He didn’t rush.

His hand kept that slow, deliberate stroke, thumb sweeping over the head on every upstroke until my thighs trembled and my fingers dug into the edge of the desk hard enough to ache. He watched my face the entire time, studying every twitch, every bitten-back sound, the way my hips tried to push into his fist and were denied by the simple pressure of his body between my knees.

“Look at me,” he said when my eyes started to close.

I forced them open. His gaze was darker now, the controlled professor mask almost completely gone. The silver at his temples caught the low desk lamp. His...