Borrowed Heat part 3

I spent the next class pretending he did not exist.

I called on everyone else and redirected every comment that drifted toward him. When he raised his hand I looked past it and asked the student two seats over instead. The performance was deliberate, the cleanest way I knew to end whatever had started against my desk and then against my living-room couch. Rules existed for a reason. I had already broken enough of them.

Ellis never looked away.

He sat in his usual place, posture relaxed, pen moving across the page as if the discussion still interested him. Every time my gaze accidentally slid in his direction I found his eyes already on me, the same quiet intensity that had watched me come apart twice. The simple fact of his attention made the space between my legs throb once, hard, before I forced myself to look at the whiteboard again.

My phone vibrated against the desk near the end of the hour.

I ignored it until the others began packing up. Only when the room emptied did I unlock the screen.

A single image.

Ellis, naked from the waist down, seated on the edge of what looked like his bed. One hand wrapped around his cock, the other holding the phone. The shot was tight, deliberate: the thick length of him flushed and hard, a bead of wetness already at the tip, his fingers mid-stroke. The caption underneath was only three words.

*Thinking of you.*

Heat slammed through me so fast my knees went weak. I locked the phone, shoved it into my bag, and stood.

“Childish,” I said under my breath, even though no one remained to hear it. “Completely childish.”

I did not delete the message.

Office hours were empty that afternoon. I locked the door the moment the last student left, sat behind the desk, and told myself I would only check the image once more to confirm how ridiculous it was. My thumb hovered, then I opened it again.

The second viewing was slower. I noticed the tension in his forearm, the way his thumb had smeared the wetness across the head, the faint shadow of his abs above the open waistband. My breathing changed. The dull ache that had sat low in my belly since class intensified until it became impossible to ignore.

I stood, walked around to the front of the desk, and perched on the edge exactly where he had braced himself the first time. Skirt and underwear still on, I slipped my hand beneath the fabric and found myself already slick.

The first two fingers slid through the wetness with almost no resistance. I bit my lip hard enough to hurt and circled my clit once, twice, three times while the image of his hand on his cock stayed burned behind my eyelids. More wetness gathered, coating my fingers, making every small motion louder than it should have been in the quiet office. I pushed two fingers inside myself and felt the walls clench immediately. The soft, wet sound of it filled the space between the desk and the locked door. My other hand braced against the wood so I would not slide off. Hips rolled forward of their own accord, chasing the friction.

I was close when the knock came.

Three sharp raps.

I froze, fingers still buried, heartbeat slamming against my ribs. I yanked my hand free, wiped it roughly on the inside of my skirt, and stood on legs that felt unreliable. My face was hot. The scent of my own arousal felt obvious in the closed room.

I unlocked the door and opened it only a few inches.

Ellis stood in the hallway, bag over one shoulder, expression unreadable.

“Office hours are over,” I said.

He stepped forward anyway, forcing me to either block him bodily or let him pass. I stepped back. He closed the door behind him and locked it without asking permission.

The air changed.

He looked at me for a long second, flushed cheeks, slightly unsteady stance, the way I kept my right hand half-hidden against my thigh. Then his gaze moved past me to the desk. The chair pushed back at an angle. The faint, unmistakable shine still visible on the polished edge where I had been sitting. He inhaled once, slowly, and the corner of his mouth curved.

“You watched it,” he said.

It was not a question.

“Get out.”

He walked farther into the room instead, setting his bag down with deliberate calm. “You tried to ignore me all class. But it looks like you can’t get enough of me” His voice stayed quiet, almost conversational. “You’re still wet, aren’t you?”

The words landed low and precise. Fresh heat flooded between my legs.

He closed the remaining distance and turned me so my back met the edge of the desk. One of his thighs slid between mine, pressing upward against the damp fabric of my skirt and underwear. The contact was firm. He rolled his hips once, slow and deliberate dry friction that dragged the soaked cotton directly over my clit.

A broken sound escaped me before I could stop it.

He did it again, harder this time. The wetness had already soaked through; I could feel the heat of him even through the layers. Each grind made the fabric cling and slide, the filthy sound of it impossible to hide. My hands gripped the desk behind me. My head tipped back. He watched my face the entire time, that small smirk still in place.

“There it is,” he murmured. “You’re soaking my thigh.”

I could feel fresh wetness spreading, the unmistakable evidence of how little control I actually had left. He ground against me a third time, slower, savoring the way my hips jerked to meet him, and then started to pull back as if the demonstration was finished.

I grabbed his belt before he could fully step away.

“I’m not finished yet.”

I turned us with more force than grace until his back hit the desk. My hands were already at his zipper. He caught my wrists once, gentle but firm.

“Mara. I don’t have a condom.”

“I don’t care.”

The words came out raw. I freed him from his clothes, shoved my underwear aside, and sank down onto his bare cock in one continuous motion. The stretch was immediate, hotter without latex, the wet heat of me taking him to the hilt with an obscene, slick sound. Both of us exhaled hard. His hands flew to my hips, gripping tight enough to bruise.

I rode him without mercy, short, grinding rolls that kept him deep, then longer strokes that dragged every inch. The wet sounds filled the office. My hands braced on his shoulders. His warning about the condom dissolved under the sensation; I felt the exact moment his control fractured, the way his head dropped forward and a low groan tore out of him.

“Fuck…Mara…”

He folded the way I needed him to. His hands tightened, and then he was thrusting up to meet me, hard and deep, the desk creaking beneath us. I bit my own lip to stay quiet and failed. Every wet slap of skin, every broken breath, felt dangerously loud.