmer now. “Tell me. I need to know.”
He brought his hands down from his hair to his thighs and rubbed them up and down, like his palms were sweating and he couldn’t get them dry.
“I don’t trust myself with you,” he mumbled, staring at his feet shuffling on the floor.
It started to click in your mind and you felt your heart beat faster. You didn’t know if you were hearing what you thought you were hearing so you stayed silent.
“It’s not just that you’re beautiful,” he said, “though you are—exquisitely so.” He looked up at you as if seeing you for the first time. “It’s your mind. You have something rare and special—an almost effortless intelligence, without a lick of pretension. I’ve never met anyone quite like you and I just… I… it feels wrong. These things I’m feeling, they’re just wrong.”
He got flustered again and turned away, fiddling with his glasses.
“I… I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry. I can’t even imagine what you must think of me.”
“You want to know what I really think?” you asked.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “Do I?”
He flashed you a boyish smile that reached his eyes and it was the first time you’d seen him look at you with any semblance of warmth. You smiled back, partially to put him at ease but mostly because you were relieved. You’d assumed he’d always thought the worst of you. Now you knew he held you in the highest esteem, and he had other thoughts, too—like you did. His tongue darted out to wet his lips and you couldn’t think of anything but kissing them. After a semester’s worth of anxiety and self-doubt, you suddenly felt fearless, brazen even. You had nothing left to lose and everything to gain.
“I think you don’t really have an appointment coming.”
“You got me,” he said.
He was blushing furiously and he chuckled, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. You’d never heard him laugh before and it was infectious. It was also sexy as hell and you had to cross your legs. You saw his eyes wander and watch as you moved one over the other, tugging your skirt down where it rose slightly at the thigh. It was tight but fell modestly just above your knees and he licked his lips again, but this time there was something more than nerves behind it.
“I have a confession to make,” you said. You were feeling playful now, determined to bring out of him whatever he’d been holding in all this time. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have certain… thoughts.”
You saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed deep. You knew he was curious but he wouldn’t ask.
“It felt wrong to me, too,” you said, “but only because I thought you hated me and it seemed pretty masochistic to pine over someone who wouldn’t give me the time of day.”
“Oh God,” he said. “I don’t hate you. Not at all. I feel like such an asshole.”
Hearing him swear was too much for you and you started laughing but you got yourself under control. He was finally warming up to you and you didn’t want to embarrass him.
“I’m sorry,” you said, “I’ve just never heard you curse before.”
He smiled. “I guess I must come off as kind of a tight-ass, huh?”
His choice of words made you think about how tight his ass always looked in those pants, and all the times you’d wondered what it would feel like to grab it.
“Just a little,” you said, a smile playing at the corner of your mouth.
“I’m not,” he said. “You just do something to me.” He suddenly got flustered again and straightened his glasses, though they weren’t crooked to begin with. “But I can’t… we can’t… it’s wrong.”
“What’s so wrong about it?” you asked. “I’m no schoolgirl. I’m almost thirty for Christ’s sake.”
“You’re almost what now?” He looked at you with his eyes wide and his brow crinkled above the rims of his glasses. He looked like you’d slapped him across the face.
“I’m twenty-nine,” you said. “How old did you think I was?”
“Uh… not twenty-nine. You look… young. Really young.”
“Well, I’m not,” you said. “You feel better now?”
You hoped to God he did because you couldn’t stop staring at his arms and his hands and his lips and you wanted to feel them all over you. The way he was looking at you now wasn’t helping either. It was like, having disclosed your age, you’d given him permission to pore over every inch of your body.
“You’re still my student,” he said, though the way he said it made you think he didn’t particularly care.
“Only for another week,” you said, and you smiled.
You knew you’d have to make the first move, but the look in his eyes told you he wouldn’t fight you. You uncrossed your legs and stood up, and he followed your every move with parted lips. You could see his chest rising and falling as you circled around his desk. You were next to him now, hovering over him, and he looked up at you with his eyes blown wide behind his glasses. You grabbed the end of his tie and started fiddling with it and he closed his eyes.
“This is wrong,” he whispered, but it wasn’t convincing to you or himself—you knew he wanted it; you could see it in his flushed cheeks and the growing swell in his khakis.
“I won’t tell if you won’t,” you said, giving his tie a little tug that had him clenching his hands into fists on his thighs.
He opened his eyes and looked up at you for a second before standing and pulling you into him.
“Fuck it,” he said, and he kissed you deep.
The instant his lips touched yours, your whole body started to tingle. His kisses were hungry and you let him take as much of you as he wanted: your lips, your mouth, the tip of your tongue—all of it was his to do with as he pleased. You had unleashed something in him, something powerful that had lain dormant for far too long, and you could feel it in the way his strong hands roamed your body, finding a spot they liked and giving it a tight squeeze before moving on to explore every dip and curve of your ass and your back and your neck. You buried your hands in his hair and pulled a bit, loosing a moan from him that soaked your panties straight through. He walked you backward until you’d reached the bookshelf and pressed you gently against it, and the musty smell of old books mixed with his cologne and natural musk made you dizzy with need.
“I’ve dreamed about this,” he whispered. “Since the very first time you spoke in class. You were like some sort of angel. I couldn’t look at you while you were talking. I tried, but I couldn’t. I still remember what you said, though.”
You smiled and pulled him close to you by his tie.
“I’m no angel,” you said, “and I was probably just trying to impress you.”
“No,” he said, “you weren’t. You were just talking and I could tell from just one sentence how bright you are, and how passionate. Always so passionate about everything.”
“You like passionate?” you asked, and he nodded, so you leaned in slow and kissed him.
You lost yourselves in each other for a while as your mouths melded together in perfect harmony. His hands were on your hair and you had your arms wrapped around his back, holding him close to you. It wasn’t a lustful kiss like before; it was different—better. All his reservations were gone: he just wanted you, and you wanted him, and nothing else mattered. Nothing, that is, except getting caught. He pulled away.
“Shit,” he said, scrambling towards the door and locking it. “That would have been bad.”
He closed the blinds, too, and now you were perfectly alone. He’d spent so long avoiding any sort of private moment with you, but it brought a smile to his face now, to have you all to himself and to know that you wanted what he wanted. He stood by the window and loosened his tie roughly, just enough to get it up over his head, and tossed it aside like trash. He couldn’t take his eyes off you now, the months of avoiding your gaze culminating in an almost animal need for you. His thick fingers deftly worked open the buttons of his shirt and you watched as each new bit of skin was revealed—the patch of chest hair you would have never known was there, the slightly sculpted abdomen, and the line of hair from his navel down into his pants. You couldn’t wait to see where it ended. When the shirt was fully unbuttoned he crossed the room to you with a bit of swagger you’d never seen before. He was sure of himself now, and you liked that. You slid your hands up his chest and over his shoulders, sliding the fabric down until it fell in a heap behind him. He wore only his glasses from the waist up, and you had no intention of letting him take those off.
He kissed you again as he brought his hands to your waist and started tugging your shirt up out of your skirt. When it was free he pushed your arms up over your head and removed it in one swift motion. You closed your eyes as you felt his hot hungry kisses on your neck down to your collarbone and across, and when he pulled the cups of your bra down you moaned before he even made contact. His hands moved down and cupped your ass as he took one hardened nipple in his mouth, and when he moaned against your flesh you gripped the bookshelf above you to keep yourself upright. You were writhing at his touch, you wanted more of him, and he knew it. He brought his mouth up to yours and kissed you as he hiked up your skirt and ran his hand across your panties, drenched with need for him. You felt him smile against your lips.
“So wrong,” he said. His voice was low and husky in a way you’d only dreamed about. “So so wrong”
He pushed the fabric aside and made a little mmph sound as he felt your slick on his fingers. You clutched the shelf and arched your back as you felt him slide a finger inside you, testing you, before adding another. You looked at him and you knew your desire was written all over your face, as his was, and you brought one leg up and wrapped it around him, pulling him tight to you and pushing his fingers deep. He crooked them inside you, finding your special spot without much trouble and working it in small hard circles. Your breathing quickened and he watched you respond to him, and he was responding to you, too. You could feel his cock straining against his pants, big and thick and threatening to burst through the fabric. You wanted to feel him inside you. You’d both waited long enough. You pressed your forehead to his.
“Do you want me?” you asked.
“You know I do,” he replied.
“Then take me,” you said. “Please. Now.”
“Here?” he asked.
“Anywhere you want,” you said. “Tell me where you want me.”
“Chair,” he said without missing a beat.
The look in his eyes told you he’d thought about it before and it made your cunt throb just thinking about him thinking of you in that way. He released you and you nearly collapsed but you managed to wobble your way over to his desk chair. You stood in front of him, your skirt bunched up around your waist as he took your panties down, and you unzipped the skirt and stepped out of it before dropping to your knees, frantically unbuckling his belt and pushing his pants down over his ass to the floor. He kicked his shoes off and freed himself of everything, falling back into the leather chair, naked but for his glasses. His cock had felt huge before his pants came off, but now that you got a look at it—thick and veiny like his arms now completely bare in front of you—you weren’t even sure it would fit. You were sure as hell gonna try, though.
You wanted to take him into your mouth and suck him dry—something you’d thought about on more than one occasion—because you wanted him and he wanted you and in your mind it was now or never. When you dropped to your knees in front of him, he grabbed you by the shoulders and shook his head.
“Need to be inside you,” he said, “please.”
He reached for your face and you rose up to meet him, climbing astride him as he took your lower lip between his teeth. He nipped at it gently before kissing you, his other hand cupping your ass as you reached down and positioned him right where he needed to be.
You slid down his considerable length slowly, savoring the burn as he stretched you almost to your limit, and you both moaned in unison as he filled you. His breath caught in his chest when he was nestled deep inside of you, and you stayed there for a while, not moving, reveling in the feel of him so deep it stole the breath from your lungs as he wrapped his strong arms around your back and clutched you tightly to his chest. You buried your hands in his hair and pulled his head back, staring through the lenses of his glasses straight into his eyes. You needed to know he wanted this as badly as you did, that it felt as right to him now as it had felt wrong to him before. The look he gave you told you everything, and you started to move—slowly at first, watching him watching you. He looked at you like he could barely believe you were real, and the way he was touching you was so delicate, like you were some sort of fragile work of art he thought he might break. But you weren’t delicate, and you wouldn’t break, and you let him know it as you started to move faster and harder on top of him.
He gripped you tightly, the tendons in his arms straining as he grabbed your hips and held you in place. You let him take over, grabbing fistfuls of his hair as he thrust up into you. He was breathing hot and heavy, his head buried in the crook between your neck and your shoulder, and when he looked up at you his glasses had fogged up a bit. You smiled down at him and took them off, much as you didn’t want to see them go. He looked different without them, younger but still distinguished, and when you moved to place them out of harm’s way he stopped you.
“No,” he said. “I need to see you.”
He snatched the glasses from your hand and wiped the lenses clean with his thumbs before putting them back on and drinking in the sight of you bouncing on top of him.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he said, and you laughed because the sound of him cursing still amused you.
“Something funny?” he asked.
He was still pounding away at you, a slight smirk playing at his lips and a devilish glint in his eye. You wanted to tell him but he was screwing the words straight out of your head. You managed to get something out, breathless as you were.
“Say it again,” you said.
“What?” he asked. “Fuck?”
You nodded vigorously as he slammed into you.
“You like it when I say fuck?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You like the way I fuck you?”
“God, yes.”
“You want me to fuck you harder?”
He didn’t wait for you to respond, just gripped your shoulders and gave you everything he had. You brought your head down to his shoulder to muffle the sounds of pleasure each thrust brought out of you and before too long you felt your toes curl and your climax start to rise. You rolled your hips, your clit aching for contact, and you felt the hairs at the end of his treasure trail tickle at you as you increased your pace. You wanted to cry out but you knew you had to keep quiet so you bit your lip and dug your fingers into his shoulders. He could feel you were close and he brought one hand up and placed it gently over your mouth. He looked at you with those blue eyes blown wide and whispered.
“Come for me, angel.”
And you did—hard and silent with his palm pressed against your lips. He let out a low moan as he felt you pulse around him and you knew it wouldn’t be long before his time came. He let you finish before he took his hand away and kissed you, rocking you back and forth on top of him as he fisted your hair. He pulled out of the kiss and you looked at him quizzically but before you could ask what he had on his mind he was up out of the chair, holding you aloft and walking you toward the desk. You reached back and swept aside anything in your way before he sat you down. You wrapped your legs around his thighs and smiled up at him as you took two meaty handfuls of ass and pulled him into you. He brought a long finger to your chin and tilted your head back, placing a chaste kiss on your lips before he let himself go again.
He was some strange combination of tender and rough, and you didn’t quite know how he did it but it didn’t matter. He dug his hands between you and the desk, gripping your ass tight as he snapped his hips over and over again. When he pushed you onto your back he ran his big hands up and down your body, settling on your breasts and gripping them with just the right amount of pressure. You placed your hands on top of his and looked up at him. He was blowing air through puffed-out lips with each thrust, his glasses crooked, and it was the sexiest thing you’d ever seen and you felt yourself start to lose it again. You spread your legs as wide as you could and he leaned over you, his arms on either side of you bearing his weight, and whispered in your ear.
“Again? Already?”
You nodded vigorously, unable to form words, and he chuckled low as you started to come in slow waves around him, your hands gripping his biceps and your legs wrapped around his lower back. This time he couldn’t muffle your moans but you kept them low and breathy even though he felt so good you wanted to scream. He watched you come undone again, licking his lips at the sight of you completely unglued beneath him. It was almost enough, and as you arched your back and gripped him tight you moaned his name—his first name, the one you’d never used except on those late nights you thought about him when you made yourself cum over and over again.
“Oh God, Bucky. Fuck me. Fill me up,” you whispered, and he lost it.
He came gritting his teeth and clenching his jaw, eyes squeezed tight and trying his best not to let out the animal sounds he had within him. He seized on top of you—once, twice, three times—as he pumped his spend deep into you, then he fell forward, spent, in a warm heap against your chest. You held him there for a moment, listening to his heart beat and yours with it, feeling his cum spill out around his softening cock and mixing with your own, and when he could move he propped himself up on his elbows, removing his glasses for a moment and wiping the sweat from his brow before putting them back on. You smiled at him and played with an errant piece of hair that had fallen across his forehead. He leaned down and kissed you gently, lingering against your lips for a moment—like he didn’t want to tear himself away from you, like if he turned around you might disappear as if it was all just a dream.
But it wasn’t a dream. It was real, and when you were both dressed and put together you sat across his lap in his chair, one arm draped around his neck and the other toying with the chest hair that poked out from the shirt he’d barely buttoned.
“So, did I pass?” you asked, and he laughed and shook his head.
“A+,” he said, “as usual.” He turned his head and kissed you softly. “And I believe I owe you a dinner at my place.”
You smiled. “Should I bring anything?”
“Just bring that big, sexy brain of yours,” he said. “I’ll cover the rest.”
“Come on,” you said. “I don’t like showing up empty-handed. How about dessert?”
He smiled up at you and straightened his glasses. “You are dessert.”
