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Michael Robinavitch had a problem, and the problem was five-foot-six with wire-rimmed glasses and a habit of pushing his sleeves up to the elbows while lecturing about cardiac arrests.
Professor Dennis Whitaker - Dr. Whitaker, technically, taught Internal Medicine II on Tuesdays and Thursdays in Lecture Hall A, a tiered auditorium with terrible acoustics and fluorescent lighting that should have made everyone in the room look sallow and exhausted. It did, in fact, make everyone in the room look sallow and exhausted. Everyone except Professor Whitaker, who stood at the front podium in his soft knit sweaters and looked like something out of a painting. Something gentle and luminous, something you'd find in a gallery with a velvet rope around it and a placard that read Please Do Not Touch.
Robby wanted to touch.
Robby wanted to touch very badly.
He'd been wanting to touch since the first day of fall semester, when he'd walked into the lecture hall fifteen minutes early, a rarity for him since he was a pretty good student and could care less about what his professors thought of him. He found Professor Whitaker already at the podium, organizing his notes.
He'd been wearing a cream cable-knit sweater over a collared shirt, his light hair slightly mussed, his glasses slipping down his nose, and he'd looked up when Robby entered and smiled, a small, warm, slightly nervous smile, the kind of smile that suggested he was still getting used to standing in front of a room full of students despite having done it for several years. And Robby felt his heart do something weird in his chest, it seemed to have stuttered, as if it had just skipped a beat.
God he’s pretty, he'd thought.
Robby had chosen the front row seat for the first time in his life, arrhythmia be damned. Direct sightline to Professor Whitaker’s podium. He hasn’t changed seats since.
Over the course of the semester, Robby had found, (almost fell to his knees in the university parking lot when he realised) that Professor Dennis Whitaker was not just pretty. He was also so soft. Soft in his gaze, looking at all his students kindly even when, in Robby’s opinion, some particularly fucking stupid questions were asked. Soft in the way he blushed, and he blushed often, a faint pink wash across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose whenever a student told him they’d enjoyed his lecture or when Robby held eye contact for just a bit too long.
That softness made Robby want to ruin him.
Wanted to bend Whitaker over his own desk, wanted to kiss him so hard until his glasses fogged up, wanted to push his sweaters up to his nipples, wanted to hear Whitaker’s voice dissolve into soft breathy, desperate moans.
But Robby wasn’t the type to pine quietly and neither would his ego let him. He was tall, six-foot-one, broad especially in his shoulders, crafted from years of playing semi-competitive baseball since high school. He had grown a bit of facial hair over the summer, just a little bit of scruff, not exactly a beard yet but enough to give someone a beard burn. Robby hoped the facial hair would make him seem less young, just enough to bridge the gap between student and man. He'd also been told that his new look looked good, better than good even, it made his dark eyes look even more striking and his jaw even sharper. With some luck, Robby could do some real damage to a certain very pretty professor.
Robby was also smart. Very smart. And he used that big brain to concoct a plot to get Whitaker to fall in love with him.
He sat in the front row and answered all of Professor Whitaker’s questions with the easy and lazy assurance of having already read and digested material. Robby raised his hand during class, made eye contact, asked follow up questions just to engage with Whitaker and he was well rewarded when he saw Whitaker’s face light up with a warm smile that he very quickly got addicted to.
Robby wore well fitting clothes, shirts tight around the arms so when he raised his hand, Whitaker would be forced to look at him, to look at the fabric stretch around his biceps. He helped Whitaker carry heavy books just to flex his strength a bit and Bingo he thought as he caught Whitaker more than a few times trail over his body before looking away, flushed.
He wanted to make Whitaker look at him, wanted to be the student Whitaker thought about after class, wanted to be the one Whitaker talked about when his colleagues asked about his students. Robby wanted to slowly and insidiously build a bridge, plank by plank, between favorite student and something more,
Of course Whitaker didn’t have to know that he was sucking up to him for reasons that weren’t academic. Robby might be a little bit obsessed and out of his mind but that was nobody’s business but his own.
***
Exam season arrived in early May. Robby did not need to study. Robby had been studying consistently all semester, partly because he was genuinely interested in the material and partly because he needed to keep up with his tall, handsome and smart image he was trying to impress onto Whitaker. He had absolutely no issue with any of the material, especially not the Internal Medicine II material.
But Whitaker didn’t need to know that.
The first move was subtle. A week before the exam, Robby lingered after the lecture with an expression he'd practiced in his bathroom mirror, slightly troubled, slightly lost, his eyebrows perfectly furrowed to convey a mixture of desperation and embarrassment. He caught Professor Whitaker at the podium while the other students filed out.
"Professor Whitaker?"
Whitaker looked up from his notes. The overhead lights caught his glasses. "Robby. What's up?"
"I'm - this is kind of embarrassing." Robby rubbed the back of his neck, half trying to look sheepish, half hoping Professor Whitaker’s eyes would be drawn to the flexed veins of his forearms. “I’ve been going through the practice sets on the cardiology topics and I’m just not getting it. I keep re-reading the chapters but it’s not clicking.”
The response was immediate and exactly what Robby had wanted. Professor Whitaker's expression shifted from polite attention to genuine concern, his mouth pulling down at the corners in a way that Robby found very endearing.
"Oh, no Robby, that's not embarrassing at all. That unit is notoriously dense. Honestly, half the class struggles with it." Whitaker set down his pen. "Have you tried the supplemental diagrams in the online module?"
"Yeah. Twice."
"The Khan Academy videos?"
"Three times." Robby let his shoulders drop, trying to look a little pathetic but not completely that Whitaker would find him unattractive. "I don't know what's wrong. I've been doing fine with everything else, but this unit is just like hitting a wall."
Whitaker was quiet for a moment. Robby could see the wheels turning in his brain, the conscientious professor calculating how to help, how to allocate his time, how to fulfill the duty of care that he took far more seriously than most of his colleagues. Whitaker was good. Genuinely, uncomplicatedly good, in a way that Robby found both admirable and devastatingly attractive.
"Listen," Whitaker said. "I have office hours tomorrow afternoon, but they're usually packed this close to exams. If you want I could do a one-on-one session. Walk you through it properly. I find that sometimes the material makes more sense when you can go at your own pace and ask questions as they come up."
Robby looked at him with an expression of such grateful surprise that it should have won him a Golden Globe award.
"You'd do that? Professor, I don't want to take up your time-"
"It's literally my job." Whitaker smiled, the warm one, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes behind his glasses. "Come by my office Thursday at five? We can go through the section together."
"That would be - yeah. Thank you. Seriously."
"Of course."
Robby packed up his bag and left the lecture hall. In the corridor, out of sight, he let the troubled expression dissolve and felt the smirk take its natural place on his mouth.
***
Whitaker's office was small and warm and exactly what Robby had expected - bookshelves on three walls, crammed with textbooks and journals and the occasional novel wedged in sideways; a wooden desk buried under papers and a laptop and three half-empty mugs of tea; a leather chair that had seen better decades; and a window that overlooked the campus quad, where the late-afternoon light came in at a low, amber angle and made everything it touched look soft.
Like Whitaker. Who was sitting on the floor.
He'd pulled the coffee table away from the wall and spread the materials across it - diagrams, notes, his own annotated copies of the relevant chapters with a set of colored pens and highlighters he’d arranged neatly. He'd changed out of his lecture clothes into something more casual: a pale blue sweater, oversized enough that it slipped off one shoulder when he moved, and dark trousers, no shoes, just socks on the worn carpet. His glasses were slightly crooked. His hair looked impossibly soft. .
"Hey," he said when Robby appeared in the doorway. "Come in, sit down. I figured the floor would be more comfortable than trying to share the desk. It's kind of a disaster right now," Whitaker awkwardly chuckled.
"The organized chaos of a brilliant mind," Robby joked, shrugging off his jacket and dropping his bag by the door.
Whitaker laughed - a small, pleased sound that Robby revelled in.. "That's generous. I'd call it the accumulated neglect of a man who hasn't cleaned his office since September."
Robby sat down on the floor across from him, on the other side of the coffee table, and they began.
For the first hour, they actually studied.
This was deliberate. Robby was not stupid - not about medicine and not about seduction. If he made his move too early, Whitaker would be suspicious. The man was bookish, not oblivious, and a student lunging across the coffee table in the first ten minutes would register as predatory rather than irresistible. So Robby played the part. He asked questions, good ones, questions that demonstrated he was engaged and trying and most importantly questions that made Whitaker lean forward, closer to Robby with that bright, eager expression he thought he was about to make Robby understand a concept.
He let Whitaker teach him, draw diagrams and explain things about cardiology and circle things in green pen while narrating the logic in that soft, patient voice. He made eye contact. He nodded. He said oh, that makes sense and I see it now and watched the satisfaction bloom across Whitaker's face like sunrise.
And he waited.
The room got warmer as the light shifted. Whitaker pushed his sleeves up, the oversized sweater bunching at his elbows, revealing slim forearms and delicate wrists. He took off his glasses to rub his eyes and put them back on slightly more crooked than before. He was sitting cross-legged, his posture gradually loosening, the professional distance of the first twenty minutes dissolving into something more relaxed as the session progressed.
At the hour mark, Whitaker turned a page and pointed to a diagram. "Okay, so this is where it gets tricky. The way the heart weakens and then makes things even worse for itself - see how these arrows show it just keeps going in circles?"
"Yeah, but I'm having trouble seeing how the - can I0" Robby shifted. Not across the table. Around it. He moved from his position opposite Whitaker to beside him, settling on the carpet close enough that their shoulders were nearly touching. "Sorry, I can't read your handwriting from over there."
Whitaker glanced at him. Their faces were close - maybe a foot apart. Robby could see the individual lashes behind the wire-rimmed glasses. Could see the faint blueish hue of his under eye bags that sitting in the lecture hall never allowed him to notice.
"Oh sure, here." Whitaker angled the paper toward him. A faint flush crept across his cheekbones. "So, this part here-"
Robby leaned closer. His shoulder pressed against Whitaker's. He felt the warmth of him through the sweater, a radiating, living heat that confirmed what Robby had suspected, which was that Dennis Whitaker was the kind of person who ran warm, whose body generated comfort as a passive function.
"Keep going," Robby said. His voice was lower than it had been. Just a tad bit lower. "I'm listening."
Whitaker swallowed. Robby watched his throat move. "Right. So the heart starts struggling, and the body panics, tries to compensate. But everything it does to fix the problem just ends up making it harder for the heart in the long run. That's the loop. It just - it can't stop itself."
Robby shifted again, making use of the small space. Behind him now, a little angled, his chest close to Whitaker's back, one arm reaching past Whitaker's shoulder to point at the diagram. "This part here?"
"Y-yes. That part." Whitaker's voice had gone thinner. Breathier. The flush was spreading - down his neck now, disappearing beneath the collar of the pale blue sweater. "The - the system creates a cascade of-
Robby's arms slid around Whitaker's waist.
It was smooth. Unhurried. The movement of a man who had been thinking about this for months and had rehearsed the choreography until it was muscle memory. His forearms crossed over Whitaker's stomach, his hands settling on the soft knit of the sweater, his chest pressing flush against Whitaker's back. He could feel the ridges of Whitaker's spine through the fabric. Could feel the rapid, shallow expansion of his ribs as his breathing changed.
Whitaker went very still.
"Robby." His voice was careful. Controlled, in the way that people are controlled when they are trying very hard not to react. "What are you doing?"
"Studying," Robby murmured. His mouth was close to Whitaker's ear. Close enough that his breath stirred the fine hair at his temple. "Keep going, Professor."
"Robby, this is - we should-" Whitaker's hands were frozen on the papers in front of him. His posture had gone rigid, not pulling away, Robby carefully noted, but not relaxing either. Suspended. Caught between the impulse to maintain boundaries and the body's involuntary response to proximity and heat. Whitaker just needed a little bit more of a push. "We should get back to the material."
"Mm." Robby's hands moved. Just an inch higher, a slow, deliberate upward slide across the front of Whitaker's sweater, feeling the soft knit compress under his palms, feeling the warmth of the body beneath. "I’m already looking at the material, Professor."
His right hand found what it was looking for.
Through the sweater, Robby felt the small, firm peak of a nipple. Already hard. Already sensitive, probably, from the proximity and the breath on his ear and the arms around his waist. Robby pressed the pad of his thumb against it.
Whitaker flinched.
A full-body flinch, sharp, involuntary, his shoulders jerking back against Robby's chest, his breath catching audibly in the quiet office. The papers under his hands crumpled.
"Robby-" His voice cracked. "-what are you-"
"Shh. It’s ok Professor."
Robby rubbed his thumb across the nipple. Slow. A languid, circular motion through the sweater, feeling the nub harden further under the pressure, feeling Whitaker's ribs expand with a breath that stuttered on the inhale. With his left hand, he found the other one, the same slow, exploratory touch, rubbing his nipples like he was trying to learn the shape, learning the responsiveness of it.
Whitaker's hands had come up from the papers. They were hovering, uncertain, directionless, not pushing Robby away but not pulling him closer, just hanging in the air as if the signals between his brain and his body had been interrupted.
"Robby, this is - this is really inappropriate, we should-" The word inappropriate came out breathy and fractured, split across two uneven exhales. "We need to get back to studying-"
"But Professor." Robby's voice was low, warm, poured directly into the shell of Whitaker's ear like honey. "I've been so good, haven't I?" He pinched gently, just a little squeeze of thumb and forefinger through the sweater, a tease of pressure. Whitaker's whole body jolted. "All semester. Front row, every lecture. Every assignment on time. Every question answered."
"That's - ah - that's not-"
"I think I deserve a reward."
Robby changed the rhythm. Slow became fast both thumbs circling Whitaker's nipples through the knit with a focused, rhythmic pressure. Whitaker's breathing had gone ragged. Whitaker finally leaned back, his back was pressed against Robby's chest, the rigid posture softening involuntarily as his body responded to the stimulation, his spine curving, his head tipping slightly to one side.
Robby kissed his neck.
An open-mouthed press against the column of Whitaker's throat, feeling the pulse hammer against his lips, tasting the salt-warmth of his skin. He dragged his tongue up the tendon, a slow, wet stripe from collarbone to jaw and felt Whitaker shudder beneath him like a live wire grounding out.
"Mm. Professor." Robby murmured it against his skin. "You taste so good, you know that?"
"Rob-nn-"
Robby bit. Just below the jaw, a careful, controlled pressure of teeth against the thin skin over the pulse point, enough to sting, enough to mark. Whitaker whimpered.
The sound - God, the sound. It was small and high and helpless, somewhere between a gasp and a moan, and it sent a bolt of heat straight down Robby's spine and into his cock, which was already straining against his jeans, and had been straining since the moment his arms went around Whitaker's waist.
"Robby, what are you doing-" Whitaker's voice was wrecked. Shaking. His hands had landed on Robby's forearms, gripping it tight but Robby noted gleefully that he wasn’t pushing him away just holding on, anchoring himself against Robby’s assault on his nipples. "We should stop, this is - I'm your professor, this is so-"
"So what?" Robby's thumbs were relentless. Fast, precise circles, pressing and releasing, pressing and releasing, each rotation drawing another fractured breath from Whitaker's mouth, another involuntary arch of his spine. "You don't like it?"
"That's not - ah - that's not the point-"
"But you do, though." Robby grinned against his neck. He could feel it, the way Whitaker's body was betraying every word out of his mouth. The arch of his back. The grip on Robby's arms, tightening with each circle. The heat radiating off him, the rapid pulse, the way his thighs had pressed together in a reflexive, unconscious clamp that told Robby everything he needed to know. "God, fuck, baby. You're so sensitive."
"Don't - mm - don't call me-"
"You are, though." Robby shifted his grip, rolled both nipples simultaneously, a synchronized pinch-and-twist that drew a sound from Whitaker that was barely human. High and choked and desperate, muffled behind his bitten lip but audible enough in the quiet office to bounce off the bookshelves. "Look at you. I'm barely touching you and you're falling apart."
Whitaker was shaking. Fine, continuous tremors that Robby could feel everywhere where their bodies were pressed together: Whitaker's back against his chest, Whitaker's hips between his thighs, the whole of him vibrating. His head had tipped back, almost resting against Robby's shoulder, exposing the long, flushed line of his throat. His glasses were fogged at the edges. His lips were parted, bitten red, his breath coming in short, sharp, whimpering bursts that Robby consumed like oxygen.
"Robby-" A whisper. Barely voiced. "Robby, I'm going to-"
"Yeah?" Robby's voice dropped. Rough. Hungry. He sped up, both hands working in tandem, quick and ruthless. "You're going to come? Just from this?"
"Please-" Whitaker's hands flew from Robby's forearms to his own thighs, pressing down as if trying to contain something. His legs clamped tighter. His breath hitched, once, twice, a staccato rhythm of choked inhales and his whole body went taut against Robby's chest. "Robby, no, I - please, I can't-"
"It's okay, baby." Robby's mouth was against his ear. Warm and sure. "I've got you. Let go."
Robby pinched hard. Both nipples. Twisted.
Whitaker came.
Robby had imagined this, had imagined it dozens of times in dozens of variations, and none of them had prepared him for the reality. Whitaker's body seized with a raw, convulsive force that snapped his spine into an arch and tore a sound from his throat that was closer to a sob than a moan. His hips jerked forward three times in quick, involuntary thrusts against nothing, his thighs clamping so hard that Robby could see the muscles tense through his pants. His head slammed back against Robby's shoulder and his mouth fell open on a broken, gasping cry "Ahh - oh God, oh God-" and his hands scrabbled back to Robby's forearms as the orgasm rolled through him in visible, shuddering waves.
Robby held him through it. Held him tight, arms wrapped around him, fingers still resting on his chest, feeling the aftershocks pulse through the body against his. Whitaker was panting deep, ragged, open-mouthed breaths and his eyes were closed and face flushed from hairline to collar. Beautiful. Absolutely, staggeringly beautiful.
But something was off. Different from what Robby had expected.
Whitaker had come. This was unmistakable: the seizure, the sound, the full-body convulsion. But the pattern of it, the hip movements, the thigh clamp, the way the orgasm had rippled through him rather than peaking and releasing it was different. Different from how Robby came, or how any man Robby had been with came. It was more internal. More sustained. More like-
Robby's right hand moved down.
"Wait-" Whitaker's hand shot to his wrist. Instant. His eyes flew open - wide, startled, still glazed from the orgasm but sharpening rapidly with something that looked like panic. "No, Robby, don't-"
"Shh." Robby's hand slid over the front of Whitaker's trousers. Down, past the belt, past the waistband, and-
He felt it.
Heat. Wet heat. Not the dampness of cum through fabric, something different, something saturated, a warmth and slickness that seeped through the layers instead of something that burst and broke. Robby pressed his palm flat against the front of Whitaker's trousers and felt, beneath the fabric, an absence where he'd expected something, and a give, a soft, wet yielding that made his brain white out for a full second.
"No - Robby, please, don't-" Whitaker was gripping his wrist with both hands now, pulling, trying to move him away, but his grip was weak and shaky with the aftermath of orgasm, trembling, no real force behind it. His voice was high and thin and terrified. "You can't - please, I-"
Robby's hand slipped past the waistband. Under the trousers. Under whatever Whitaker wore beneath them. His fingers met slick, swollen, soaking flesh that was nothing like what he'd expected and exactly like something he'd only ever felt on-
"What's this, baby?" Robby breathed.
His fingers explored, carefully and gently. Soft folds, slippery slick, warm and pulsing. A hood of delicate skin protecting a tight, hard bud that made Whitaker jerk violently when Robby's fingertip grazed it. And below that - an opening, wet and clenching, so hot it felt feverish against his fingers.
A pussy. Professor Dennis Whitaker had a pussy.
And it was drenched.
"Oh, fuck." The word came out of Robby like a prayer. His cock, already hard, surged against the confines of his jeans with a violence that was nearly painful. He pressed two fingers flat against the seam of Whitaker's cunt and felt the wetness coat them instantly - thick, slippery, the kind of wet that comes from prolonged arousal, the kind that means Whitaker’s body had been producing this slick for much longer than the last few minutes. "Baby. You had this under here the whole time?"
"Robby-" Whitaker was shaking. Shaking hard, his whole body trembling against Robby's chest, his hands still on Robby's wrist, still pulling, still trying to close the door that Robby had already walked through. His head was shaking too - small, rapid movements, denial, shame, exposure. "No - no, you can't - we need to stop, you can't, we can't-"
"You're so wet." Robby's voice was awed. Reverent. His fingers moved - a slow, exploring glide through the slickness, parting the folds, mapping the geography of this impossible, perfect thing he'd found. "Fuck, baby. You're dripping. You soaked right through your pants."
"Please-" Whitaker's voice broke on the word. Cracked and splintered like glass. "Please stop, I-"
Robby’s fingers landed on the clit.
The moment he touched it because Whitaker's entire body arched off his chest, a violent, electric jolt, like a current passing through him. And the sound he made was something Robby would remember for the rest of his life. A keen. High, sustained, involuntary, torn from somewhere deep and raw, and Whitaker's thighs clamped around Robby's hand so hard that the pressure was almost painful and his hips jerked forward with a stuttering, desperate motion that contradicted every no and stop and we can't coming out of his mouth.
"There you go," Robby murmured against his ear. He rubbed the clit - slowly, deliberately, a tight circle with the pad of his middle finger, feeling his cunt pulse under his touch, feeling the wetness seep between his fingers and slick the motion. "There, baby. Good."
Whitaker's hand was still on his wrist. His fingers were curled around Robby's forearm in a white-knuckled grip that wasn't resistance but desperation. Something to cling to while the world dissolved.
"We need - ah - we need to stop-" Whitaker's words were breaking apart between gasps.
Robby reached down with his free hand and undid his own jeans.
The relief was immediate, his cock springing free of the denim, thick and flushed and leaking at the tip. He gripped himself and groaned, low and animalistic, the first sound he'd made in that room that wasn't controlled. He started to stroke, his fist tight around the shaft, his other hand still working Whitaker's clit in those slow, relentless circles.
"Fuck." Robby's forehead dropped against the back of Whitaker's neck. He could smell him, his soap and skin mixing with his sweet-salty sweat. "Fuck, this is so much hotter than my dreams."
"Your - your dreams?"
"You have no idea, Professor." Robby stroked himself faster. His fingers on Whitaker's clit matched the pace, quicker now, tighter circles, more pressure. Whitaker was panting in sharp, rhythmic bursts, his hips rocking against Robby's hand, like he gave up on holding back. "I've been thinking about this all semester. Thinking about what you'd sound like. What you'd feel like." He slid his fingers lower, dipping into the wet opening, just barely, just the first knuckle, feeling the heat and the clench and the slick muscle flutter around the intrusion. "Thinking about what you'd taste like."
Whitaker moaned. A real moan, involuntary and ashamed. His face turned, pressing into Robby's neck, hiding, his glasses digging into Robby's collarbone.
"Just one more." Robby's voice was rough. Thick with his own pleasure, his hand working his cock in long, twisting strokes while his fingers returned to Whitaker's clit. "One more, Professor, and then I'll stop."
"I - I can't-"
"You can. You're so close, I can feel it." Whitaker’s clit was swollen and throbbing under his fingertip, his cunt clenching desperately around nothing, the wetness pooling in his palm. Whitaker's whole body was wound tight, every muscle trembling on the edge, fighting and surrendering simultaneously. "God, I can't wait until I get my cock in this pussy."
The words hit like a slap. Whitaker gasped, sharp, scandalized, his face pressing harder against Robby's neck as if he could disappear into the contact.
"Dripping for me." Robby's voice was molten. Filthy and reverent and sure, the voice of a man describing an inevitability. "This pretty cunt, soaking my hand. You'll let me, won't you, baby? You'll let me fuck you."
"No-" Whitaker's voice was barely there. A thread. A wisp. "Robby, we - we-"
Robby chuckled, low and dark, the sound vibrating against Whitaker's neck. "I know you will, baby."
He pressed hard against the clit. Rubbed fast, brutal, focused, merciless speed, his fingers slick and sure, and Whitaker's body broke.
The orgasm hit like a detonation. Whitaker seized again, his whole body locking rigid against Robby's chest, his thighs slamming shut around Robby's hand, his back arching into a bow that pressed his ass hard against Robby's cock. His mouth opened on a silent scream, jaw stretched wide, eyes screwed shut. And then the sound came, delayed, a ragged, sobbing cry that Robby felt in his own chest. Whitaker's cunt clenched around nothing as if it wanted Robby’s fingers to be in him,, the internal muscles fluttering and gripping in waves that Robby could feel pulsing against his palm.
"Fuck-" Robby's own orgasm ripped through him, triggered by the sound and the wet heat convulsing near his fingers. His hand tightened on his cock and he came hard, his hips jerking, thick ropes of cum streaking his fist and the back of Whitaker's sweater. The pale blue knit catching the white streaks like paint on canvas. He groaned a deep and guttural groan against Whitaker's neck. His fingers kept moving on Whitaker's clit, gentler now, easing him through it, feeling the aftershocks ripple and fade.
They sat there. On the floor of Whitaker's office, surrounded by crumpled diagrams and scattered colored pens, the late-afternoon light coming through the window. Whitaker was limp against Robby's chest, boneless, his breath coming in long, shuddering exhales that occasionally hitched on something close to a sob. Robby's arms were around him. His hand was still between Whitaker's thighs, cupped gently over the wet, swollen heat.
Whitaker's face was still pressed against Robby's neck. When he pulled back slowly, dazedly, like a man surfacing from deep water, his expression was stricken. Flushed from his hairline to where the collar of his ruined sweater, his glasses fogged and askew, his lips swollen and bitten scarlet, his eyes wide and bright with a combination of shock and arousal and something that looked, achingly, like shame.
"I-" His voice was wrecked. A whisper. "Robby, what have we-"
Robby shifted. Carefully, gently, he eased Whitaker off the floor and into his lap. Whitaker's legs draped across his thighs, Whitaker's head tucked under his chin. He wrapped both arms around him and held him close and one hand came up to pet his hair. Long, slow strokes from crown to nape, the kind of touch you'd give something precious. Something you intended to keep.
"I've got you," Robby said. He pressed a kiss to Whitaker's forehead. Then his temple. Then the corner of his eye, where a tear appeared on his lower lashes. "I've got you, baby. You're okay."
"We can't do this." Whitaker's voice was small. Muffled against Robby's chest. "This is so inappropriate, Robby. I'm your professor. If anyone found out-"
"No one's going to find out."
"This can't happen again."
"Okay." Robby kissed his hair. Kept petting. His voice was warm and easy and entirely unbothered by the protest, because his hand was still warm from the inside of Dennis Whitaker's body, and no amount of this can't happen again was going to change the fact that it could and it would.
"I mean it." Whitaker's voice was gaining a fraction of its usual steadiness. He pulled back enough to look at Robby's face, and his expression was - God, his expression was so cute. Stern, or trying to be at least. What was supposed to be a frown, Robby assumed, became a pout. The sternness of Whitaker’s voice was completely undercut by the flush on his cheeks and the fact that he was sitting in his student's lap with cum drying on the back of his sweater. "Robby, we can't do this. This is - the ethical implications alone-"
"You enjoyed yourself, though, didn't you?"
The flush deepened. Whitaker opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"God Robby are you dense? Again, that's not the point-"
"Your pussy definitely enjoyed it."
Whitaker's face went from pink to crimson in the space of a heartbeat. His mouth worked soundless, outraged, mortified and then he made a sound that was half-gasp, half-squeak, and buried his face in Robby's neck.
Robby grinned. Wide, satisfied, he had gotten exactly what he wanted. He wrapped his arms tighter around the warm, trembling, blushing body in his lap and pressed his cheek against the top of Whitaker's head and breathed in the scent of his hair.
"Same time next Thursday?" Robby murmured.
A muffled, outraged noise vibrated against his neck.
"I'll take that as a yes."