Chapter 2

My eyes snapped open and the lab faded, the steel table gone. I was in my bed, my sheets tangled around my legs and my body slick with sweat. My cock throbbed, hard and untouched, a wet spot on my  boxers. The ringing wasn't stopping and it was my alarm, blasting from the nightstand.

“Shit.” I muttered, slapping it off. The room was my tiny dorm, with posters of anatomy charts on the walls and books stacked everywhere. Sunlight streamed through the blinds and it was too bright, too early. Or was I late? 

I grabbed my phone and checked the time. It was 8:47 AM and class started at 8:30. Professor Rooke's lecture on surgical techniques.

I started to panic as I realized that I was late already. I bolted up, ignoring the ache in my groin as the dream clung to me vividly, with Wyatt's rough hands and Bryce's mouth. 

I shook my head, trying to clear it. “It’s just a stupid dream.” I told myself, but my body didn't listen. My dick still stood at attention, begging for a touch but there was no time for that. 

I stripped fast, jumping in the shower bathing with cold water so it could shock the heat away but as I soaped up, my mind wandered back to Bryce's tongue on me and Wyatt's cock in my mouth. I bit my lip, my hand slipping down almost on its own, for just a quick stroke but I quickly stopped myself, shaking my head as I rinsed off. I couldn't do that, not now or I'd be more late. 

I was out of the shower in no time, drying my body roughly, pulling on jeans and a hoodie. There was no time for my usual button-up. I put my books in his bag, shoved my phone in my pocket, glanced at the mirror and winced at my wet and messy hair, plus my wild eyes. This was all because of that damn dream. 

Those professors. Why them? Why always them?

It started last session. Professor Rooke was just a guest lecturing on emergency surgery. The man walked in like he owned the room with his tall, broad shoulders and a scar on his jaw that I couldn’t just stop looking at. 

His voice boomed, explaining incisions with hands that looked like they were made for more than scalpels. I remember just staring at him, heat building low in my gut. Then Bryce Lockhart, the senior physician who co-taught with him, looked calm and watched us, smiling just enough to make you wonder what the hell he was thinking about. I just couldn’t stop looking at the both of them as their presence did things I didn’t understand to me. 

After that, the fantasies crept in. At night, alone, I would write dirty stories about them, touching, sucking and fucking me. I loved to write so it was easy for me to just put down my thoughts. 

I shook my head again, trying to clear it as I grabbed my keys and headed out the door. The campus was quiet as everyone had settled in their morning classes. 

My mind kept drifting back to those stories I'd been writing. God, they were getting out of hand but they felt so real, like I could almost touch the heat of it all.

The one I'd scribbled down just last night was probably my favorite so far. It started simple, like my days always did, but turned into something wild. I could see it clear as day in my head, the words spilling out like they had when I wrote them. It was about Professor Wyatt. 

He just had this way of staring at you during lectures, like he knew exactly what you were thinking. In my story, I had turned that stare into something more. 

It went like this:

I sat in the back of the lecture hall, my notebook open but my pen idle. Professor Wyatt was up front, his voice loud as he pointed to the diagram on the board, it was about muscles, bones, all that stuff but I wasn't listening. My eyes kept sliding over his tall and fit frame, his sleeves rolled up to show strong forearms. He caught me staring once, his dark eyes narrowing, and I felt a jolt straight to my core.

Class ended, and everyone shuffled out, but I hung back, pretending to pack my bag slowly. Wyatt noticed me. 

“You. Stay.” It wasn't a question and my heart pounded as I looked up. He was leaning against his desk, his arms crossed and that jaw set tight.

"Yes, sir?" I said, keeping my voice even, but inside I was already spinning fantasies.

He pushed off the desk and walked over to me, stopping close enough that I could smell his cologne, something woodsy and sharp. “You've been distracted all through the class, daydreaming and paying no attention. “Do you care to explain yourself?”

I swallowed hard, my mouth dry. “I... I'm sorry, Professor. It's just... hard to focus sometimes.”

His eyebrow arched. “Hard to focus? On anatomy? Or on something else?” He stepped closer, his presence filling the space between us. The room was empty now, with just the hum of the AC and my quick breaths.

“Maybe both.” I whispered, not sure why I said it but his eyes lit up, like he'd been waiting for that.

“Then maybe you need a private lesson.” His hand came up, his fingers brushing my chin, tilting my face to his. It was rough and callused from years of holding scalpels, but warm. I froze, heat flooding my cheeks…and lower.

“Professor…” I started, but he cut me off with a low chuckle.

“Call me Wyatt here. No one's around.” His thumb traced my lower lip, pressing just enough to part them. I gasped, and he leaned in, his mouth crashing against mine. His tongue pushed in and I melted into it, my hands grabbing his shirt.