𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕲𝖗𝖆𝖛𝖊𝖞𝖆𝖗𝖉

Eddie groaned dramatically and rolled onto his back. “I need a different book. The one with the red tabs. It’s on your bed, I think.”

Your stomach dropped.

Because yes, there was a book with red tabs on your bed.

But it was not the sociology textbook.

It was tucked half beneath your comforter, face-down, like it had tried to hide itself at the last second. Black cover. Embossed lettering. A very intentional ropework design worked into cover in a way that was… not subtle.

You opened your mouth.

“Wait—”

Too late.

Eddie was already on his feet, crossing the room in three lazy steps, reaching down to grab the book from your bed before you could physically launch yourself at him to stop it. His fingers curled around the spine, and he lifted it casually, flipping it over—

—and froze.

"This is... not your sociology textbook." He says, eyes wide as he flips through the pages.

Your blood ran cold. It was a specific, visceral feeling, like an ice cube sliding down your spine. 

Everything faded to a dull roar in your ears. The only thing that existed was Eddie, standing there, holding the single most damning object you owned.

He didn’t flip through it with shock or disgust. There was no theatrical recoil. Instead, his thumb brushed against the pages with a strange, focused curiosity. His eyes, wide and dark, weren't judging; they were reading. Absorbing.

He finally looked up, but not at you. His gaze landed on the open textbook on your desk, red tabs that marked actual academics and not fantasies. 

A slow, disarming smile started at the corner of his mouth, one that you’d seen a hundred times after a good roll of the D20.

“Y’know,” he said, his voice a low, conspiratorial rumble that felt like it vibrated right through the floorboards. “This… is a much more practical application of power dynamics than our textbooks.”

Your throat was dry.

"Thats not funny, Eddie." You turn, face red. "Give it back."

He tilted his head, studying your blush as intently as he'd studied the book. He didn't move to give it back. 

"I promise you, my porn stash is way more embarrassing than this." He waved the book around a little. "At least yours has literary merit."

"It's not porn!" you shot back, your voice a little too loud in the small space. "It's research!"

The excuse sounded flimsy even to your own ears.

Eddie's smile widened. "Research," he repeated, testing the word on his tongue. "For what? Your dissertation on rope burns?"

He was teasing you, but it wasn't cruel. It was… interested. He wasn't making fun of you. He was engaging. He held the book out, not quite close enough for you to snatch back.

"This shit isn't even accurate," he said, tapping a page. "This is all showmanship. They forgot the most important part."

You blinked, confusion warring with humiliation. "What part?"

"The conversation." His eyes met yours, and for a second, the teasing faded. There was something serious there. Something intense but inherently safe. 

"Well, the conversation isn't the sexy part." You mutter. 

"Oh so you're admitting it's porn now?"  He smirks and you narrow your eyes. "And also... the conversation is definitely the sexy part," he added, stepping closer. "It's the whole point."

You held your ground, even though every instinct screamed at you to snatch the book, throw him out, and crawl into a hole for the rest of eternity. Instead, you lifted your chin. "You think so?"

"I'm well versed, yeah."

He finally lowered the book, setting it down on your desk, on top of your sociology textbook. The juxtaposition was dizzying. Academia and anarchy. Theory and practice.

He took another step into your personal space. Close enough that you could smell the faint scent of the joint he smoked outside. 

"I'm going to guess you haven't put this into practice yet," he said softly.

You couldn't answer. The lie was stuck in your throat. Because he was right. The book, the fantasies—they'd always been in your head. A private world.

A world he had just stumbled into.

"So tell me," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, looking you directly in the eye. "Is it something you only like in fiction or would you like to learn it for real?"

He waited.

And the silence that followed was the loudest thing you'd ever heard.

His question hung in the air between you, shimmering and dangerous. 

Is it something you only like in fiction or would you like to learn it for real?

It was a test. A doorway. A chance to step out of the theory and into the practice.

"I mean, I don't exactly have a partner to, you know..." Your hands flew up in a vague, helpless gesture. "It's not like I can just walk into a bar and ask 'Hey, any of you guys into safe, effective, and nonjudgmental bondage?'"

The joke landed weakly, but Eddie didn't laugh. He just watched you, like a predator assessing prey. He leaned against your desk, crossing his arms, the casual posture doing nothing to hide the focus in his gaze. He picked up the book again, not to mock you this time, but to flip to a specific, dog-eared page.

"Okay," he said, tapping the pages of a sex scene you had clearly marked with interest. "This, for example. The rope work is all wrong for this position. It would cut off circulation after five minutes."

You blinked. "You... you know about ropes?"

He shrugged. "I have hobbies. Guitar isn't my only practical area of expertise." He met your eyes again. 

"I guess that makes sense for your whole... look." You gesture vaguely at him. 

That one does make him laugh a little. "Yeah sure the whole aesthetic probably doesn't hurt." He smirks at you, eyes scanning over you again. "But the look is just a bonus. Not a guarantee. I know people who are vanilla as hell who dress like me. And I know people who would put this whole book to shame who wear polo shirts."

You think about that for a second, mulling it over as he speaks again. 

"Do you like my 'look' or something? You getting off on the thought of me being the one tying you up?" He teases you, but it's not a joke, not really. It's a question.

The question hung there, an invitation wrapped in a dare. Your cheeks burned, but you forced yourself to hold his gaze.

"Okay, light teasing was fine but don't purposely be an ass about this." You warn him, the bite in your words making him raise an eyebrow. "And... yeah. The thought occurred once or twice. I'm not blind." The admission felt like ripping off a band-aid—painful, but necessary.

Something shifted in Eddie's expression. His smirk was softer, like he didn't expect you to admit it. He let it hang in the air for a beat, savoring the victory.

"Once or twice, huh?" he mused. "That's... nice."

He set the book down again, this time closing it. The conversation was moving on, past the fantasy and into reality.

He sits on your bed, not like he usually does where he's just sprawled out with no care in the world. This was different. He sat close to the edge, leaving a space between you, but the air crackled with new possibilities. He rested his hands on his knees, a position that was open, non-threatening, but still completely in control.

"I've thought about it like, way more than once or twice honestly. I've thought about what it would be like with you. So, like, if you want to try some things, or even just talk about them, I'm more than willing to be your partner in crime."

You couldn't speak, but he continued. 

"Unless, you know, you'd rather ask that guy from your history class. What's his name? Mark? The one who looks like he was grown in a lab to sell minivans."

"Mark is just my project partner." You roll your eyes. "He's literally been here once to study." 

"You laugh at his jokes a lot in the dining hall." He shoots back. "I've seen it."

You had no comeback for that. Because he'd noticed. And you had laughed. But Mark's jokes were safe. They were about midterms and dining hall food. Eddie's jokes were about things that made your stomach flip.

"Okay, that doesn't mean I want to jump his bones. And even if I did, which I don't, how is that even rele--" 

It hits you then

"You're jealous." You say it out loud, a statement, not a question.

Eddie didn't flinch. He didn't deny it.

He just shrugged again, that infuriatingly casual gesture that meant everything and nothing.

"I'm territorial about things that interest me," he said simply.

You were no longer just a study partner.

"Look. We've been friends for a while. You know me. You know I'm not a creep. We can just… talk. No touching, no ropes, nothin'. Just words. We lay it all out. Boundaries. What you're curious about. What's an absolute hard 'no'." He leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering again. "Safe words. Pet names. the whole deal."

He was laying out a curriculum. A syllabus for your most private, secret class. And the professor was the guy who made fun of your D&D character for being too lawful good.

"This is insane," you whispered, the words feeling like bubbles in your chest.

"Is it?" He stood up and walked to your door, closing it and twisting the lock. 

"Eddie... what if I say yes?"

He paused, his back to you for a second, before turning around. He leaned against the door, hands in his pockets.

"Then the real research begins." He gave you a small, genuine smile. "But only if you say the word."

The choice was yours.

"Okay." The word was barely a whisper.

He pushed off the door and walked back toward you, gesturing at your bed. "Okay. Rule one. Sit."

You carefully moved from your desk chair and sat on the bed, your back ramrod straight, perched on the very edge of the comforter like it might give way beneath you.

He sat down, leaving a careful foot of space between you. The mattress dipped with his weight, pulling you closer.

"You're tense as all hell, princess. Relax." The pet name was new. It wasn't teasing. It was... grounding.

You tried to unclench your shoulders.

"Let's start easy. Your safe word. It needs to be something you'll remember even if your brain is all fuzzy. Not something you'd normally say during sex. 'No' and 'stop' can be part of the scene. Your safe word is what makes the scene stop. No questions asked."

"Scene? That's so formal. So..."

"It's practical," he corrected gently. "It keeps things from getting messy. So. What'll it be?"

You thought for a moment, your mind racing. "Dragonfruit." It was stupid, random. No one would ever shout it accidentally.

A slow grin spread across Eddie's face. "Dragonfruit. I love it. Okay. That's ours. If you say it, we stop. Everything."

He shifted a little closer, the warmth of him seeping through the thin fabric of your shirt.

"Is there anything you like to be called? Or don't like?" He says, more seriously now. "Some people like being called a slut or a whore. Some people like 'good girl'. Some people hate it. There is no right answer, it's all about you."

The directness of the question made your breath catch. "Good girl," you admitted, your cheeks flushing with heat. "I don't think I'm ready for degradation yet..."

Part of you was worried saying that like you'd dissapoint him or something. but he just nodded, like you'd given him a perfectly reasonable answer.

"Alright. 'Good girl' it is. We can save the other stuff for an advanced class." The wink he threw you was both a joke and a promise.

"What about you?" you found yourself asking.

He seemed surprised by the question for a second. "Oh, well, I guess I'm pretty fine with most things. I mean, you could probably call me an asshole and I'd still like it cause it was your voice."

He said it so casually, as if he were discussing his favorite brand of guitar strings, and not the thought of you moaning for him. 

"I liked when you called me princess..." You admit. "You could call me that."

"Princess," he repeated, the word soft on his tongue. "I can do that."

He was so close now. You could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes.

"Okay, new question..." Those big eyes drag down your figure. "Can you come sit on my lap? I want you closer."

He wasn't just asking a question about a hypothetical scenario anymore. This was real. This was happening.

Your body obeyed before your brain could catch up. You slid across the small space between you, the comforter a whisper under your knees, and settled yourself onto his lap.

His big hands went to your waist automatically, steadying you. He was warm, solid. You could feel the worn denim of his jeans against the thin material of your leggings.

"Alright. First lesson." His breath was warm against your ear, making you shiver. "Power isn't about force. It's about control. My control, your surrender."

You nod, mentally taking notes and he smiles before leaning into to whisper in your ear. 

"You can always say no." He says gently. "Right now, to me. You can say 'no, Eddie, I don't want to sit on your lap' and I'll let you go, no questions asked. This is still a conversation."

"I know." You say, a little breathless.

"But you aren't going to say that, are you? No... you want this."

"I do."

"Good girl." The words were a low rumble you felt straight between your legs. "I'm going to put my hands on your thighs now. Just to hold you. Alright?"

You could only manage a small nod.

You could feel the weight of his rings through your leggings. 

"Looking so pretty, all for me." He whispers and you lean into him, your head falling to rest on his shoulder as your eyes flutter shut. You trusted him. You'd known him for years. He was safe.

This was what he meant, about the conversation. Every touch was a question. Every reaction, an answer.

"Are you going to be good for me?" He asks.

"Y-yeah," you manage. "I'll be good."

His grip on your thighs tightened just a fraction.

"I know you will." He nosed at your neck. "Now, hands behind your back. Let me hold them."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. You swallowed, your throat tight, and slowly, deliberately, you moved your arms behind you, lacing your fingers together at the small of your back. The position pushed your chest out, making you feel incredibly vulnerable, incredibly exposed.

He made a soft, satisfied sound.

"Always like it when you wear a low cut top like this." He admits. His hands slid from your thighs to your back, covering your clasped hands with one of his own. The gesture was light, not restrictive, but it felt impossibly final.

His other hand came up to trace the neckline of your shirt, a single finger grazing your collarbone, then dipping lower, following the curve of your breast. He didn't grab, didn't grope. He just… explored. Mapping the territory.

"Your heart's beating so fast," he murmured, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "I can feel it."

You couldn't answer. All your focus was on the path of his finger as it drifted to the peak of your breast, circling your nipple through the thin fabric of your shirt and bra.

"Responsive little thing, aren't you sweetheart?" He teases.

He circles it a few times, making you squirm on his lap and you can already feel the hard length of him through your layers of clothes. The evidence of his own desire.

His other hand still holds your wrists.

"You like your nipples played with? I know you're sensitive." He asks and you nod again. "Let's see more of these pretty tits."

He doesn't ask to take your shirt off. He just does.

He expertly pulls the shirt over your head in one fluid motion, momentarily freeing your hands before he catches them again, this time pressing them more firmly into the small of your back. He then goes for the clasp of your bra and he undoes that too, pulling it down your arms until you're topless for him.

"Look at that." He whispers and it's the most turned on you've ever heard him.

He runs his thumb over the pebbled flesh of your nipple, and your breath hitches. The calloused pad of his thumb created a delicious friction, a direct line of heat pooling in your core.

"I'm going to pinch," he warned, his voice a dark promise. "Just a little. To see how you like it."

You tensed in anticipation.

He didn't make you wait long. He rolled your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, applying a slow, deliberate pressure. A sharp, surprising jolt of pleasure-pain shot through you, pulling a soft gasp from your lips.

"Good," he rasped. "You like that."

It wasn't a question. He read your body as easily as he read the tabbed pages of your sociology textbook.

He keeps pinching and playing as he trails soft kisses from your collarbones and lower, purposefully avoiding where you want his mouth. He was kissing all around your breasts, teasing you with featherlight touches until you're squirming and whining.

"Shh, be patient." He whispers against the skin of your breast. "I'll get there."

He does it again to the other breast. The pinch, the pleasure, the feeling of being completely at his mercy. He was testing you, seeing what made you gasp, what made you squirm. And you were arching into his touch, a silent plea for more.

He finally lowered his head, taking one peaked nipple into the warm, wet heat of his mouth. He sucked gently, his tongue swirling around the sensitive nub, before grazing it lightly with his teeth.

The whimper that left you was undignified. Needy.

He pulled back, releasing you with a soft 'pop'. He looked up at you, his eyes dark with an emotion you'd never seen directed at you before. Possessiveness. Pride. Awe.

"Look what you do to me," he murmured, one of his hands releasing yours to guide your own down, pressing it flat against the hard bulge straining against the denim of his jeans.

"You're going to have to take care of that later, aren't you?" He says, pushing your hips down a little, making you grind against him.

The friction was obscene, a delicious drag through the layers of clothing that sent sparks skittering up your spine. You did it again, a little more boldly, rocking yourself against the rigid length of him. A groan rumbled in his chest, a purely male, primal sound of appreciation.

"Not yet," he said, his grip on your waist tightening, stopping your movements. "That's a reward. And you haven't earned it yet."

He shifted you slightly, adjusting your position so you could feel him more acutely, a perfect, infuriating pressure against your clothed core. His free hand drifted down to the waistband of your leggings. His fingers toyed with the elastic, a casual touch that made your entire body clench with anticipation.

"You're soaked through already, aren't you, princess?" he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "I can feel it. All this fuss just from me playing with your pretty tits."

"Is that weird?" You ask, a little nervous now.

"Not at all. It's perfect." He says gently. "It means your body is honest. It tells the truth. And right now, your body is telling me how much you want this."

His fingers dipped below the waistband, not touching you where you craved it most, but just resting against the soft skin there. 

"We could stop right now," he offered, his tone maddeningly level. "We can stop anytime you want. We can just put your shirt back on, order a pizza, and fail our sociology midterm together. All you have to do is say one word. Do you remember our word?"

"Dragonfruit," you whispered, testing it on your tongue. It felt foreign, distant. Not what you wanted at all.

"Now, tell me what you do want."

You took a shaky breath. "I want you to touch me."

"Touch you where? You have to use your words."

Every nerve ending was on fire. "My... I want you to touch me between my legs."

"Good girl."

He finally moved, his hand sliding further down, past the damp cotton of your underwear, through your slick folds. He didn't rush, exploring you with a surgeon's precision.

"This pussy is so fucking wet for me, princess." He breathes out in awe.

He found your clit with an unnerving ease, a single finger circling the sensitive bundle of nerves. You jolted, a sharp inhale of pleasure.

"Right there?" he asked, feigning innocence.

You could only nod, your head falling back against his shoulder as he continued his slow, torturous circles. He was drawing it out, making you feel every spark, every tremor. You were wound so tight, a trembling knot of need.

Your hips began to move of their own accord, chasing the friction, the building pressure. But he stopped you again, holding you still with a firm grip.

"Uh-uh. My pace," he chided softly. "You don't get to finish until I say you can."

A whimper escaped your lips, a sound of pure frustration.

"Patience," he murmured, kissing your temple.

You notice now, that he hasn't kissed your lips, but you don't make a comment on it, too busy feeling everything else to care.

He was a master of this, a conductor of your pleasure. He varied the pressure, the speed, watching your every reaction, learning what made you gasp, what made you whine. He slipped a finger inside you, then a second, curling them upward to stroke that spot that made your vision blur.

"You think I should let you come soon?" he asked, his voice a dark, intimate rumble. "You've been so good for me. Sitting still. Taking what I give you."

"Please," you begged, the word ripped from you. "Eddie, please."

"Please what?"

"Please let me finish."

He chuckled, a low, wicked sound. "Since you asked so nicely."

He increased the pressure on your clit, the circles becoming faster, more demanding. His fingers inside you stroked with renewed purpose. The tension in your belly coiled tighter and tighter, a spring ready to snap.

"That's it, sweetheart. Let go. Soak my fucking hand." he commanded.

You were cumming by the time he said 'let go', your body convulsing in a blinding wave of pleasure. You cried out, your back arching, your hands still trapped behind you, leaving you nothing to hold onto but him. He held you through it, his movements slowing, gentling, as you shuddered and trembled.

When you were riding out the after shocks he released your hands, letting you decide where to put them. You immediately brought them around to his shoulders, clinging to him. Your face was buried in the crook of his neck, catching your breath. 

His hands came up to your back, stroking you slowly, grounding you. He whispered sweet nothings against your hair, words of praise and affection.

"I know that wasn't as extreme as what your little book had, but trust needs to be built up slowly for things like that." He says softly, kissing your shoulder. "We'll get there. 

You could feel the rapid, steady beat of his heart against your cheek. You could still feel the hard press of his arousal against you, a silent testament to his own restraint.

"Eddie..." you whispered, your voice hoarse. "You didn't..."

He shushed you, a finger gently tilting your chin up. "Hey. it's okay. Tonight was about you. About learning you."

You looked at him, really looked at him. His hair was a mess, his lips were swollen from where he'd been kissing your skin, and his eyes were dark and soft and full of an emotion that made your chest ache.

Without thinking, you leaned in and finally, finally kissed him.

He didn't move at first and you pulled back quickly, suddenly feeling stupid. 

Was kissing not okay in this arrangement?

Did he only want the physical part?

Did he even like you like that? 

Before you could speak, he did it first. 

"Hey you, don't look like that. It's not what you think." He says gently.

"I- I just thought..."

"I know what you thought. And it's okay. I wanted to kiss you. More than anything."

"So why didn't you?" You ask, not in an accusatory tone, but a genuinely curious one.

"Because if I kissed you," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I wouldn't have been able to handle it if this was just a one-time thing. Or if this was just about sex. I wouldn't have been able to control myself, and we might not be here right now."

This confession was so raw, so vulnerable. It was more intimate than anything you'd done.

"So... what is this then?" You ask, your heart pounding.

"It's whatever you want it to be." He says honestly. "But I want it to be something. Something real."

You lean in again, slowly, giving him the chance to pull away.

He didn't.

He met you halfway, his lips finally claiming yours. It wasn't a kiss of frenzy or desperation. His hands cupped your face, holding you tenderly, as if you were something precious. His lips were soft, tasting faintly of you, of the cola he'd been drinking hours ago. He kissed you slowly, deeply, a conversation without words.

When you finally parted, you were both breathless.

"Do you still want me to do something about..." You trail off, letting your eyes flick down to the very prominent problem in his pants.

He groaned, pressing his forehead against yours. "Princess, you have no idea how much I want that. But I also want to do this right. So... right now, nothing too demanding, just let me fuck your brains out?"

You laughed, a real, genuine laugh that made your whole body feel lighter.

"You're an idiot."

"You know what?" He says with a teasing smile, before flipping you so he was hovering over you on the bed. "I like it better when you're on your back, anyway."

He made quick work of your leggings and underwear, tossing them aside. He stood up to strip off his own clothes, and you watched him, your gaze hungry. You'd seen him shirtless before, at the lake, at a party, but this was different.

The chain around his neck rested in the dip of his collarbone. His chest was lean, a smattering of dark hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the waistband of his boxers. He was all sharp angles and wiry strength. And as he pulled down his boxers, your breath hitched.

"You want this huh? This is what you were grinding against earlier?" He smirks. He was long and thick, flushed with arousal, curving up towards his stomach.

He climbed back onto the bed, settling himself between your legs.

"Take what you want," he commanded, his voice a low growl.

Your hand trembled as you reached between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around him. He was hot and heavy in your palm as you guided him to your entrance, and he pushed forward, just the head breaching you.

A shared gasp. You were so wet, so ready for him, but the stretch was still intense, a delicious burn.

"Oh, good girl, you listen so fucking well," he praised, before sliding the rest of the way home with one slow, deep thrust.

He filled you completely, and you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer.

"Fuck," he breathed, burying his face in your neck. "You feel better than I ever imagined."

He started to move, a slow, deep rhythm that stole the air from your lungs. Every drag of his cock against your inner walls was a fresh wave of pleasure. This was different from the sharp, focused intensity from before. This was a deep, all-consuming fire.

"Look at me," he demanded, pulling back just enough to see your face. "Hold on to the headboard."

You obeyed, your hands finding the cool metal bars of your headboard, as he began to move again. This new angle let him hit that spot inside you with every thrust, making your toes curl. He wasn't just fucking you anymore. He was claiming you. Marking you from the inside out.

"Who's making you feel this good?" he grunted, his hips snapping a little faster.

"You are," you moaned, your knuckles white where you gripped the headboard.

"Whose cock makes you feel this good?" He asks, a dark look in his eyes.

"Yours," you gasped, the words torn from you. "Only yours, Eddie."

"Fuck yes, it does." He says, a smirk on his face. "Not some loser from the dining hall." He speeds up a little, getting cocky. "Not your project partner. You wanna know who knows exactly what to do with you? Me." He punctuates his words with a hard thrust and you can't help but arch your back.

"You're mine now, sweetheart. This pussy is mine to use." His voice is a rough possessive rasp as he leans down to whisper softly in your ear. "Gimme a color, princess. Are we green?"

You were so far gone, but you knew what he was asking. "Green," you moaned. "So green, Eddie."

He smiled, a triumphant, feral grin. "Good girl. You want me to keep talking like this, honey? You want me to tell you how I'm going to fuck you every day after our study sessions from now on? How I'm going to bend you over that desk until you're screaming my name?"

"Yes," you whined, a desperate, needy sound. "Please."

"Then I guess I'll have to do it." His hips began to piston faster, the headboard knocking against the wall in a steady, rhythmic beat. "Would you like that, sweetheart? To be my good little girl? To cum whenever I say?"

"I would," you cried out. "God, I would."

He brought a hand between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit again. He didn't circle it this time. He pressed down, hard, in direct counterpoint to his thrusts.

"Cum for me," he commanded. "All over my cock."

Your orgasm ripped through you, violent and overwhelming. You screamed his name, a raw, ragged sound, as you convulsed around him, your body spasming with the force of your release.

"Mmm, gonna wake up the whole dorm." He praised. "Such a good fucking girl." He kept thrusting through it, prolonging your pleasure until you were a sobbing, writhing mess beneath him.

He pulled out and kissed you softly, the kiss slow and deep as you shook under him. You could feel his erection against your thigh, hot and hard and insistent.

"You still haven't..." You begin, trailing off again as you try and catch your breath.

"I haven't bent you over the desk yet." He grins, before he pulls you up from your comfortable spot on your back.

His hands were on you instantly, guiding you to your feet and then turning you, walking you the few steps to your desk. He swept his arm across it, the textbook with the red tabs, a stack of flashcards—all of it clattering to the floor in a mess of academic debris.

His lips are kissing by your ear as he speaks, caging you in from behind. "You need me to get a condom?" He asks, and you are a little surprised by the question.

"I'm on the pill." You say quickly, and he makes a happy humming sound, kissing the back of your neck.

"Perfect." He whispers, before he's pressing your chest flat against the desk. The cool wood was a shock against your heated skin.

"Think you can handle a little more for me, baby?" He asked, his hands stroking over your ass.

You nod, your face turned to the side, your cheek pressed against the smooth wood.

"Use your words."

"Yes," you breathe out. "I can handle more."

He doesn't enter you right away. Instead, he kneels, spreading your cheeks, and you feel the hot, wet shock of his tongue against your pussy. He licks a long, slow stripe from your clit to your entrance, groaning at the taste.

"Fuck, you're delicious," he murmurs, before diving back in.

He was relentless, eating you out with a single-minded focus that left you trembling. He alternated between broad, flat strokes of his tongue and pointed, targeted flicks against your clit.

His hands grip at the fat of your ass as he eats you out like a man starved, and you can't help but push your hips back against him. He eats it until your legs are shaking and you're whining for him to stop. When he does, he stands up, his chest heaving.

He pauses and you furrow your eyebrows in confusion. You glance behind you to see him taking the rings off his right hand, leaning over your back to put them on the desk as he places small kisses on your back. 

"What are you..." 

Your whisper turns into a whine when a callous palm  hits your ass cheek. Not hard, but enough that you gasp at the suddenness.

He shushes you gently, rubbing the reddening mark. "Just a little color for my pretty girl." He murmurs. "You like that? Just a little sting?"

You nod, your mind fuzzy with pleasure and confusion.

"Words, baby." He reminds you.

"Y-yes. I like it."

He spanks you again, this one harder, and you feel the jolt of it deep in your core. He alternates between spanking you and rubbing the tender skin, until you're a quivering, whimpering mess.

Another smack and you don't even register when he lines himself up with your entrance, and glides in, slick and easy, bottoming out with a deep groan. The angle was different, deeper, and it made you feel utterly possessed.

He set a brutal pace, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the small room, mingling with your moans and his ragged breaths. One of his hands grabs your face as he leans over to kiss you. 

"Taste how fucking sweet you are?" He whispers against your lips. You're nodding dumbly as he continues to fuck you, tongue licking into your mouth.

His other hand slides around your body, finding your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles. It was too much, too intense, and you tried to squirm away.

"Uh-uh. You take it," he commanded, his voice a low growl.

"Take everything I give you, princess." He was praising you, his words stoking the fire in your belly. You were already so sensitive from your previous orgasms, every drag of his cock against your walls a fresh wave of pleasure.

"Please," you begged, not even sure what you were asking for.

More? Faster? For it to never end?

"I know, I know." He cooed at you. "Good girls like you need to be fucked until they can't think straight."

You clenched around him, and he grunted, his rhythm faltering for a second.

"Yeah, you like me saying that, don't you? You like being my good girl." He punctuates his words with a hard thrust that makes you see stars. 

Your clit was throbbing under his thumb, the pleasure so sharp it was almost pain. Your body was a live wire, humming with a frantic, desperate energy.

"Gonna cum," you sobbed, the words barely intelligible. "Eddie, I'm gonna cum."

He pressed you down more against the desk, his hips snapping faster, harder. He leans over your back so you can feel the sweat from his chest on your skin as he speaks right into your ear.

"Come on," he urged, his voice rough with strain. "Cum for me. One. More. Fucking. Time."

You whined out, needier than ever, as your body convulsed, your inner walls clamping down on him. Your legs gave out, and you would have collapsed to the floor if he hadn't been holding you up, pinning you to the desk.

He gathered your hair in one of his hands, pulling your head back slightly, the angle new and dizzying as he keeps fucking you through your orgasm. This let him see your face as he uses you for his own pleasure. He looked wild, untamed, his pupils blown wide with lust.

"That's it, baby. Milk my cock. Such a good fucking girl." He moans as he starts to lose the steady rhythm. You could feel him getting closer, his thrusts becoming erratic, more desperate.

"Gonna fill you up," he growled, his grip on your hair tightening. "Mark this pretty little pussy as mine."

With a final, guttural groan, he buried himself to the hilt, and you felt the hot pulse of his release deep inside you. He stayed there for a long moment, his forehead resting against your back, both of you breathing heavily, trying to come back to earth.

His hand in your hair changed from a grip to soothing stokes

His fingers danced up your body from their ruthless attack of your clit, to splay across your stomach. You feel him press gently. He was still inside of you. Softening, but still present. 

"You okay?" he murmured against your spine, the words muffled by his soft kisses to your skin.

You managed a weak nod, not trusting your voice.

He laughed softly, the vibration traveling through you. "Good. Because I'm not done with you yet."

He slowly pulled out, and the emptiness you felt was acute. You could feel his release begin to trickle down your thigh, a sticky, intimate reminder of what you'd just done.

He helped you to the bed, tugging you back into his arms. You both were sweaty, sticky, and your room was a mess. You couldn't bring yourself to care.

You curled into his side, your head on his chest. The steady, reassuring beat of his heart was a comforting anchor in the haze of satiation.

His hands never stopped caressing through your hair.

He was quiet for a long time, just stroking your hair and pressing soft kisses to your forehead.

"So," he said, his voice quiet. "Is the reality better than the book?"

You thought about it for a second. The book was theory. This was practice. This was real.

"I thought you said you weren't done with me?" You manage, weakly. 

He just pulls his head back enough to get a proper look at your face, the most genuine smile accentuated by his dimples. 

"Yeah, the aftercare. The cuddles. The praise. That's all part of it." He said, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. "Being the one who has to clean up our mess."

He sits up, leaning over the side of the bed to grab the t-shirt he'd been wearing earlier. He carefully, almost reverently, began to clean you up. The cotton was soft against your sensitive skin.

"You're so good at that," You say softly, referring to the entire night, but more specifically the way he was taking care of you.

"Yeah? Well I'm a man of many talents." He teases, but the way he's looking at you is soft.

He's gentle, methodical, as he wipes away the evidence of your night together. Once he's satisfied, he tosses the shirt aside and pulls the comforter over both of you, cocooning you in the warmth of the small bed.

You're quiet for a long time again. Just listening to each other breathe.

"Hey," he whispered.

"Hm?"

"About the kiss earlier..." he started, his voice a little hesitant. "When I said I didn't know if I could handle it if this was just a one-time thing... I meant it."

He shifts a little, so he's looking you in the eye. "This was never gonna be just a one-time thing for me. You have to know that. I've been wanting this for so long."

You are looking up at him in the dim light of your desk lamp. He's looking at you with a unguarded expression that you'd never seen from him before. 

"You really have? I thought... I thought this was just... you know, because of the book."

He let out a small, breathy laugh. "Sweetheart, the book was just a convenient excuse. A cosmic sign from the universe to finally do something about the massive, soul-crushing crush I've had on you since we were assigned as lab partners in freshman chemistry."

His signature smirk reappeared then.

"The fact that you're also into the same filthy shit I am? That's just a very, very lucky bonus."

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound bubbling up from your chest. It was a laugh of pure, unadulterated happiness.

"So, what now?" You ask, your voice barely a whisper.

"Now I get to enjoy this body being all soft in my arms." He says, kissing your forehead. "Now I get to wake up next to you and make you breakfast. Now I get to walk you to our sociology class and sit next to you knowing exactly what you sound like when you orgasm."

He pulls you closer. "And now I get to tell you that I want to be your boyfriend. If you'll have me."

You tilt your head up to look at him, a slow, genuine smile spreading across your face.

"I'll have you," you said simply.

"Oh, no enthusiasm for the man who made you cum three times in an hour?" He teases gently. You just lean up and kiss him, soft and sweet.

"I think you fucked all the enthusiasm out of me." You mumble against his lips.

He chuckles, satisfied and proud. 

"It's a skill." He smirks. "But don't worry. I'm a great teacher. We'll build up your stamina." He winks, and you feel a fresh wave of heat wash over you.

He pulls you to his chest, safe and warm. You could get used to this.

"Next time," he whispers against your hair. "Next time I'll bring my ropes."

You press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "I'll hold you to that."

He held you tighter, a silent promise. The night wasn't over. Your time exploring each other, it seemed, had really just begun.