Jenson sat two rows from the front. Not close enough to be obvious. Not far enough to escape the weight of Clinton Harry's eyes.
The lecture hall buzzed with quiet chatter and laptop clicks. Professor Harry stood at the front of the class, tie snug and sleeves rolled up like always, his voice steady and sharp as he scribbled something across the board in chalk.
Jenson's notebook was mostly empty.
He couldn't concentrate. Not with the way Clinton's eyes flicked toward him every few seconds. Not with the memory of last Friday's office hours still pulsing through his body.
It wasn't just a one-time thing.
It was a line crossed.
And the worst part?
Jenson wanted it again. Craved it.
Every time Clinton said his name during roll call, Jenson felt it in his chest. Every time he leaned over the desk to explain something, Jenson's eyes dropped to the way his shirt pulled against his body, the way his fingers gripped the edge of the podium like he was holding himself back.
Their eyes met. Just for a second.
Clinton didn't smile. He didn't have to. His gaze said everything. Like a touch without touching. Like a promise he wasn't supposed to keep.
Jenson looked away, pretending to write something down, but his heart was pounding.
The lecture dragged on. Something about ethics in modern political theory. Irony, considering what they were doing.
At exactly four fifty-nine, Clinton closed his laptop.
"Read chapters twenty-two through twenty-four for next week," he said. "And do not email me with your half-assed excuses. I won't answer them."
He didn't look at Jenson when he said it.
But it still felt like it was for him.
The students packed up. The shuffle of zippers and notebooks filled the room. One by one they left, the hall slowly emptying. Jenson pretended to be deep in his bag, pretending to search for something he didn't lose.
When the last student left, Clinton didn't move.
Jenson stood and walked down the stairs of the lecture hall, heart thudding in his ears.
Clinton looked up from the desk. His voice was low.
"Forgot something?"
Jenson didn't answer. He just stopped in front of the desk, looking at him, breathing harder than he should.
Clinton stood.
"I should report you," he said softly, stepping around the desk. "I should walk away and pretend this never happened."
"Then why don't you?" Jenson's voice cracked a little.
Clinton didn't reply.
He grabbed Jenson by the collar and shoved him back against the whiteboard.
The erasers fell with a soft thud. Jenson gasped.
"You want me to stop?" Clinton asked, face inches from his.
Jenson shook his head. "No."
Clinton kissed him.
Rough. Like he was pissed. Like every second of restraint during the lecture had been a punishment.
Jenson moaned against his mouth, fingers gripping his arms, letting the heat swallow him. Clinton tasted like coffee and frustration. He kissed like a man losing control.
Clinton spun him around and bent him over the front desk. It was cold against his skin, but he didn't care. He pressed his cheek to the wood, breath coming fast.
"You came to class in tight jeans," Clinton muttered behind him, pulling at his waistband. "You knew what you were doing."
"I didn't mean—"
"Yes, you did."
Clinton shoved his jeans down, boxers too. Jenson was bare from the waist down, vulnerable, hard already.
He heard the click of a belt. The soft rustle of clothes. Then Clinton's hand was on him, spreading him apart.
"You've been thinking about this all class, haven't you?"
Jenson nodded.
"Say it."
"I've been thinking about it," Jenson whispered. "About you."
Clinton spat on his hand, slicking himself quickly. "Good."
He pushed in.
Jenson gripped the edge of the desk, eyes wide. It was easier this time, but it still burned. Still stretched him until he gasped.
Clinton didn't wait.
He thrust deep, hips snapping forward, cock filling him in one brutal stroke. Jenson cried out, head dropping.
"Keep your voice down," Clinton growled, grabbing his hips.
The classroom echoed with soft gasps and the slap of skin against skin. Jenson bit his own arm, trying not to moan too loud. The risk made it hotter. They were in a public classroom. Anyone could walk in. But Clinton didn't stop. If anything, it made him go harder.
Jenson's legs shook.
"Touch yourself," Clinton ordered.
Jenson reached under and wrapped his hand around his cock, stroking in rhythm to the hard thrusts behind him. He was leaking already. His whole body felt like it was burning from the inside out.
"You take me so well now," Clinton murmured. "Like your body was made for this."
Jenson moaned.
Clinton leaned over him, chest against his back, mouth at his ear.
"I'm going to fuck you until you forget your own name. Until you forget every class but mine."
Jenson whimpered, desperate, hand moving faster.
Clinton's hand slid under his shirt, across his stomach, then up to his chest. He pinched one nipple hard, made Jenson cry out again.
"You like that?" he asked, voice thick.
"Yes," Jenson gasped. "Please."
Clinton straightened and pounded into him harder. The desk shook. One of the books on the corner slid off and hit the floor. Clinton didn't care. His grip on Jenson's waist tightened. His rhythm grew rougher, faster.
"I'm gonna come," Jenson said breathlessly.
"Do it."
Jenson moaned as he exploded across the desk, cum pooling under him. His whole body convulsed, legs giving out. But Clinton kept going, using him, chasing his own release.
Then with a low growl, he buried himself deep and came inside him. His fingers dug into Jenson's hips, holding him still as he filled him.
For a moment, all they could do was breathe.
The classroom smelled like sweat and sex and shame.
Clinton finally pulled out, his cock wet and twitching. Jenson stayed bent over the desk, catching his breath, eyes fluttering shut.
"Get dressed," Clinton said after a beat. "Now."
Jenson moved slowly, pulling up his clothes, wiping the desk with a stray napkin from his backpack. His legs still trembled.
When he turned around, Clinton was already buttoning his shirt.
Neither of them spoke for a long moment.
Then Clinton looked at him.
"This can't happen again."
Jenson smiled, just a little. "You said that last time."
Clinton didn't deny it.
He picked up his papers, grabbed his bag, and walked toward the door.
"Lock the door on your way out."
Then he was gone.
Jenson stood alone in the classroom, heart still racing, body sore, lips still swollen from that first kiss.
He didn't know what this was becoming.
But he knew it was far from over.