⚓︎ rafe cameron archive ⚓︎

The number matters less than the fact that her body refuses to sit down. Sitting down feels like agreeing to something. Sitting down feels like being pinned to the fact that her exam is in nine hours and her notes have begun to look less like study material and more like evidence left behind by a smarter, calmer version of herself who has since died. 

Her stomach has gone tight and sour from coffee. There’s a deep ache between her brows from squinting at the same lecture slide until the words lost all meaning. Her shoulders keep climbing toward her ears without permission, and every time she tries to force them down, they go right back up like they’re getting paid by the minute.

Rafe watches her pass the foot of his bed again. His eyes move over her slowly, not in the usual way, but in the sharp, assessing way he looks at things when he’s trying to decide whether they’re about to become his problem.

“Can you stop doin’ that?” he says finally.

She stops so abruptly the floor seems to keep moving under her for half a second. “Doing what?”

He lifts his chin toward the path she’s carved across his room. “The little pacin’ routine. S’annoying.”

Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again, because there are at least seven things wrong with that sentence and all of them have arrived at the back of her teeth at once. “Sorry, is my visible distress inconveniencing your extremely important lying-down time?”

“Yeah,” Rafe says, without shame. “It is.”

She stares at him. He stares back, unbothered and stupidly pretty under the low lamp light, all loose limbs and blue eyes and the kind of mouth that makes terrible statements worse because it looks good making them. 

Outside his closed door, the frat house is still alive in ugly little pieces: somebody laughing too hard downstairs, bass thudding faintly through the floor, a door slamming, a muffled yell that might be a fight or might be someone discovering another man has finished his DoorDash. 

Rafe’s room is warmer than it should be, the window cracked open just enough to let in humid night air and the smell of wet grass from the lawn where the sprinklers have kicked on.

“You’re so bad at this,” she tells him.

“At what?”

“Comforting me.”

“I’m not comforting you.”

“Clearly.”

“I’m telling you you’re being weird.”

Her laugh comes out high and incredulous. “Oh, thank God. That’s so much better.”

Rafe shifts onto one elbow, his phone sliding off his chest and onto the comforter beside him. “You’ve been pacing for, like, twenty minutes.”

“I have an exam.”

“Yeah, I picked up on that. The three open textbooks and the little…” he gestures toward her loosely, “meltdown gave it away.”

“I’m not having a meltdown.”

“Baby,” he says, dry as dust, “you just apologised to my desk chair when you bumped into it.”

She looks at the desk chair, traitorous and silent beside his desk. “It was in my way.”

“It’s a chair.”

“It has edges.”

“It has edges,” he repeats, like this is the single dumbest thing anyone has ever said in a room that has absolutely heard fraternity brothers discuss cryptocurrency. Then he sits up properly, elbows on his knees now, all that careless laziness tightening into attention. “What’re you even nervous about?”

The question is so blunt that it almost misses the place where it could hurt. Almost. She turns back to the desk, shuffling her flashcards into a stack that was already a stack, because her hands need a task or they’ll start doing something worse, like shaking. “The exam, Rafe. The exam I have tomorrow? We’ve established this.”

He clicks his tongue once. “No, I know, but what about it?”

“What do you mean, what about it?”

“I mean what about it,” he says, impatience already roughening the edges of his voice. “You keep sayin’ exam like it’s gonna come in here with a fuckin’ knife. What part?”

She exhales through her nose, sharp and hot. “I don’t know. All of it.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Okay, professor.”

“I’m serious.”

She turns then, because something in his tone has gone too steady to ignore and because if she looks at her notes one more time she might actually start crying, which would be embarrassing in Rafe’s room for at least seventeen reasons, most of them wearing backwards caps. 

“I’m nervous I’m going to fail,” she says, too quickly, the sentence shoved out before she can make it prettier. “I’m nervous I’m going to sit down and forget everything and all the questions are going to be phrased in that awful little way where every answer looks technically right. I’m nervous everyone else understands it better than me and I’ve just been tricking myself into thinking I know things because I highlighted them in nice colours. Is that specific enough for you?”

Rafe blinks once. His jaw shifts. She can see the first response arrive in him, mean or dismissive or too sharp from habit, and then she can see him catch it behind his teeth like someone grabbing a glass right before it hits the floor.

Unfortunately, what he replaces it with is, “That’s stupid.”

Her whole face goes still. Rafe, because God has a sense of humour and none of it is kind, seems to realise the problem approximately one second too late.

“Wow,” she says. “No, genuinely. Wow. You should volunteer for a crisis hotline. They’d love you there.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It is literally what you said.”

“I meant the thought is stupid.”

“Oh, the thought is stupid. That’s much more sensitive.”

“It is,” he insists, like sensitivity has ever been something he could identify without being handed a labelled diagram. He stands, finally, and the room feels smaller immediately. “Not you. The thing you’re doing in your head. It’s stupid.”

She laughs once, furious. “You are so lucky you’re hot.”

His mouth twitches. “I know.”

“Not a compliment right now.”

“Still heard it.”

“Rafe.”

“What?” He spreads his hands, walking closer with that slow, spoiled-boy confidence that makes everything in her body prepare to be annoyed and interested at the same time. “I’m right. You’re making up a fake version of tomorrow where you bomb the whole thing, and then you’re getting pissed at the fake version like it already happened.”

She hates him. She hates him mostly because the sentence lands somewhere irritatingly close to the centre of the problem and knocks on it.

“I could bomb it,” she says.

“Sure. And I could get drafted by the fucking Yankees tomorrow. Doesn’t mean I need to start stretching.”

“That comparison is insane.”

“You’re insane.” He points at the desk, where her notes are spread in careful, colour-coded layers, textbook open, laptop bright, practice questions scored in red pen with a level of organization that makes his own academic history look like a hostage note. “Did you study?”

“Yes.”

“Did you go to class?”

“Yes.”

“Did you do the practice test?”

She hesitates.

His eyebrows lift. “Did you?”

“Yes.”

“What’d you get?”

“That’s not–”

He tilts his head. “What’d you get?”

She looks away, biting the inside of her cheek hard enough that the taste of lip gloss goes waxy against her tongue. “Eighty-eight.”

Rafe stares at her.

She crosses her arms. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“No, I’m trying to figure out if you’re jokin’.”

“I’m not joking, but it was open-note.”

“Okay.” He nods, offensively reasonable. “And did you use your notes for every question?”

“No.”

“How many?”

“I don’t know.”

He rolls his eyes. “Guess.”

She glares at him. He waits, patient in the least patient way possible, his eyes fixed on her like he’s not letting the conversation slip sideways into panic just because she would very much prefer it did. 

“Maybe six,” she says finally.

“Out of?”

“Forty.”

Rafe’s face does something unbearable.

She points at him. “Do not.”

“You used your notes six times,” he says, stepping around a pile of loose papers on the floor like he’s navigating wreckage after a storm, “got an eighty-eight, and now you’re acting like your brain got repossessed.”

“My brain feels repossessed.”

“Your brain’s being dramatic.”

“My brain is under pressure.”

“Your brain knows the shit,” he says, and because his delivery is awful and his mouth is too blunt and his eyes are still scanning her face like he’s reading what she can’t get out, the warmth of it takes a second to register. “You’re just letting the scared part drive because it’s louder.”

She swallows. Something in her chest shifts, like a drawer unsticking.

Rafe picks up one of her flashcards from the desk, squints at it, then immediately looks offended. “What the fuck is this word?”

She leans over despite herself. “Hippocampus.”

“I know hippocampus.”

She looks at the flashcard he’s now looking at. “Well, that says heuristics.”

“I also know heuristics.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I absolutely do.”

“Use it in a sentence.”

He looks at the card again, then back at her. “Don’t use heuristics to convince yourself you’re gonna fail an exam you studied for.”

She pauses. His mouth curves.

“That was… not terrible,” she admits, resentfully.

“Thank you.”

“I’m still mad at you.”

He shrugs. “I can live with that.”

“You called me stupid.”

“I said don’t be stupid.”

She makes a sound of disbelief, but it comes out weaker than before, because he’s already holding the stack of flashcards in one hand and looking through them with the grim confidence of a man who’s never let not knowing what he’s doing prevent him from taking charge. 

There’s something ridiculous about it. Rafe Cameron, frat-house menace, emotional arsonist, man who once tried to microwave foil because Kelce told him it sparked less if you folded it right, standing in his messy room at midnight with her psychology notes in his hand like he’s about to intimidate her exam into being easier.

“Sit,” he says.

She narrows her eyes. “Excuse me?”

He points the flashcards at his bed. “Sit down.”

“Don’t boss me around.”

“You like when I boss you around.”

She frowns, a small pout on her lips. “Yeah, but not like this.”

His grin is quick and wicked enough to heat her face, but he lets it go before it can turn into anything else. That’s, somehow, more annoying. “Sit down before you start apologising to furniture again.”

“I hate you,” she mutters, but she sits on the edge of his bed because her legs are tired and her feet hurt and the mattress gives beneath her in a way that makes her realise, with deep betrayal, that sitting down is actually fantastic. 

Her whole body seems to notice at once. The ache in her calves. The tightness in her lower back. The thin, frantic buzz under her skin beginning to dull now that she’s not physically trying to outrun tomorrow inside a ten-by-twelve room.

Rafe notices too, obviously. He notices everything when he’s pretending not to care. His gaze drops briefly to her hands, still worrying at the hem of his old t-shirt she’s wearing, then to the place where her knee is bouncing against the side of the bed. 

He doesn’t call attention to it. He just moves closer and nudges the inside of her foot with his own socked foot, just enough to make her look up.

“First card,” he says.

“This isn’t going to help.”

“You don’t know that.” He looks at the card. “Define… cognitive dissonance.”

She sighs, rubbing both hands over her face. “Rafe.”

“Define it.”

“I know this one.”

“Great. Prove it.”

She wants to argue because arguing is easier than answering. Arguing has heat in it, movement, somewhere for the nerves to go. 

Answering means standing still in the knowledge and finding out whether it holds. Her tongue feels too big in her mouth for a second. The room hums around her, fan clicking softly overhead, music still thudding downstairs, Rafe watching her with that intolerable steady focus like he’s decided she is going to get through this and has not yet considered asking her opinion.

“Cognitive dissonance is the discomfort from holding two conflicting beliefs or attitudes,” she says, slowly at first, then steadier when the words arrive in order. “Or when behaviour conflicts with beliefs. People try to reduce it by changing one of the beliefs, justifying the behaviour, or minimising the conflict.”

Rafe looks at the back of the card. His eyebrows lift. “That sounded smart as hell.”

“Because it’s the answer.”

“Yeah, no shit. That’s why it sounded smart.” He flips to the next card. “See? Your brain’s not repossessed. It’s just being a little bitch.”

She chokes on a laugh before she can stop herself.

His eyes flick up, pleased in that awful, subtle way he gets when he wins a reaction. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, what?”

“You cannot call my brain a little bitch.”

“I just did.”

“It has an exam tomorrow.”

He frowns, very seriously. “And it needs to get its act together.”

She laughs again, smaller this time, helpless and a little cracked around the edges. The sound loosens something behind her ribs. Enough that the room stops tilting toward disaster. Enough that her notes look like notes again.

Rafe asks the next question badly, mispronouncing one theorist’s name with so much confidence she has to interrupt him twice, and by the fourth card she’s correcting him before answering, which seems to please him more than getting it right. 

He lets her be bitchy. Lets her scoff and roll her eyes and accuse him of academic vandalism when he skips one she knows and chooses one with a diagram instead. 

He doesn’t soften into anything embarrassing. He doesn’t tell her she’s amazing or brilliant or that everything will be okay in that useless, shiny way people do when they want fear to become more convenient for them. 

He just keeps holding up cards and asking questions like the answer is already in her and his job is to be annoying enough to make her prove it.

At some point, he sits beside her on the bed, one knee bent on the mattress, shoulder warm against hers. At some point, her own knee stops bouncing. At some point, he gets a bottle of water from the floor beside his nightstand and presses it into her hand without looking away from the card he’s reading.

“Drink,” he says.

She takes it automatically. “You’re so nurturing.”

“Don’t start.”

She grins. “Very maternal.”

“I’ll kick you out.”

“No, you won’t.”

The bottle crinkles under her fingers. She drinks, and the water tastes faintly like plastic and relief. Rafe’s shoulder stays against hers. His room, which had felt too hot and too small twenty minutes ago, has settled into something almost bearable. 

The mess is still there. The exam is still there. Tomorrow morning still waits outside the night with its awful fluorescent classroom lighting and rows of desks and multiple-choice answers designed by someone who probably enjoys being hated. 

But her body has stopped preparing for impact. Her hands have stopped trying to turn themselves inside out.

Rafe flips another card. “Okay. This one looks fake.”

“It’s not fake.”

“It’s got too many syllables to be real.”

“That’s most of psychology.”

“Respectfully, your major is just naming shit everyone already does and then acting all fancy about it.”

She turns her head and looks at him. “You’re literally a business major.”

“Yeah, and I know it’s fake.”

She laughs, and this time it comes out easily. Rafe looks at her for a second too long after that, the card lowered slightly in his hand. The lamp catches on his face, softening the sharpness without erasing it, leaving him golden and tired and still a little mean around the mouth. 

His eyes move over her face, less assessing now, more careful in that way that always makes her chest feel too full because care on Rafe has never looked like care in the ordinary sense. 

It looks like stolen shoes. Like locked doors. Like a hand at the small of her back in a crowded party. Like don’t be stupid when what he means is I can see you scaring yourself and I’m not letting you do it alone.

“What?” she asks, quieter.

He shrugs, but the movement is too small to be convincing. “You’re fine.”

She almost corrects him. The instinct rises immediately, familiar and sharp. She’s not fine. She’s underprepared. She’s tired. She’s one bad practice question away from putting her head through his drywall. 

But then Rafe taps the flashcards against his palm and says, “Not, like, emotionally. Obviously. But for the exam? You’re fine.”

A surprised laugh leaves her. “Obviously?”

“Baby,” he says, with the driest tenderness known to man, “you’ve been terrorising my room for half an hour.”

She presses her lips together, but the smile gets through anyway. “You’re still bad at comforting.”

“Maybe. But you’re not pacing anymore.”

“That doesn’t mean you win.”

“Pretty sure it does.”

“You bullied me into sitting down.”

“I questioned you into admitting the evidence doesn’t support your little panic case.”

She stares at him, offended by both the phrasing and the fact that it is, annoyingly, not wrong. “My little panic case?”

“Yeah. Weak arguments. No witnesses. A lot of drama.” He flicks the flashcard lightly against her knee. “I’d throw it out.”

She groans, tipping sideways until her shoulder presses more fully into his. “I hate when you make sense.”

“I know.”

“It ruins your whole thing.”

“My whole thing?”

“Being hot and emotionally useless.”

Rafe laughs under his breath, rough and low, and the sound moves through her where their shoulders touch. “I’m not emotionally useless.”

She looks up at him.

He holds her gaze for half a second, then looks back at the cards. “I’m emotionally selective.”

“That’s not a real thing.”

His mouth curves. “Next card?”

She should say no. She should go back to her room, sleep, set six alarms, accept that whatever happens tomorrow will happen under the cruel supervision of university administration and God. 

Instead she reaches for the blanket at the end of his bed and pulls it over her legs, leaning into him just enough that he has to shift his arm behind her to make room. 

He does it like it’s nothing. Like his body has been waiting for the excuse. Like he didn’t just spend half an hour berating her nervous system into a less embarrassing configuration.

“Next card,” she says.

Rafe looks down at her, and for a second his expression does something softer than he probably intended. Then he clears his throat, because God forbid, and lifts the card with renewed seriousness. “A’ight. Explain operant conditioning.”

She smiles into the warm, worn shoulder of his shirt. “That one’s easy.”

“Good,” he says, voice low and certain beside her ear. “Then don’t be stupid about it.”

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It’s every obligation stacking on top of each other until even something as simple as studying feels impossible.

You pull another card from the stack, forcing yourself to slow down. One question. That’s all.

“Okay…” you whisper.

Your eyes scan the card once more before the answer finally clicks.

“Alright.”

A win. Small, sure. But hey, it’s something. A smile tugs at your lips, real enough to crack the pressure that’s been building all night.

For a second, it feels manageable—like maybe you can actually get through this one card, then the next, then the next.

Your shoulders loosen just a fraction, tension easing as you let out another breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Your phone buzzes on the mattress, and you look down at it, a text message from your Vice President asking you to weigh in on something that absolutely could’ve waited, throwing you off your schedule—and off your game for the moment.

The quiet stretches for a beat, the soft rustle of paper the only sound as your fingers hover over the next card, hesitating.

You grab it and flip it over, looking down at it, letting your eyes shut when you see a word you know you know. I mean, how could you not know this shit?

The doorknob twists.

Your head snaps toward the sound, wide eyes meeting Rafe’s the second he steps inside—fresh from the shower, damp hair disappearing beneath a backwards hat, dirty blonde strands escaping around the brim.

A fitted polo hugs his broad shoulders, tucked just enough to look intentional without trying too hard, khaki shorts sitting low on his hips.

His skin still glows from the shower, smelling faintly of the cologne you bought him for his birthday and the soap that always clings to your sheets long after he leaves.

“Baby?” he chuckles, lifting an eyebrow in your direction. “You okay?”

He nudges his glasses a little higher on his nose, looking at you like he already knows the answer.

“Mhmm… Yeah.” You laugh weakly. “M’trying to study. I’m done. I’m just—I’m fucked.” The cards slip from your fingers, fluttering down to the comforter.

“You’re not fucked,” he sighs. “Didn’t hear my name gettin’ screamed outside your door now, did I?”

Your lips pull to the side, fighting off a smile, heat blooming in your cheeks as he crawls onto the bed.

“Plus, you’re fully clothed, pretty,” he mumbles, tilting in when he gets close enough, pressing a kiss to your neck. “Fuckin’ hate that for me.”

You giggle, turning into him a little more, feeling him smile into your skin, your body instantly sinking, hoping he’ll crawl the rest of the way on top and pin you underneath him.

“Where are you goin’, huh?” he asks, his voice deep and warm against your neck.

“I wanna be done,” you whisper, tugging at the front of his shirt, seeing the space between you—his deep v-lines disappearing below his shorts, all that tanned skin making it impossible to think about anything else.

“Don’t wanna work anymore, huh? Why are you bein’ such a baby?” he teases.

“Am not.”

“Are too,” he snickers. As you continue your childish back-and-forth, the stubble on his cheek scrapes lightly over your soft skin. “Let me help you.”

“Not with this,” you pout. Studying isn’t what you want from him. Right now, you just want him.

“Think I can help you with somethin’ else?” He grabs your face, squishing your cheeks, kissing you tenderly.

“I know you can,” you whisper.

“You using me for my body right now?” he teases, and you nod. “Thank you.” You giggle at his response, nails slipping around to rake up the broad expanse of his back. “But it’s not gonna work.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause we have a test tomorrow.”

“Forgive me for wanting my boyfriend.”

“Stop,” he rasps with a warm laugh, letting his head fall heavy against your shoulder. “You’re just bein’ a brat. Shit’s not gonna work with me.”

“Whatever,” you mumble.

“Whatever, huh?” he asks as his rough finger slides a little further up your thigh, tracing under the hem of your shorts, making your hips shift. “So sensitive, baby.”

“Rafe…”

“Just sayin’,” he whispers.

You slap your hands against the bed as he crashes down beside you. He scoops up a few neon cards, his grin widening as his big arm wraps behind your back, palm settling beside your hip.

He kisses your cheek, and you roll your eyes, rearranging the little stack in your hands.

“For the record, Cameron. A distraction would have been preferred,” you whisper, leaning into him, that scowl playing on your lips, jerking away when he tickles you. “Enough,” you scold, grabbing his wrist.

“Just gotta get you out of your head, baby,” he hums before his attention gets pulled away.

Your phone vibrates on the mattress—a text from one of your younger sisters in the chapter flashes across the screen. Rafe reaches over, grabs your phone off the bed, and sets it aside before you can check it.

“I need to answer that.”

“Bullshit, you don’t.” He gives you a side eye. “See how attentive you were a minute ago? You got this. Just gotta focus on what’s happening right here.”

“Mhmm,” you hum bitterly. He reaches out, fingers wrapping around your jaw to turn you toward him.

“Studying isn’t half-bad with me, I promise.” His plush lips meet yours, kissing you deeply, chuckling into the kiss when you chase his lips, not wanting to stop. "Ready?"

“No,” you whisper, sucking in a breath when his hand comes and rests on your upper thigh, squeezing down, making your thigh draw in, chills crawling up your spine. “Don’t you have chess?”

“Not for a bit,” he answers. “Stop fightin’ it, baby.”

Rafe’s arm hooks around your waist, drawing you closer in his lap as you split his legs. You lean back into his broad chest, and he snuggles close, breathing you in for a moment.

“How hard can this class be, baby? We got this,” he mumbles against your skin, foregoing the annoying reality that he sits firmly at the top of the class. But he means it, the words sounding so earnest you can’t help but sigh.

“Alright,” you whisper, flipping the first card in the deck.

He peers over your shoulder, lips resting on your skin, thumbs tracing along your bare thighs as you think. Your phone vibrates again, and his big arms wrap around your waist, fast holding you in place.

“Don’t,” he stops you before you can start.

His arms soften when he feels you do the same, a hand coming up to draw you in, kissing you, soft and slow.

You relax, concentrating on his lips—how they feel against yours, soft and sweet. The warmth of his body surrounds you, guiding you to relax a little more against him.

“Focus, baby.”

You shut your eyes, trying your best to clear your mind and settle into the task.

“Opsimath,” you whisper.

“Mhmm,” he hums, the utterance buzzing against your skin. “Remember in class last week… Opsē sounds like…”

You think for a beat, recalling that term from the week prior, the scratchy chalk scraping against the board as the professor broke down the term, Rafe sneaking into class late with two coffees in hand while the professor had his back turned. He smiled at you, handed you your drink, then leaned over to whisper, “What’d I miss?”

The question was ridiculous. One glance at the board and he already knew the answer. He’d just wanted an excuse to lean over and talk to you.

“Sounds like ‘oopsie,’” you whisper. “You say that when you’re late.”

“And, manthanein, means…” he asks.

“To learn—because you learn in math class.” He growls with delight, making you smile. “Someone who starts learning late in life.” The words breathe out of you, and the tension you were holding in your shoulders falls.

“Exactly.” Rafe slides the next card to the front of the stack, holding it out in front of the two of you. “Go ahead,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your shoulder as you settle against him again.

You study it for a second, your eyebrows pinching together before the answer slowly starts piecing itself together in your head.

“Metacognition,” you whisper. “Thinking about your own thinking.”

“There it is,” he smiles warmly.

You feel his hand squeeze your thigh, your body melting back against his chest before he reaches for another card.

The next one comes quicker. Then the next. Then the next. By the fourth, you’re answering before he can even finish reading the definition, your confidence building a little more every time he smiles.

“Told you,” he chuckles. “You know more than you think you do.”

You grin to yourself, a little proud now. “Maybe.”

“Not maybe,” he assures, thumb tracing another lazy path across your thigh while you search through the stack. Your eyes flick toward the nightstand when your phone chirps.

The rough pad of his thumb drifts just high enough to make your leg twitch beneath his hand. “Rafe,” you laugh, your body drawing in, before you wiggle away.

“What?” he asks, looking back at you like he has absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. “Just gettin’ my girl back on track.”

“Well, knock it off,” you grumble, snuggling back into him a little more.

“Stop bein’ bad, and I’ll think about it.”

“I’m not being bad.”

“I mean, you got this shit in the bag,” he gestures lazily to the cards. “Focus game needs a little work.” A crooked smile pulls at his lips as he presses another kiss just below your ear. “And, you’re cute when you’re all jumpy.”

“I’m trying to study.”

“And you’re doin’ a damn good job, aren’t you?” he praises, and the knot that’s been sitting in your chest all evening doesn’t feel nearly as tight anymore.

You’re still nervous about tomorrow, but the words aren’t swimming together anymore. They’re actually sticking.

Rafe hands you another card, and you answer it almost immediately.

“Atta baby,” he praises.

“Rewards?” you ask, turning just enough to catch the sparkle in his eye. “Do I get a reward for that one?”

His eyebrows lift and a smirk curls on his lips. “A reward?”

“Mhmm,” you hum.

“What kinda reward are we negotiatin’ for here?”

You pretend to think about it for a second, tapping the corner of the flashcard against your chin while your eyes drift over him. A little smile pulls at your lips before you look back at him.

“Maybe, just maybe… I already know what I want. And so do you.”

Rafe lets out a quiet laugh, already shaking his head. “You are such a slut for me.”

“You thanked me for using you for your body, Rafe Cameron. I think we both know who the slut is.”

“Valid.”

“I’ve had a stressful day, baby,” you sigh. “A stressful week.”

He smiles, softer this time. “I know.” His fingers brush over your hip before nudging the next flashcard toward you. “You’ve got eight cards left, baby.”

“That’s too many.”

“So needy,” he chuckles, settling another flashcard into your hand. “C’mon, pretty. Eight more.”

You study it for a second, chewing lightly on the inside of your cheek before the answer comes to you with more confidence than the last one.

“Schema,” you answer quietly. “Mental framework that helps organize information.”

Rafe glances down at the back of the card before a smile spreads across his face.

“See?” he hums, giving your hip a proud little squeeze. “All in your head for what?”

“Thank you,” you whisper, tilting toward him as he moves closer, kissing you softly. His nose brushes against yours, breathing softly with you.

“Take off your shirt.”

"Huh?" you ask as your cheeks warm up—heart working a little faster. It's a request you've heard from him a million times, unexpected at this moment.

“You heard me,” he mumbles, warm and deep as he flicks off his hat, raking his big fingers through his hair. “Take. It. Off.”

You reach for the bottom of your top, pulling it over your head, tossing it to the side.

Rafe looks over your shoulder, his hold around you tightening as his lips press against your bare shoulder, a quiet hum of approval vibrating against your skin.

“Fuck me,” he sighs, taking you in for a second, pushing out a deep breath behind you. “Baby.” His voice comes out needy, that strict program he was running since you tried to slip underneath him the first time seemingly crumbling away.

He strips off his shirt as well, big hands landing heavy on your legs with a playful clap, making your thighs draw together, but he pulls you open, smiling against your skin.

His palms rub and squeeze the inside of your thighs, your bare back pressing against his chest when you tilt closer. He breathes you in again, your soft body and sweet perfume smelling like heaven to him.

The heat of his body wraps around you, the chill of his chain pressing against your spine. Rafe’s fingers drift higher, teasing the sensitive skin between your thigh and your panties with one hand, taking that top card off the stack with the other.

“Keep going,” he mumbles. “Doing so fuckin’ good for me.”

The next one doesn’t come quite as easily. Your eyebrows knit together while your eyes move over the word again, trying to pin it to a memory or a moment from class.

Rafe stays quiet, letting you work through it before he finally tips his head against yours.

“What do I tell you when I’m coming over?” he breathes, turning into you, making your chest tighten when his thumb moves higher, tracing over the lace between your thighs before he continues. “And I’m runnin’ late, but I fucking need you.” The words scrape past his lips, making your body tingle.

“You tell me you’re gonna take a shortcut.”

“Mhmm,” he hums, chuckling when he feels how wet you are—the subtle rock of your hips when he presses a little harder.

“A mental shortcut,” you whisper, turning your chin toward him, his gaze falling to your lips as he waits for the rest. “That helps you make decisions.”

“Heuristic,” he whispers, the corners of his lips tipping upward. “You didn’t need me. You got this shit.”

His hands slide to the band of your shorts, easing them down, nodding toward you to keep going. He groans as the material works down your thighs, leaving you in nothing but a bra and panties.

You shift over onto your hands and knees, already expecting him to take off his shorts too, and he chuckles, eyes locked on you as he tugs them over his hips, watching with a smile as you drag them down the rest of his strong thighs.

He adjusts slightly on your bed, looking back at you on your hands and knees. “Co’mere, baby,” he murmurs, and you settle on top of his lap, resting your body on top of him.

He starts to take his glasses off, and you shake your head, lacing your fingers with his.

“Don’t.”

“No?” A soft smile tugs at his lips as he drifts a little closer.

“You’re perfect,” you whisper, fussing with his hair as his cheeks flush. He tips his head down, trying to hide it before you can catch him, but you know better.

“Good,” he murmurs, a smug little smile settling on his lips. “Wanna see my girl.”

His long, thick cock is trapped in cotton still, the swell of it stretching the material. He presses the stack of cards into your hand. His palms instantly find their place on your ass, grabbing two fistfuls of skin.

"Six more cards and not a lot of clothes left, baby? What are we gonna do about that?" he asks.

“I’m sure you can think of other rewards, Rafe Cameron,” you whisper. He reaches up, fingers tangling in your hair to pull you to his mouth.

He kisses you deeply, tongue sliding between your lips instantly—hips rocking with the tempo of your kiss. “Got a few ideas,” he murmurs. “Think you can get them all right for me?”

His smile pulls along your lips when you whisper yes, his hand still gripping your hair, the other kneading your ass, coaching each drag of your hips on top.

He pulls back from the kiss reluctantly, tapping against the bed for a flashcard. “Neuroplasticity,” he mumbles, licking his lips as his eyes fall to your lace-covered tits, knowing exactly where he’s going next.

“Chapter meetings,” you whisper. “This is the one I had locked in.”

“Yeah?” he asks, his hands drifting up your spine. “Tell me more.”

“Every chapter meeting,” you whisper. “I used to rehearse every word. Now I can walk in and figure it out as I go.”

“Mhmm,” he hums, his head tipping back against the headboard as his fingers pinch the clasp of your bra, waiting for the term.

“Neuroplasticity… your brain adapts because you keep practicing.”

Your bra falls away as he chuckles proudly, pulling you in as he lowers his lips, mouth wrapping around your nipple as his hand squeezes your breast in his big palm, the other slapping your ass.

Your head lulls back and his tongue flicks across your bud, letting you go with a pop, kissing up the curve of your breast, along your collarbone.

His tongue slides along your skin, making you shiver and throb, the man snagging the necklace at your neck, catching the metal between his teeth, the white gold chain connecting the two of you.

The dainty R charm slips from between his teeth, glinting as it falls back against your skin before he speaks. “How come you never take this off, pretty?”

You look down at it, smiling to yourself, remembering that night. “Because you gave it to me.”

“If some other guy got you this, it’d just be another necklace.” You nod slowly as he scowls playfully at the mere suggestion of it—the scenario that he painted for you. “It means somethin’. That’s why your brain remembers it.”

“Semantic encoding,” you say. “I remember it by what it means, not just what it looks like.”

His big arm wraps tight around you, hugging you close, as he lets out a deep breath. “That’s my girl,” he whispers, his strong, bare chest pushing flush to yours. “Knew you could do it.”

He grabs your waist, lifting you until you're standing on top of your bed. His hands settle behind your legs, drawing you closer, peeling the panties down your skin as you look back at him.

Rafe wraps his fingers around the band of his boxer briefs, tugging them down his thighs, his cock swinging free, slapping against his tanned skin as he pushes out a breath.

He wraps his fist around his dick, stroking slowly before looking up at you. “Next one?”

His hold on the back of your thigh keeps you close, the other one working itself at a steady pace. He’s got the next vocab word memorized—held on the tip of his tongue.

His palm runs up the back of your leg, breath catching in his chest. Your hand rests on the wall above your headboard, keeping you balanced.

“Mine disappears when I’m around you,” he mumbles, dipping in to press a kiss against your thigh, lips lingering, the warmth of his breathing against your skin making your pussy throb.

“Self-control?” you whisper.

“Exactly.”

“Executive function,” you answer. “Planning, focus, and self-control.” He smiles and nods, humming out praise as he lifts your leg, foot resting on the wooden frame.

You gasp, a hand flying down to grab him, twisting in his hair as he kisses your clit. Your hips jostle, but his arms flex, forcing you to stay right where he wants you, moaning when you tug at his strands in sensitivity.

He laps at your slit like he’s starved as his hand jerks his dick, getting off on the taste and the pathetic sounds that cry past your lips with each drag and twirl of his tongue.

“Baby, fuck,” he hums into your pussy, the wet sounds of his working you over filling the room as the band in your belly tightens, your leg keeping you standing on the mattress, muscles trembling.

Your knees buckle as his lips lock down on your clit, sucking hard, making your eyes screw shut. “Rafe—Rafe, I’m gonna cum,” you whimper breathlessly, and he slaps your ass in response, drawing you as close as he can get you.

“Fuck!” You squeal when he dips his tongue in your entrance, the sensation sending you tumbling over the edge, your body fluttering around him as he works you through each wave of your orgasm, tongue-fucking you with no plans to stop until you soften completely.

Your body practically melts into his lap—his lips quickly finding yours. He grabs your hand, guiding you to his stiff cock between you, wrapping your hand around his length, stroking with you for a moment.

“How was that?” he asks softly, handing over control.

“So fucking good,” you whisper, feeling his lips curl into a smile at your words.

“Don’t peek,” he chuckles breathily against your mouth, peering away just enough to check the last three cards. “Fuck, baby. These are easy.”

“Maybe for you,” you sigh, running a line of spit down to the head of his cock, your fist moving easily through the wet, making his eyebrows tug together.

“Nah, you got this shit… Better get ‘em right,” he smiles, his eyes falling a little hazier.

“Okay,” you whisper, feeling a little more confident now.

“Next one. Studying with me is way, way better,” he mumbles as his hands rest on your hips. “And you sure as hell aren’t doin’ this.”

“Transfer-appropriate…” Your words trail away a little bit when you see his breathing getting a little quicker, your touch on his dick feeling a little too good.

“Come on, baby,” he murmurs, nodding to you, his jaw clenching a little tighter. “Wanna cum inside you but you gotta get it right.”

“…Processing?” you whisper, and he stops your hand, the other coming up to grip your cheeks between his fingers, kissing you deeply. “Practicing it the way I'll actually have to use it.”

“I’m so fucking proud of you, you know that?” he sighs.

“Yeah?” you ask as you rise on your knees.

“Mhmm,” he breathes, holding his dick straight, tracing it along your soaked slit as you hover over him.

Your lips fall open when he pulls you down, the thick head of his cock stretching you wide, soothing the ache. He pulls you lower, your wet pussy sliding down each stiff inch until there’s no space left between you.

He looks back at you, sitting with it for a moment, feeling the wet mess he made squeeze around him—how perfect his hands fit, gripping your curves to keep you sat.

Rafe draws in a heavy breath before he speaks. “Two more, baby.”

“Fucking finally,” you mutter, and he snickers.

“What, you’re not enjoying this?” he asks smugly, your wetness dripping down him.

“Of course I am,” you whisper.

“Remember last weekend? I got back to my place, and it was dark and quiet. And, you were too busy for me.”

“Baby…” you stop him with a laugh. “That’s a lie. I was at a retreat.”

“I'm just teasin’,” he mumbles. “All I could think about was this… and I texted you and told you. And what did you say to me?”

“…I want you so bad.”

“And?” he mumbles.

“I’m wet,” you sigh, the corners of his mouth tilting into a smirk as his cock moves inside you, just enough for you to feel it.

“And what did I say?”

“Show me,” you answer, remembering the picture you sent him seconds later.

“Of course I did,” he mumbles, and your eyes fall, your brain going a little fuzzy when he starts rubbing slow circles on your clit with his thumb.

“Dual coding theory,” you smile with him as his touch on you grows quicker.

Your heart rate starts to climb, that orgasm that just claimed you minutes ago still simmering.

“Elaborative rehearsal,” the last card in the stack leaves your lips without being prompted at all, the only one you didn’t discuss—the definition literally all encompassed in this moment.

Rafe’s forehead falls against yours, waiting for you to finish, just as desperate as you. “Connecting new things to what I already know—”

You gasp and squeal out his name, your body flung to your back, Rafe pinning you underneath him before you can even ask if you’re right.

Your eyes go wide, and your jaw drops as he slams into you in one hard thrust, your hands wrapping around him, nails sinking into his back.

He lets out a deep, drawn-out groan, pulling out just enough to see the wetness slicked all over his length, the thick tip of his dick making you gasp when he pushes in again.

“Yes, baby,” Rafe growls against your lips, feeling your body squeeze around him, fucking into you at a punishing pace, your pussy gripping him with each filthy stroke.

You tremble beneath him, sliding higher up the mattress with each rough snap of his hips, the headboard thumping against the wall as the bed creaks below.

The room fills with the sounds of pleasure—the wet slap of skin against yours, his name leaving your lips in a choked cry, quiet praise humming past his lips into yours.

His hand slides down to grab your hip, hard enough to leave a bruise, his other palm resting by your head, gripping the sheet.

You pull him closer, locking your legs around his hips, forcing him deeper. Your eyes roll back in your head as he hits the perfect spot inside you.

“Feels too fuckin’ good,” he mutters, his forehead falling to yours as his hips stutter.

Your walls clench around him, and he gasps against your lips, his pace quickening until your back lifts off the bed.

“Yes—yes,” you cry out, and he buries his face in your neck, teeth gritted as he cums with you, burying himself deep inside you with a strangled moan, thick ropes of his climax filling you as your name drips from his mouth in a fucked-out sigh.

He collapses on top, snuggling into you, the air around you hot and sticky. Both of you are laughing dizzily, his lips moving against yours in soft, breathless kisses.

“We’re celebrating when you ace this shit tomorrow,” he smiles against the corner of your mouth.

“Pretty confident in me, Rafe Cameron,” you whisper.

“Of course I am,” he whispers.

“What if I get an A?”

“You know you will,” he hums into a kiss, sucking off your bottom lip. “You gonna ask about another reward?”

You giggle below him, and he laughs, pushing out a satisfied sound when your nails slide down his strong back.

“Well, shit.” He lets out a soft sigh. “It’s gonna need to be pretty good, huh?”

“Mhmm,” you mumble.

He smiles against your mouth, chuckling like the plan just clicked. “Guess you’re gonna have to ace it and find out, huh?”

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“Don’t say sorry. I’m not going to beg for your help, Rafe.”

“You are not begging me for anything,” he panics, a desperate laugh clinging to his words as his hands go tighter on your hips. “I just—why?” he asks almost bashfully, licking his lips to fight back a smile as his gaze falls to yours.

“Same reason you wanted me to tutor you. I don’t know how to do it. I want to. You’re a guy…”

“I am,” he chuckles, stepping a little closer.

“You can teach me,” your voice softens, the heat of his body radiating onto your bare skin.

“Who?” he asks, his attention falling to your lips. “You learnin’ to give head just ‘cause?”

“I’m going to that party this weekend.”

“…Yeah?” he asks as he shifts his weight, his eyebrows drawing in ever so slightly as his gaze lifts to yours.

“I tutor, you know—”

“Some of the other frat guys, yeah,” he tracks, answering for you, getting a little impatient about who this is all for.

“Just getting this vibe from Mason. I don’t know. He’s sweet.”

“Mason Jennings?” Rafe asks, arms pulling away from you to cross over his chest, biceps pulling the arms of his t-shirt taut. “Is he just bein’ nice? Or…”

You scrunch your nose in annoyance, scoffing before you turn around. “Whatever, Rafe.” You chuckle weakly, bending over to grab your skirt and your sweater, but he’s scrambling again.

“Stop. Just, don’t—calm down,” he grabs the clothes off your hands, tossing them back to the floor. He lifts both hands, lashes fluttering as he rakes his fingers through his hair.

“He’s not just being nice. He’s not pitying me—”

“Well, that last part didn’t leave my mouth,” he chuckles tiredly, his hand rubbing the back of his neck as his gaze travels down your body. He hangs his head for a moment, lost in thought.

“And, I know I’m just your Ancient Lit tutor, but don’t tell women to calm down—”

“You’re right. You’re right about everything, actually.”

You blow out a breath, rolling your eyes. “Well, as fun as it’s been standing in front of you for the last fifteen minutes in my bra and panties begging you to teach me—”

“You didn’t beg,” he answers, cutting you off as you spin out, his hand reaching out to grab your hand, fingers tracing down your arm to find yours, urging you closer. “You asked me once. You said please. That’s not begging.”

His thumb rubs along your knuckles, his lips tugging to the side as he thinks a little more.

“Mason’s my friend. That’s why I asked if he was being nice.”

“Okay?”

“He was supposed to be in the class with me across the hall, then I saw you walk into Ancient Lit—”

“Mhmm…”

“And I switched classes,” he continues, the corner of his mouth tipping up like he’s playing it back.

You nod, your eyes following the chain on his chest as it flickers with his quicker breathing before he speaks again.

“Already felt like I was doin’ something wrong asking you for help on day one before we even got our first assignment… Seems like a conflict of interest if I teach you how to do that, feeling like I feel. Do you know what I mean?”

The question breathes past his lips and, just like Rafe, your heart starts to race a little faster. “I think so.”

“Yeah, I like you,” he answers honestly, the words cracking a little at the end with nerves. Your cheeks swell with warmth, the little tingles in your body getting stronger.

“Were you gonna tell me?” you ask.

“Eventually… Just didn’t feel right letting you do that without knowing—” You steal the words off his lips with a kiss and he deepens it instantly, arms wrapping around your body, fingers sliding into your hair. He kisses you so deep your back bows, but he has you, holding you in his big arms, his soft lips pressing against yours.

He kisses you again, softer this time, then one more, smiling into your kiss.

“I can still teach you,” he whispers, taking off his shirt.

“Yeah?” you ask.

“If you want me,” he sighs when your palms rest on his strong chest.

“Beg,” you breathe, and he laughs against your mouth, liking how that word sounds leaving your lips.

“You want me to beg?” he asks, feeling as you hum a mhmm against his mouth. “I want you.” His rough palm falls with those words, slipping under the lace of your thong, squeezing your ass. “You have no idea what I’ve been dreaming about doing to you. This… This is exactly what I need. So, please, baby.”

“Baby?” you hum.

“You’ll call me that one day,” he says confidently, feeling your soft giggle against his lips. “Got a good feeling about us.”

“Teach me,” you smile, and he sighs, the muscles in his shoulders softening.

He looks at you for a second before he says anything, the corner of his mouth tugging up like he still can’t believe you chose him in the first place.

“You gonna let me teach you anything else?” he says quietly against your lips, stealing a kiss.

“Maybe,” you tease, fingers falling down his stomach, tracing over his abs, feeling them flex tighter under your touch. “Second session.”

“Seriously?” he asks breathlessly, following your gaze as your nails trace along the top of his sweats. “Sounds perfect.”

“So, what do I do now?” you whisper, fingers looping under the band of his pants.

“We’re startin’ the lesson from up here?” he asks, chuckling warmly when you mumble yes. “Kisses. Just like you are now. S’perfect.”

“Okay,” you hum.

“Move to my neck, and your hand.” The words leave him slowly as he grabs yours, lifting and placing you on top of that thick bulge between his thighs. “Right here.”

His breathing changes and his voice dips lower as he guides you to rub your hand on top. “Gotta tease me a little. I want this too fuckin’ bad, okay? Make me sweat a little. Don’t let me have it yet.”

You hum out a yes, kissing your way along his sharp jaw as your hand strokes his long, hard cock over the cotton. You can feel him tilt into you a little, pushing himself into your hand.

His face turns into you a little when you get to his ear, hands resting on your body still. “Tighter,” he mutters and you can hear the smile in his voice as your hand squeezes around him.

“Like that?”

“Just like that.”

You kiss under his ear and his head falls to the side, your lips working down the column of his neck, feeling his pulse hammer against your lips.

“Lick,” he murmurs, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your neck to keep you close, your tongue tracing up the trail of kisses you just left. Rafe shudders out a breath, goosebumps fanning across his tan skin.

“Talk to me,” he rasps, turning his face slightly to look you in the eyes, the tension between you thick. “You want it? Let me know.”

“What I want to do to you?”

“You can lie,” he answers softly, tipping your lips toward him when his fingers hook under your chin.

“I don’t wanna lie.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you answer as he draws you in for a kiss.

“Tell me.”

“I want you to teach me—”

“No,” he stops you, his brows furrowing when it sounds like less than he was hoping for—like you’re using him instead of wanting this too.

“Listen,” you breathe.

“Yes, ma’am,” he answers, through a soft smile.

“I want you,” you whisper, tilting closer with each word. “To teach me what you like. So, I can do it again. And, again. I want to get so good at it, that it’s all you can think about.”

“Fuck, baby,” he huffs, gaze lingering as you drop down on your knees in front of him, pressing kisses as you go, his cock painfully hard. “How are you—you sound like you know what you’re doing.”

“In theory,” you answer, wrapping your fingers around the gray material at his hips. “Not in practice.”

“That book you have, huh?” he asks as his fingers find their way into your hair, guiding you to look back at him from where you sit on your knees.

“Mhmm,” you answer, dragging the cozy material down his legs, watching his thigh muscles tense and soften.

“Looked it up. Had to figure out why you were blushin’ like that yesterday before class,” he drawls, cupping your chin in his hand, thumb tracing your bottom lip. “Look so fuckin’ good on your knees, you know that?”

“Thank you,” you whisper, his smile spreading with yours. Your hands work up his thighs, resting on his boxers, tracing along the length of his thick dick, straining the material, his tip leaking through the fabric.

“Suck that. It’ll fuckin’ kill me,” he sighs as your focus stays fixed on the dark spot.

“Over your boxers?” you ask, already leaning in, your gaze flicking up to him. “You don’t want my mouth?” The question leaving your lips a hell of a lot more like taunting than asking, making him chuckle.

“You have no idea,” the words barely leave his lips when your mouth wraps around him, the fabric resting against your tongue. The taste comes second, his tip warm and throbbing—his hold on your hair tightening the wetter it gets.

You can feel the arousal soak the lace between your thighs, a steady pulse thumping, your body aching for contact—especially when that first sound of pleasure falls from his lips.

“Goddamn,” he groans, his jaw locking. You reach up without being told and he sucks a sharp breath through his nose when you cup his heavy balls in your hand. “Mhmm…” the praise breathes through a pleasured hum, nodding as you roll them in your hand, still sucking him through the cotton.

“More?” you ask, your breath hitting the place you mouthed, air filling his lungs at the sensation.

“Shit, pretty—yeah,” he slurs, drinking you in with his heavy stare as your hands follow the band of his boxers, tracing his sharp v-lines. You lean in, pressing a kiss on the soft skin below his bellybutton, just above the elastic.

He tips his chin toward you, shaking his head.

“You’re gonna be so good at this, baby,” his voice softens. “So fuckin’ perfect at everything. Why wouldn’t you be?”

His praise goes straight through you, your body drawing closer, settling a little more. He shifts his stance ever so slightly, his jaw tightening as he feels how wet your pussy is when your weight lands on top of his foot.

Your body moves instinctually, rocking your hips a little, feeling some relief you hadn’t known was building. “Feels good?” he asks, already seeing it in your body language. “Teach you how to ride my thigh. You’ll love it.” His words come out a little distracted as he watches your hands disappear behind your back.

“Next lesson?” you ask through a little smile.

“Don’t know if I can wait,” he confesses. “Take it off,” his voice dips, and you unclasp your bra, letting it fall away. He pushes out a breath, looking down at you, feeling that desperation he told you would come if you teased him—and you are.

You lift your hands, pinching the cotton, pulling down his boxers too. His cock strains—long and weighed down—that heavy walk he carries around campus clearly needed.

Your mouth starts to water, the blushed tip of his dick leaking with wet. “Kiss it off, baby,” he hums and you nod. Your lips press against the warm head of his dick, kissing it off just like he asked. “Just toy with me, yeah?”

Rafe’s words come out a little tighter and breathless. His eyes roll back in his head when your tongue curls around his tip, dipping in the slit, your other hand stroking slowly.

“Tongue out,” he tells you, wrapping his big fist around his dick, slapping the tip against your tongue. “Beautiful,” the word comes out quiet. “Kiss again,” he guides you. You press your lips into a pout, slick from spit, and he rubs his head against them messily.

He hums out a sound of approval, nodding down to his dick. Your hand circles him again, tongue dragging up the side of him as well, following a vein that maps all the way from base to top, your name dripping past his lips as his head hangs between his shoulders, chain swaying off his neck.

“Take as much as you want. You’re doing so fucking good—so, so good,” he sighs. “You can’t fit it all. That’s okay, baby. Just use your hand for the rest. Get me good and wet.”

You spit on his tip and his eye rolls back like there were two options to get him slicked up and you chose the best fucking one. Your hand circles around his thickness, stroking at the base a few times.

“Please,” he exhales, and your lips tilt into a smile before your lips wrap around him fully, taking him deep in your mouth.

You moan around him, discouraged for a moment about how much of him is left and how little you’ve taken in. Your mouth is stuffed, the look on his face letting you know that it’s more than enough for him.

“Holy shit,” he gasps. “Fuck, you feel so good.” When your hand wraps around him again, his eyebrows knitting tight.

You can feel his blood pumping through his cock, his hold on your head careful, like he wants you to guide the pace and not the other way around. For a moment he seemingly forgets about the task at hand as you work him with your mouth and your fist.

“Like—fuck me…” he sighs, losing his train of thought, the muscles in his thighs trembling. “Like this, baby.” He wraps his hand around yours at the thick base of his cock, twisting it slightly instead of jerking it back and forth.

“Yeah. That’s it,” he breathes, smiling as you start to bob around his length, rutting your pussy on top of him with the tempo of your mouth.

“Gonna use you a little,” he pants, resting his hands on your cheeks. “Tap out if it’s too much, alright? Breathe through your nose.”

He gives you a few shallow thrusts, melting like putty in your hand when you gag around him, smiling when you don’t push him away, resting your hands on the back of his thighs instead to keep you right where you’re at.

“Good girl,” he hums, making you choke on his cock again and again. Your vision starts to swim with it, tears pooling along your lashes. Your eyes flutter shut and the wet rolls down your cheeks.

“Goddamn, baby,” he mumbles as he reaches his thumb out, tracing it under your eye, catching some tears as they fall.

“You’re a natural, baby,” he hums, sucking the tears off his thumb, handing back control, looking down at you like he’s proud.

“Let me thank you after this.” The words breathe past his lips as you suck and stroke, jaw aching from the stretch, moaning around his dick, the vibrations making his jaw tighten as he realizes just how much pleasure you’re getting from having his heavy cock in your mouth.

“You’re so fuckin’ wet… Fuck my thigh. Let me clean that up for you—teach you how to ride my face instead.”

His breathing changes and the grip on the back of your head suddenly tightens. The wet sounds fill the room around you, cock slipping through your spit, moans and grunts breaking past his lips getting closer and closer by the second.

“Gonna—I’m gonna cum, baby. You don’t have to swallow it,” he breathes, but you know he wants to finish deep in your throat.

Your hands move a little higher, nails sliding down the back of his ass and thighs and he loses it completely, climaxing with a deep moan, ropes and ropes of cum slipping down the back of your throat.

Your eyes slam shut and you swallow hard, sucking through it until he’s holding you in place, panting in overstimulation, each slide of your tongue making him flinch.

He smiles as he pulls you off him nice and slow, his breath leaving him shakily.

“Fuck, baby,” he hums. “Lemme see.”

You giggle breathily, holding out your clean tongue for him. He shakes his head and smiles, helping you up to your feet. His hand cradles your cheek, the other wrapping around your waist as he reaches for a breath.

“How was that, baby?” you ask.

His forehead tilts to rest against yours, his thumb brushing the apple of your cheek. “Baby?” he breathes, kissing you gently.

You tilt your head, lips drawing to the side. “I have a good feeling about us too?”

“You do?”

“I do.”

He kisses you again, deep and claiming. “That was perfect.”

“Yeah?” you ask sweetly, feeling his hands wrap around your body, dropping low, rough thumbs slipping under your lace thong, pulling it down this time instead, humming against your lips as your breasts press against his bare chest, your panties tumbling down your thighs.

He lifts you effortlessly off your feet into his strong arms, walking with you to his bed, resting you down on top before mounting it fast, caging you under his weight.

You suck in a sharp breath as he rolls you on top of him, your knees sinking into the mattress. His hands drag up your thighs, resting on your ass, pulling you closer to his lips. The warmth of his breath hits your wet pussy and your head falls back.

“Ready for your second lesson, baby?”