Chapter Text
You didn’t always dress like this.
Not in the elegant high-waisted trousers that elongated your already long legs, and the silk blouses in slate and cream, each one buttoned up and tucked just so.
And not in the heels, expensive, pointed, and high, meant to remind you, and everyone else, that control starts at the ankle.
There was a time you tried to disappear.
Back when you were married to a man who said he liked your brain but openly resented your ambition. Who told you quiet was dignified and called you “intimidating” instead of a boss.
Back then you wore flats and cardigans and neutral tones and made yourself smaller in rooms where you should’ve stood tall.
And then one day, you stopped.
Your divorce wasn’t explosive.
It was silent.
You kept your name, your tenured position, and the apartment with the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He kept the excuses.
And the you learned to love your own company. Late-night reading by lamplight. Coffee in silence.
Fresh sheets, open windows, and no one to bend for.
You built a life that didn’t need anyone else in it. You weren’t lonely. You were whole.
Or so you thought.
Five years after the divorce, at 38, you were tenured, respected, published, and a bright star in Brooklyn College’s English Department.
You strode into the lecture hall in heels and pencil skirts, your hair up, your lipstick bold, and your syllabus uncompromising. Your specialty was desire on the page, Womanist texts, subversion in narrative form.
The literature of hunger and restraint.
And you were good at it.
You were used to being the subject of attention from your students, attention that extended beyond a concern for their grades.
Sometimes they were just curious. Sometimes they were crude. Occasionally, they flirted, tried to make you laugh, or tried to match your intellect with theirs.
But you handled it. You shut it down.
You had been with colleagues once or twice, brief encounters that scratched an itch but never lingered. They never made you miss someone when they left your bed or made you want to stay.
There had never been any encounter that made you pause in the doorway of your own classroom and forget, for a split second, what the hell you were about to say.
Until him.
Until James Buchanan Barnes.
—--
You didn’t notice him when you took roll, not at first.
You were focused on your board notes, your syllabus, the usual opening-week checklist, names, majors, who looked restless, who would drop by week three.
But then you turned, mid-sentence, scanning the room, and your eyes landed on him.
He hadn’t raised his hand. He hadn’t made a sound. But the way he held himself drew your attention like a magnet.
He sat with the rigid stillness of someone trained for tension, shoulders wide and braced inside a seat not built to hold him, his spine so straight it looked like a kind of discipline.
He wasn’t fidgeting and he wasn’t distracted; he was just silent, present, and alert.
That should have been your first clue. But it wasn’t the way he sat that stopped you.
It was the rest of him.
The overlong dark hair tucked neatly behind one ear.
The worn black T-shirt pulled across a chest that didn’t belong in a sophomore seminar, and the way his lips pressed together in concentration as he read your syllabus like it was a puzzle to be solved.
The large, veined hand curled around a pen instead of a keyboard, and his notebook was full of cramped, deliberate handwriting.
He looked like someone who had seen the world, someone too young to have such old eyes, though he was older than the others in your class.
He looked like someone who was trying very hard not to be noticed. And it didn’t work.
Because the second he lifted his eyes to meet yours, brilliant blue, sharp, and unwavering, it was over.
You told yourself it meant nothing. He was just a student. One of many.
But then he spoke.
And his voice was low, steady, and crackling with an alluring tenor that almost masked how smart he really was.
And then he argued.
Not with arrogance, but clarity. Citing Baldwin and Heller without a trace of hesitation, pushing back just enough to make it interesting, enough to make your breath catch.
And suddenly you knew.
This one was going to be dangerous.
—--
He knew professors were supposed to be older.
Seasoned. Maybe tired-looking. Overworked and underpaid, carrying canvas tote bags and books with cracked spines.
He wasn’t expecting you.
You walked in like you owned the entire department, heels sharp against the tile, jaw set in a way that made him sit straighter without thinking, and not a single strand of your hair was out of place.
You were wearing a slate grey silk blouse, tucked into high-waisted black trousers that clung to your shape with elegant precision. And your lips were a color that made his mouth go dry.
And Bucky Barnes forgot to breathe.
He picked up his pen before you even spoke.
Not because he was trying to impress you, but because something about you told him that half-assed wasn’t welcome in your presence.
You didn’t look directly at anyone when you entered. You set your bag down, clicked your pen once, and began to speak with the urgency of someone who had no time to waste.
In less than ten minutes, you quoted Morrison, asked a question no one dared answer, and looked directly at him when he did.
That was the first time your gaze met his. And it turned his stomach inside out.
You were older than him, but not in the way that word often implied. You didn’t look tired. You didn’t look diminished. You looked like power.
You looked like someone who had learned to survive, and who didn’t flinch when she walked away from the battle.
He wanted to impress you, of course.
But more than that, he just wanted you to look at him like that again.
——
The semester moved forward, and Bucky was in the front row every class, early enough to see you walk in. He didn’t fidget, he didn’t scroll his phone, and he didn’t scribble anything until you started talking.
His eyes were always on the door, and when you walked through it, his pulse kicked like a reflex.
You were striking.
Every week, in silk blouses, pencil skirts, or tailored trousers, always poised and sharp-edged, never once looking like anyone else on campus.
But what unstrung him was not how you looked.
It was the way you never once looked at him like an object. You never treated your students like they were interchangeable. When you looked at him, you saw him.
And Bucky felt it.
He hadn’t expected to enjoy Postmodern Literature. It sounded like the kind of class where people tried to out-theorize each other, but it surprised him.
And it was the first time since returning to school that he felt like he belonged.
Before your class, he felt like a ghost in the hallway.
Older than most of them at 26, but younger in other ways, like he’d lost time, like he was trying to catch up to a life that had kept going without him.
The Army was paying for his education. Six years in, two years out, into places no one ever talked about. He came back with too many memories and not enough peace.
Literature helped. Reading gave the noise somewhere to go. He filled notebooks just to keep the chaos from spilling over.
And you made it matter.
When you spoke, he listened with his entire body. Every word felt like a match being struck. Every question you asked set something in him on fire.
He kept his face blank when you entered, but inside, something locked into place every time.
“This isn’t a survey course,” you said on the first day. “This is an excavation. We’re going to talk about hunger, about power, about desire, and about what happens when stories lie to us.”
Bucky Barnes was going to learn everything you had to teach.
And not just from the syllabus.
—-
The first time Bucky Barnes had you shook was unexpected.
“Stanley Kowalski isn’t just a villain,” you told the room.
“He’s a study in what happens when masculinity hides its own fragility. What’s worse, being violent, or pretending you’re not?”
There was a pause.
Then his hand went up.
“Yes…?”
“Barnes. James Barnes,” he said, as if you didn’t know his name. You knew his name.
“I think pretending is worse. Because then people convince themselves it’s not violence at all. It’s just… what men do.”
The room went quiet. It was a good point. A sharp one. You nodded, your lips curving just slightly.
“Interesting. Care to elaborate, Mr. Barnes?”
He leaned forward on the desk, shoulders tense but voice calm.
“Stanley’s problem isn’t just power. It’s that he thinks he’s entitled to everything. Stella. The apartment. The air they breathe. And when someone tells him he’s not, he loses his mind.”
Your breath caught.
“An excellent observation,” you said, forcing your tone steady.
And you moved on to the next point, your pulse racing.
—---
He didn’t mean to linger. But he did.
Most of the class had already filtered out into the dark, backpacks slung over shoulders, the last few stragglers murmuring their way toward the exit. The lateness of the class cleared the room quickly.
But Bucky stayed seated in the front row, fingers drumming quietly on the edge of his notebook, eyes fixed forward, on you.
You moved with quiet purpose as you erased the board, your blouse soft under the glow of fluorescent light, and your heels clicking softly against the tile.
You always moved like that, like you had all the time in the world. Like you knew he was watching, and you didn’t care.
Or maybe you did. Maybe that was the problem.
When you turned to face him, your expression was unreadable, carefully professional.
“Did you need something, Mr. Barnes?”
He stood slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Just wanted to thank you. For the lecture.”
You raised a brow.
“You’re paying tuition. No need to thank me.”
“Still,” he said, shifting his weight, but not too close.
“Most professors don’t talk about Streetcar like that. You didn’t soften him. You didn’t make Stanley a hero. You called him what he was.”
Something flickered across your face. Amusement, maybe. Or curiosity. Your mouth curved, just barely.
“Is that supposed to impress me?”
He smiled warmly. Not cocky, but careful.
“Would it work if I said yes?”
You stared at him for one beat too long. And then you laughed quietly. The sound was beautiful.
It hit him square in the chest.
“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes,” you said. But you weren’t dismissive.
It would’ve been easy to say something he shouldn’t. Something about how well that skirt fit the curves of your ass, or the slope of your neck, or the way you looked like a woman a man could ruin himself for, and thank her for it.
But he didn’t.
He just cleared his throat and said, “Goodnight, Professor.”
And then he walked out. Before he could make a mistake.
—---
You were at your desk during office hours, door open, glasses on, red pen in hand, halfway through dissecting an undergrad’s overwrought interpretation of Beloved when you heard a knock.
You didn’t need to look up.
You already knew it was him.
There was a particular rhythm to the way James Barnes moved that was controlled and deliberate. That soldier steadiness in every step. You took a breath before looking up, willing your heart not to react, willing your body to stay still.
“Professor,” he said, low and polite, leaning just slightly into the doorway.
“You got a minute?”
“Of course,” you said, gesturing to the chair across from you like it was just another Wednesday.
Like you hadn’t been hyperaware of him since the moment he walked into your class.
“Come in.”
He did, wearing a dark henley, jeans, and a backpack slung over one shoulder. He sat down slowly, and you caught a whiff of his scent.
It made your mouth dry.
“I wanted to talk more about the reading,” he said. “If that’s okay.”
“Always.”
He pulled out his copy of The Awakening, pages heavily annotated.
You should have been focused on what he was saying, but you weren’t. Not entirely.
His voice had that textured quality that hummed through your spine when he spoke. And the way he watched you, like everything you said mattered, was dangerous.
It made you lean forward. And it made your next question softer than it should have been.
“Do you think Edna is selfish? Or just trapped?”
He tilted his head.
“Both. But I think the trap came first.”
God. He was good.
You pushed your glasses up the bridge of your nose and tried not to notice how the room suddenly felt too warm.
He spoke like it was casual. But he knew it wasn’t. Not to you. He could tell by the way your eyes lit up.
He could get addicted to that.
He could tell that you were impressed, and that you didn’t want to be.
That knowledge made something hot flicker in his chest.
He thought about what you’d look like letting go.
He thought about backing you against that desk and hearing you say his name. Not Mr. Barnes, Bucky.
He thought about dropping to his knees and making you forget every reason you were telling yourself not to want him.
“Mr. Barnes,” you said, clearing your throat lightly, “are you trying to impress me again?”
“Not trying,” he said, voice even. “Just telling the truth.”
That stopped you for a second. And in that second, you smiled.
That was your mistake.
Because in that smile, you gave something away.
And he knew it.
That smile wasn’t dismissive. It wasn’t professional.
And it definitely wasn’t safe.
It told him that you were thinking about it too.
Even if you wouldn’t admit it.
He didn’t say any of that. Not yet. But one day soon, he might.
—--
You weren’t expecting to see anyone you knew at Prospect Park.
This part of Brooklyn is your quiet zone. Your weekend escape. You come for the live music, the breeze off the trees, the way the city softened just enough to let you breathe.
You were wearing a sundress, nothing scandalous, but light, flowing, a little backless. Your hair was loose and you were comfortable. Free.
Younger than you usually let yourself feel.
You had your blanket spread out near the edge of the crowd, a book open on your lap, eyes closed as the saxophone swelled. And then…
“Professor?”
Your stomach dropped. Because you knew that voice. You opened your eyes slowly and turned your head, and there he was.
James Barnes.
He was standing a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his jeans, t-shirt snug across his chest. He had a water bottle hooked through one finger, and he looked… stunned.
You blinked, and sat up slowly. When your eyes met his, they widened just enough for him to see the truth: you hadn’t expected to see him either.
And you weren’t ready.
“Mr. Barnes.”
His eyes raked over you, quickly, respectfully, but there was no hiding the way they lingered.
You looked… radiant. Relaxed. And so young. Relaxed in a way he’d never seen you. Unguarded.
Your sundress moved when you shifted, a flash of bare shoulder and the curve of your neck knocking something loose in his chest.
For a second, he forgot you were his professor.
He just saw a woman so beautiful it felt unreal to look at you out of context.
You watched the moment he really saw you with your hair down and your sandals off and your mouth slightly parted in surprise.
He didn’t say anything for a second too long.
And it rattled you.
You were used to being looked at. But not by him. Not like this.
“You here for the show?” you asked, trying to sound calm.
He nodded slowly as his eyes dragged over you again.
“Yeah. Didn’t expect to see anyone from campus.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“What, professors don’t like jazz?”
“No,” he said. “I just didn’t think you looked like this… out in the wild.”
You laughed, too loud. Embarrassed. And a little flattered.
“Well. Surprise.”
He didn’t look away.
And that’s when you realized, you were not in control of this moment. Not the way you usually were. Because for the first time in years, you’re the one who doesn’t know what to do with your hands. Or your mouth.
Or your rapidly racing heart.
Bucky made small talk, played it cool, but he couldn’t stop staring.
He didn’t know you could laugh like that. He didn’t know a simple sundress could make his brain short-circuit when he’d spent weeks imagining what you look like underneath all that silk and structure.
He could leave. He probably should.
But you’re not telling him to.
And for a moment, just one long, buzzy moment, Bucky wondered if the line between you already broke, and you both just keep pretending it’s still there.
—---
You patted the edge of the blanket before you could talk yourself out of it.
“Feel free to sit,” you said, tone light, professor-pleasant.
He hesitated only a moment, then lowered himself onto the corner, legs stretched out in front of him, careful not to sit too close. You straightened your spine but didn’t lean into the warmth.
“So,” he said after a beat, eyes forward, voice casual.
“Didn’t take you for the Prospect Park jazz type.”
You hummed softly, keeping your gaze on the stage.
“Everyone needs a little fresh air.”
He nodded, giving you room. You sat shoulder to shoulder in a comfortable silence that allowed you to think too much.
The set ended with a soft cymbal roll and a murmur of applause. You clapped, grateful for the distraction and for something to break the silence that’s been stretching between you like a tripwire.
Bucky, James, Barnes, Christ, brushed his palms on his jeans and stood slowly. You stayed seated, not trusting your legs just yet.
“Well,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “I should get going.”
You nodded, eyes on your book even though you haven’t read a word of it since he sat down.
“Of course. Thanks for saying hi.”
He paused. You felt it.
“I’ll see you in class,” he said finally.
And you nodded again. Too fast. Too clipped.
“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes.”
“Goodnight, Professor.”
Your name on his tongue would ruin you. You knew that. So you were grateful, in a sick way, that he didn’t use it. That he kept the mask on, even as he walked away without looking back.
Only once he was far enough away do you finally exhale.
—----
The next week, he waited until the last twenty minutes of your posted office hours.
Long enough that you probably thought no one else was coming.
You were behind your desk, papers stacked to your left, a half-empty yogurt cup in the trash beside you. Your hair was pinned back tight, the way you always wore it on days when control mattered most. The soft hum of your laptop filled the quiet, a jazz playlist coming from the speakers.
You looked like calm incarnate. But he saw the hesitation when you glanced up and saw him standing in the doorway.
"Mr. Barnes," you said, voice as composed as your posture. "Come in."
He did, quietly and carefully keeping his distance. He always did. He asked about Baldwin. Giovanni’s Room. His tone was casual, almost too casual, but the tightness in his jaw gave him away.
And then…
“I’ve been thinking about what you read in class,” he said, voice low.
“The part about self-deception.”
You looked up slowly. You knew where this was going.
“Is that what this is?”
You didn’t answer.
“I can’t pretend anymore,” he continued. “Not with you.”
The air in the room changed.
“I want you,” he said, firmer now.
“I’ve wanted you since the first class. I thought I could ignore it, bury it under respect, or rules, or whatever you needed from me. But it’s still there.”
You couldn’t breathe.
Not well. Not normally. Not with him standing there saying that like it was a truth he’d been carrying in his bones since the beginning of the semester.
You stared at him, searching for something you could use to shut it down. Immaturity. Fantasy. Entitlement. But it wasn’t there.
He wasn’t testing you. He wasn’t fantasizing. He was telling you the truth. And now it was here.
Said aloud in your office.
“I’m not confused,” he said.
“And I’m not asking for anything. I just needed you to know I’m done pretending I don’t feel it.”
You folded your hands in your lap because you didn’t trust them not to move. Not to reach. Not to tremble.
“This isn’t possible,” you said, voice thin. “You’re my student.”
“I know.”
But he didn’t back down.
You exhaled, and let the silence grow.
That usually made people fumble excuses to fill the void. And when he didn’t retreat, didn’t apologize, didn’t break, you reached for the only weapon left: distance.
“You’re twenty-six.”
“Almost twenty-seven.”
“I’m thirty-eight.”
“I know.”
“That’s over a decade.”
“I’m aware.”
You hated how calm he was. You hated that some stupid, aching part of you wanted him to lose control, because at least then it wouldn’t feel so dangerous. Or deliberate.
“You’ve seen things,” you said. “You’ve survived things. But you’re still figuring out who you are.”
He didn’t argue. And somehow, that made it worse.
“I’ve worked my whole life for this career,” you snapped. “I’m not throwing it away for a moment in a park or a crush you can’t separate from fantasy.”
“It’s not a crush,” he said. “And it’s not a fantasy.”
“Stop,” you said, louder than you intended.
He did.
And your throat burned. When you finally spoke again, your voice was softer.
“I need you to leave.”
He didn’t argue, just looked at you and nodded.
“Of course, Professor.”
You didn’t watch him go. You kept your eyes on the stack of ungraded essays in front of you, pretending they mattered more than the fact that you hadn’t really wanted him to leave.
You wanted him to stay.
And close the door.
—--
You didn’t assign any reading the next week.
You told yourself it was because midterms were coming. You told yourself it was merciful.
It wasn’t.
It was preparation.
You kept it clean in class, composed. Cold, even.
You called on him once, just to prove you could, and he answered in that low, calm voice like nothing was wrong. Like you weren’t wet under your skirt for the full fifty minutes.
And when the room cleared, and he stayed in his seat, you just stood.
“I need to see you in my office about last week’s meeting, Mr. Barnes.”
He just sat there and watched you walk out of the door, listening to your heels click their way down the hall to your office.
You left the door unlocked.
You waited.
And when he finally stepped into your office and shut the door behind him, you just looked at him. And he looked at you.
And that was all it took to understand.
You stepped back against your desk and swallowed hard.
“We don’t talk about this after,” you said, quietly.
“Okay,” he said, eyes dark.
“But you need to say it.”
You nodded once. “It’s just sex.”
Bucky knew you were lying, but you were offering him something and he was going to take it. He moved toward you.
You held his gaze.
“I’m on birth control.”
“I’m clean,” he said. “Tested last month.”
“So am I.”
A pause. You lifted your chin.
“I want it raw.”
He exhaled through his nose, something primal flickering across his face.
“Jesus. You sure?”
You nodded again. “You?”
“Yeah,” he said, voice rasping now. “Fuck yeah.”
And when his hands finally landed on you, you felt your control collapse. And it felt so good.
He kissed you like you were already his, like he’d spent months imagining this exact moment, how your mouth would part, how your hands would clutch at his shoulders, how your body would give the second he asked.
You moaned into him, soft, needy, and unguarded. And that was all he needed. He lifted you in one clean motion and set you back on your desk.
Urgently. You shoved the papers aside with one sweep of your arm. Something fluttered to the floor. You didn’t care.
His hands pushed your skirt up to your waist, exposing your bare thighs, and when he realized you weren’t wearing anything underneath…
“Fuck,” he whispered, looking down at you like he’d never seen a pussy before.
You hooked your ankles around his hips.
“Don’t waste time.”
He looked up, eyes locked on yours, and slid two fingers through your cunt, like he wanted to memorize how wet you already were for him.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “You were like this all through class?”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your head tipped back when he sank to his knees.
He didn't tease and he didn’t take his time.
His mouth was on you in seconds, hot and filthy, his tongue licking up your slit, mouth closing over your clit like he’d been studying for this moment. And he had.
You gasped, one hand flying to the edge of the desk, the other buried in his hair as he groaned into you. It was too much. Too fast. Too good.
You’d touched yourself thinking about this. Pictured it. Fantasized. But nothing had prepared you for the way he devoured you. Like he needed it to breathe.
Your thighs shook. Your hips rolled into his mouth. And when you came, you heard him groan like he felt it, too.
He stood quickly, shoved his jeans down just enough, and lined himself up without another word.
You looked down and your breath caught. You wanted it. You asked for this. You reached between your legs and guided him in yourself.
You both groaned.
He filled you in one slow thrust, inch after inch of hard, perfect pressure, and you nearly came again right then.
His hands gripped your thighs. He drew back and thrust again, so hard the desk creaked.
You bit your lip to keep from screaming.
“Look at me,” he growled.
You did.
His eyes were wild.
“I’ve wanted this,” he said, voice breaking on the words. “Wanted you.”
You wrapped your arms around his shoulders. “Then fuck me like you mean it.”
He did.
Every thrust was deep, deliberate, devastating. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, slick and obscene. Your body took him like you were made for it, like this was inevitable. Like finally.
He slid one hand up your blouse, pushed your bra up, palmed your breast, and groaned when you arched into it. His mouth was at your throat, biting, sucking, and praising through gritted teeth.
“So tight. Fuck you feel so good.”
You clawed at his back.
“I’m gonna come,” you gasped. “Don’t stop! Please”
He buried his face in your neck.
“Not stopping. Not, fuck, not pulling out…”
You came hard. Writhing, and breaking beneath him.
And when he followed,seconds later, pulsing inside you with a choked groan and a helpless thrust, you realized: This would never be just sex.
And you were never going to forget this.
—----
He knocked the next week at office hours. You almost wished he wouldn’t.
You looked up, your expression blank. “Come in.”
He stepped inside. Closed the door gently. Not locking it.
You gestured to the chair. “Sit.”
He did.
You watched him for a moment. He looked good. Too good. Calm again. Always so goddamn calm. You folded your hands in your lap.
“This can’t happen again.”
He didn’t flinch. Just waited.
You cleared your throat.
“What happened in this office was unprofessional. And dangerous. For both of us.”
Still, he said nothing.
“I don’t care how quiet we are. If anyone finds out…”
“They won’t,” he said softly.
“That’s not the point.”
You didn’t raise your voice. But it felt like a scream.
“I worked too hard for this. I have too much to lose.”
“I know.”
You blinked. “That’s it?”
He met your eyes.
“If you’re done, if you really don’t want me to touch you again, say it.”
You opened your mouth. But no words came out. Because that wasn’t true. And you both knew it.
So instead, you said: “This ends now.”
And he nodded once. But his eyes didn’t believe you.
And when he stood to leave, your body betrayed you again. Because you wanted him.
You said it before you could stop yourself.
“James.”
It was soft, a sound you weren’t aware you were capable of. Not so full of need like that.
But he heard it. He paused in the doorway. Shoulders tensed. One hand still on the knob. He turned and met your eyes.
And you didn’t take it back.
He stepped back into the room and shut the door behind him, locking it this time.
He crossed the room in three strides, hands on your body, spinning you around with authority. And you let him.
Your blouse was still buttoned. Your trousers were still on. But you were soaked the moment he touched you.
“You knew I couldn’t resist you,” he said, voice low behind you.
His mouth grazed your ear as he pressed into you, hard beneath his jeans.
“You don’t want me to.”
You didn’t deny it, just unbuttoned your pants and let them fall.
No panties again.
His hands were on you in an instant, dragging you back against him, cursing under his breath when his fingers slipped between your legs and found you already dripping.
“You wanted this.”
“Don’t talk,” you breathed.
But you didn’t mean it.
He pushed your blouse up, leaned over you, one hand planted on the desk beside yours, the other between your legs.
“You still want it raw?”
You nodded.
“Say it.”
“Yes,” you whispered. “Please.”
He undid his jeans. You felt the press of him against your thigh, hot and thick and ready.
And when he pushed into you, you gasped.
There was no easing in. Just a deep, brutal thrust that forced a broken moan from your lips. You slapped a hand over your mouth, but he grabbed your wrist and pulled it away.
“Let me hear it.”
He fucked you hard. So hard that your desk rocked.
You forgot how to breathe as your cheek pressed against the cool surface of your desk and as your hands gripped the edge.
He fucked you like he owned you, like this was always going to happen.
Like he knew exactly what you needed, and he wasn’t going to let you hide from it again.
“You’re mine right now,” he panted. “No lies. No rules. Just this.”
You came fast, unexpectedly, a sob punching out of your throat as you clenched around him. He groaned and followed you seconds later, spilling inside you with a sharp cry, his hips stuttering against your ass.
For a long moment, there was nothing but breathing. He leaned over your back, both hands braced on the desk now, chest heaving.
You stayed still beneath him, your body still shaking.
Neither of you spoke.
Because what could you say?
—--
It was break week, and of course you could survive without seeing Bucky.
It was just sex, and you were a grown woman. You wouldn’t text him; he didn’t have your number and you only had his because you had his student information.
You told yourself you wouldn’t.
It was unprofessional.
You told yourself that if you just made it through Monday without texting, the rest of the week would be easier. And you almost believed it.
But by Thursday afternoon, your resolve had withered under need. Your apartment was too still. Your phone was too close.
You typed the message three times. Deleted it each time. Then sent it anyway.
You
Did you finish Baldwin yet? Figure out the nature of self-deception?
You threw your phone across the couch the second it delivered.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten.
Then…
James:
Did you really just text me about Baldwin while I’m picturing your ass bent over your desk?
Your stomach flipped.
You told yourself not to respond.
You absolutely responded.
You:
I was being professional.
James:
You didn’t sound very professional last time I had my fingers inside you.
You closed your eyes. And your pulse dropped straight between your thighs.
And then, another buzz.
James:
Should I stop?
You stared at the screen.
Then your thumbs moved on their own.
You:
No.
And that was it.
That was the beginning of the end.
Because now he had your number. And he didn’t just use it to flirt.
He used it to unravel you.
James:
What are you wearing right now?
You shouldn’t have answered. But you did.
You:
Nothing you’d be allowed to see if we were in class.
James:
I wouldn’t need to see it.
You:
No?
James:
I’d just need to hear you.
Your breath caught as you watched the bubbles.
James:
Want me to call you?
Your heart pounded as you stared at the screen.
Then you typed.
You:
Yes.
—---
You answered without thinking.
He didn’t even say hello.
“Take your hand,” he said, voice calm, “and put it between your legs.”
Your breath caught instantly.
“James…”
“Do it.”
You did.
And it was worse than being touched. Because now, every movement was yours, but every command was his.
“Are you wet?” he asked.
You nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see you.
“Yes.”
“Fuck,” he muttered. “You miss me?”
You closed your eyes, head dropping back onto your pillow.
“Yes.”
“How bad?”
“Don’t make me say it.”
“I want to hear you,” he growled. “You started this. Now I want you to tell me what you’ve been thinking about.”
You swallowed.
“Your hands on me. Your mouth. The way you sound when you come. The way you…”
“Touch yourself.”
You gasped at the sound of his voice in your ear, that subtle shift to something darker, something claiming.
“Just two fingers,” he said. “Keep the pressure light. Don’t come yet.”
You obeyed.
“Good girl.”
Your hips bucked slightly.
“Oh, you like that?” he asked, smug now. “I bet you’re soaked.”
“I hate you,” you breathed.
“No you don’t,” he said, quieter now.
“You love this. Being ruined without me even being in the room. So fucking desperate for it you couldn’t go one more day without hearing me.”
You whimpered, and his voice dropped further.
“Circle your clit. Slowly. Just like that. Stay with me.”
You could hear his breathing now. It wasn’t clean. He was hard. He was touching himself too. You knew it. You heard it in his voice.
“I want you so fucking bad,” he groaned.
“That desk wasn’t enough. I need to fuck you until you cry. Until you forget how to teach. Until you forget every name but mine.”
Your hips jerked.
“You close?”
“Yes, fuck, James, I…”
“Not yet.”
You froze.
“I want you begging.”
“I am.”
“No. Say it.”
You shook.
“Please, James. Let me come. I need it. Please…”
“Now,” he growled. “Come for me. Right now.”
And you did.
Hard. Gasping. One hand clamped over your mouth, the other between your legs, writhing into the mattress as the sound of his voice pushed you right over the edge.
On the other end, you heard him break too, a low, broken grunt, a whispered fuck, the subtle sound of his body surrendering.
Silence followed. Thick. Heavy. Full.
“Still just sex?” he asked finally.
You didn’t answer.
You couldn’t.
Because that was the lie. And you’d both just drowned in it.
—----
You didn’t sleep. Not really.
Every time you closed your eyes, you heard his voice.
Touch yourself. Good girl. Come for me.
Like a current under your skin. Like a drug you couldn’t shake.
By midmorning, you gave up trying.
You poured coffee, opened your laptop, stared at the stack of essays you were supposed to grade.
And then you reached for your phone.
No plan. No script.
Just the ache.
You:
What are you doing?
He replied almost immediately.
James:
Whatever you want me to be doing.
Your thighs pressed together. You were hopeless.
You:
You’re insufferable.
James:
You’re obsessed.
You didn’t argue.
James:
Send me a photo.
Your pulse spiked.
You:
Of what?
James:
You. Just your mouth. No smile. Nothing posed. I want to see the version of you I shouldn’t have.
You hesitated.
Then turned on the front camera.
Hair messy. No makeup. Pillow creases still pressed into your cheek. Lips parted. No performance.
You sent it.
Seconds passed.
Then,
James:
Take your shirt off.
You stared at the screen.
James:
I want to see your tits while I jerk off.
Your breath caught.
You looked around your empty apartment like someone might be watching.
Then you pulled your shirt over your head.
You weren’t wearing a bra.
You angled the camera down just enough.
You took the photo and stared at it.
You looked... undone.
You sent it anyway.
James:
Fuck. You’re perfect.
Another message followed right after.
James:
Next time I want video.
You:
What do you want me to do?
His reply came fast.
James:
I want to hear what you sound like when you finger yourself and look into the camera like it’s me.
You dropped the phone onto the bed, your face burning, your body already responding.
You hated how much you wanted it.
And you loved that he asked.
—------
You turned off every light but one and propped your phone up on your nightstand, angled carefully. You could see yourself in the frame, messy, flushed, bare.
Your pulse was already high and your mouth was dry. Your fingers shook as you hit record.
"Hi,” you whispered, embarrassed.
Then you bit your lip and tried again.
“James…”
His name felt like a weight in your chest. Your thighs shifted.
“I can’t stop thinking about you.”
You lowered the camera slowly, past your collarbones, over your breasts, down your belly. You spread your legs.
No teasing. No preamble.
You wanted him to see the truth of it. The urgency. The craving.
You let your fingers slip down, just two, and parted yourself. You were already, still, wet. You couldn’t fake it.
You circled your clit, slowly as you said his name.
“James…”
Your free hand slid up your body, palming your breast, pinching your nipple until you gasped.
The camera caught everything. The angle of your hips. The arch of your back. The way your mouth opened when you slipped the two fingers inside yourself.
You looked into the lens, right at him
“You want this, don’t you?” you whispered. “You want to watch me come thinking about your cock inside me?”
You fucked yourself harder.
Faster.
“Is this how you want me? Needing you?”
You whimpered, unable to stop.
“You’d fuck me so good if you were here.”
You knew he’d watch it more than once, you wanted him to. You wanted him wrecked.
“I’m gonna come,” you gasped, hips bucking. “I’m gonna…fuck…James…”
You came hard, legs shaking. Your body exposed in all the ways you swore you never would be.
You let the camera roll as you caught your breath, chest heaving.
Then you leaned in and whispered, “Your turn.”
And stopped the video.
You sent it. No warning. No text. Just the file.
Seconds later, he responded.
James:
Jesus fucking Christ.
Then a voice message.
You hit play.
He was breathing hard.
“Baby,” he said, wrecked and reverent, “I’m gonna come just thinking about what I’m gonna do to you next time I see you. You think I fucked you hard before? You don’t even know.”
You lay back, smiling.
You did this.
You ruined him.
—----
Your phone buzzed.
You sat up straight and your heart kicked like it had been waiting. You pressed play.
The image loaded.
And what you saw was dim lighting, the camera angled low. And there he was, naked, stretched out on his bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other wrapped tight around his cock.
He was hard. Thick, And leaking from the thick mushroom tip that destroyed your soul.
“Baby,” he said, hoarse. “What the fuck did you do to me?”
Your breath caught instantly.
Baby.
No one had called you that in a long time.
He stroked himself slowly, base to tip, eyes locked on the screen.
“You send me that video, looking like that, saying my name like it’s the only word you know, and you expect me to be calm?”
His hand tightened. His abs tensed.
“You were dripping, weren’t you? So fucking wet. Just thinking about me.”
He dragged his thumb over the head of his cock and groaned.
“I can’t stop watching it. Can’t stop seeing your fingers inside you, your mouth, your tits, those little sounds you make when you’re about to fall apart.”
He was close. You could see it in the way his hips shifted, the way his free hand gripped the sheets.
“I swear to God, the next time I’m inside you, I’m not stopping until you beg me to. I’ll hold your legs open and fuck you so fucking deep. There will be no hiding.”
You whimpered.
It was like he heard it. He smirked.
“I want to feel you shake under me. Want to feel your nails in my back, your come on my cock, your voice saying my name.”
His eyes flicked down.
“I’m gonna come,” he panted. “You watching, baby? You gonna come with me next time?”
He grunted, low, raw, broken, his body tensing as he came hard, ropes of it spilling over his hand, across his stomach, the sound of it filling the room.
You were breathless.
He looked straight into the camera, chest heaving.
And said, “Next time, you ride me until I forget my own name.”
The video ended.
You sat there, phone still in your hand, thighs pressed tight, pulse racing.
And that was the moment you knew this wasn’t a fling. This wasn’t just sex. This was an addiction.
And you wanted more.
—--
You didn’t think. You didn’t ask. You didn’t play.
You watched his video in your bed, one hand clutched in the sheets, thighs slick and trembling, your whole body strung tight with need.
You didn’t touch yourself. Didn’t move. You just stared at the screen.
And then, you opened the message app, tapped his name, and sent him your location.
No text, no explanation. Just a pin.
Come here.
That’s what it meant.
You knew he’d understand.
You stood up and unlocked the front door.
Then you waited.
And when you heard his knock, you didn’t hesitate, you opened the door.
He stood there, hood up, breath ragged, eyes already dark. No words.
No one said a thing.
He pressed you against the wall, lips crashing into yours, hands already sliding up your sides, lifting your shirt to bare your breasts.
Your legs parted on instinct.
His knee pressed between them, his hands gripping your waist like he couldn’t believe you were real. You pulled at his hoodie. He dragged it off.
He wasn’t gentle and you didn’t want him to be. You guided his hand between your legs.
He groaned.
“You’re so fucking ready for me,” he rasped. “All I did was show you how bad I want you.”
You didn’t answer. You just reached for his belt.
Because this wasn’t sexting.This wasn’t a video. This wasn’t pretend.
This was real.
And you needed him inside you like oxygen.
—--
He pressed you against the wall like he was starved. He was frantic. There was no careful undressing. No asking. Just taking.
Your shirt was gone before you even realized it. You didn’t remember lifting your arms. You only remembered the sound of him groaning when he saw your bare chest, the heat of his mouth on your nipple, the way he bit down just enough to make you gasp.
He unzipped his jeans and, shoved his boxers down. His cock sprang free you almost dropped to your knees. But he grabbed your face, and kissed you again, deeper this time.
“Not tonight,” he muttered. “I need to be inside you.”
You didn’t argue, you just turned and pressed your hands against the wall and arched your back, giving him everything.
He groaned. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
He dragged the head of his cock through your soaking wet folds, and then with one sharp thrust, he entered you.
You gasped loudly.
He filled you, raw and perfect, like your body had been made to take him.
“Fuck,” he whispered. “This pussy’s unreal.”
You pressed your forehead to the wall, eyes shut, trying to breathe.He pulled back, then slammed into you again.
Again.
Again.
The sound of it was obscene.
Your walls clenched around him, as one hand slid under your body, finding your clit. He rubbed in tight circles as he fucked you deep.
“You close?” he panted. “You gonna come on me already?”
“Yes, God, don’t stop…”
He slammed into you harder.
“You want me to fill you again?”
“Yes, fuck, yes….”
“Say it.”
“I want your come,” you choked. “I want it inside me.”
He groaned, gripped your hips harder, and pounded into you like he meant to stay.
You came hard, shaking, gasping, and ruined.
He followed seconds later, burying himself deep and coming with a sound that made your whole body throb. You felt every pulse of it. Every drop.
He stayed like that for a moment. Inside you. Chest against your back. Breathing hard.
Then he kissed your shoulder. Softly. Almost sweet.
And that scared you more than anything else.
-----
Send asks, reblogs, comments. Let me know if you feel the way that I feel. 🫠