#dylan minnette

Clay’s bedroom door was half-open when Justin strolled in without knocking, like he owned the place—which, technically, he kind of did now that he was living here. He flopped onto the edge of Clay’s unmade bed, arms crossed behind his head, wearing that shit-eating grin that always meant trouble.

“Dude,” Justin said, kicking his shoes off and letting one dangle off the mattress. “You’ve been weird all week. Like, more weird than usual. What’s up? You relapse into listening to too much Radiohead or something?”

Clay didn’t look up from his desk. He was pretending to organize his biology notes, but really he was just shuffling the same three pages back and forth. His face was already heating up, and Justin hadn’t even started yet.

“I’m fine,” Clay muttered.

“Bullshit.” Justin sat up, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “You’ve been smiling at your phone like an idiot in the hallway. And don’t think I didn’t see you staring at Y/N in the cafeteria yesterday. Like, full-on heart-eyes, man. It was pathetic.”

Clay’s head snapped up. “I wasn’t—”

“You were. You looked like you were about to write her a fucking poem.” Justin laughed, but there was no real malice in it—just the kind of big-brother teasing he’d gotten way too good at since moving in. “Come on, Helmet. Spill. You’ve got a crush on her, don’t you?”

Clay opened his mouth to deny it, but the words died somewhere between his brain and his tongue. Because yeah. Obviously. He’d had a crush on you for months—maybe longer—and Justin had apparently been watching it happen in real time.

He dropped his pen and rubbed a hand over his face. “Is it that obvious?”

“To everyone except her, probably,” Justin said, grinning wider. “You turn into a complete spaz whenever she’s around. It’s kinda cute, actually. In a nerdy, virgin-forever kind of way.”

“Shut up,” Clay groaned, throwing a crumpled worksheet at him. Justin caught it one-handed and tossed it back.

“Hey, I’m not judging. I’m impressed you’ve lasted this long without imploding.” Justin paused, studying Clay’s face like he was reading something written there. “You really like her, huh? Like, not just wanna hook up. Actual feelings.”

Clay didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the poster of The Smiths on his wall like it might save him. Finally, he nodded. Once. Small.

Justin let out a low whistle. “Damn. Little brother’s in love.”

“I’m not—” Clay started, then stopped. Because maybe he was. Or close enough that it didn’t matter.

Justin leaned back again, looking way too pleased with himself. “Alright. Fair trade.”

Clay frowned. “What?”

“You helped me get clean, man. Like, actually saved my life. Multiple times.” Justin’s voice went quieter for a second, serious in a way it rarely did. Then the smirk came back. “So I’m gonna return the favor. I’m getting you at least a kiss with Y/N. Minimum.”

Clay’s eyes went wide. “You’re—what? No. Justin, don’t—”

“Too late. Deal’s sealed.” Justin stood up, stretching. “I’ve got connections. I know things. And you, my friend, are finally gonna get some action.”

Clay buried his face in his hands. “I hate you.”

“You love me,” Justin called over his shoulder as he headed for the door. “And soon, Y/N’s gonna love you too. Or at least make out with you. We’ll start small.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Clay sat there for a long time, heart racing, staring at nothing.

He had no idea what was coming.

The next day in biology class, Mr. Porter was pacing at the front of the room, holding his clipboard like it was a sacred scroll. The projector screen behind him displayed the words: SEXUAL EDUCATION CAMPAIGN PROJECT – PARTNERS ASSIGNED.

Everyone was buzzing. Half the class was praying not to get stuck with someone who’d do zero work; the other half was praying not to get stuck with someone who’d make it painfully awkward.

“Alright, settle down,” Mr. Porter said, adjusting his glasses. “This is a two-person project. You’ll create a presentation aimed at freshmen—safe sex, consent, healthy relationships, STI prevention. Keep it educational, keep it mature. No memes, no jokes that cross the line.”

Clay sat in the middle row, notebook open, pen tapping nervously against the page. His stomach had been in knots since last night’s conversation with Justin. He still couldn’t believe his adoptive brother had basically declared war on his virginity.

Mr. Porter started reading names.

“Jessica Davis and Alex Standall…”

“Zach Dempsey and Tyler Down…”

Clay barely heard the rest. His heart was pounding too loud.

“Justin Foley and Clay Jensen…”

Clay’s head jerked up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.

Across the room, Justin caught his eye and smirked—like he’d planned this. Like this was step one of his ridiculous “get Clay laid” master plan.

Clay felt his face go hot. No. No way. Working on a sex ed project with Justin? The guy who once ranked the entire cheer squad in the locker room? This was a disaster waiting to happen.

Justin raised his hand immediately, that cocky grin still plastered on his face.

“Uh, Mr. Porter?” he called out. “Can I say something?”

The teacher sighed. “Make it quick, Foley.”

Justin leaned back in his chair, totally casual. “Look, I get that random pairs are supposed to build character or whatever, but putting me and Clay together on this specific project? Come on. That’s just cruel.”

A few people snickered. Clay wanted to disappear into the floor.

Justin kept going. “I mean, he’s basically my brother now. Talking about sex stuff with family? Super weird. Like, I guarantee this presentation would just turn into a TED Talk on masturbation techniques and my personal ranking of top Pornhub videos.”

The class erupted in laughter. Someone in the back yelled, “Yo, Foley, chill!”

Clay’s face was now the color of a stop sign. He sank lower in his seat, staring at his desk like it might swallow him whole.

“And honestly,” Justin continued, completely unbothered, “I suck at biology. Like, epically. Clay’s got a 4.0. He doesn’t deserve me tanking his grade just because I can’t spell ‘chlamydia’ without Googling it.”

Mr. Porter pinched the bridge of his nose. “Foley—”

“But also,” Justin said, cutting him off with a dramatic pause, “Clay literally jerks off like three times a day. Putting him with a guy partner? Bad idea. He needs to be paired with a girl who’ll actually keep him focused instead of letting him turn this into a PowerPoint called ‘13 Reasons Why Porn Is Better Than Real Life.’”

The entire class lost it. Someone shouted, “Damn, Justin!” Girls were covering their mouths, laughing. Guys were howling.

Clay thought he might actually die. He couldn’t even look up. His ears were burning so bad he was surprised they didn’t catch fire.

You were sitting two rows over, trying not to laugh too hard, but your eyes flicked to Clay—and you saw how mortified he was. Poor guy looked like he wanted the earth to open up and take him.

Mr. Porter finally raised his voice. “Enough! Foley, sit down.”

But Justin wasn’t done. He shrugged, all innocent. “I’m just saying, sir. For the sake of education. Put Clay with Y/N. They’ve got the same GPA, they’re both smart, responsible… and she’s way less likely to let him derail the project into a wanking seminar.”

The class roared again.

You felt your own cheeks heat up at suddenly being named.

Mr. Porter looked exhausted. “Fine. Whatever. Jensen and Y/N. Foley, you’re with Montgomery.”

Justin gave a triumphant fist pump, mouthing “You’re welcome” across the room to Clay.

Clay finally dared to glance up. His eyes met yours for a split second—just long enough for you to give him a small, sympathetic smile.

He looked away fast, heart racing.

Holy shit.

This was actually happening.

You were going to be his partner.

And thanks to Justin’s completely over-the-top, humiliating speech… you now knew way more about Clay Jensen’s alleged habits than anyone ever should.

But somehow, through the embarrassment, Clay felt something else spark in his chest.

Hope.

The laughter from Justin’s stunt had barely died down when Mr. Porter clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention again.

“Okay, okay, enough chaos,” he said, flipping to the next page on his clipboard. “Now that partners are finalized, I’m assigning each pair a specific sub-topic for the campaign. These are non-negotiable. You’ll focus your presentation around it, but you can still touch on the broader themes of safety and consent.”

Clay’s stomach twisted. He glanced at you quickly—you were already packing up your notebook, looking calm and focused, like you hadn’t just been dragged into the most embarrassing moment of his life. You caught his eye and gave him a little shrug, as if to say, We got this.

He tried to smile back. It probably looked more like a grimace.

Mr. Porter started rattling off topics.

“Davis and Standall—consent and communication.”

“Dempsey and Down—STI prevention and testing.”

“Foley and Montgomery—contraception methods.”

Justin fake-groaned dramatically from his new seat, but Clay could see he was secretly relieved.

Mr. Porter’s eyes scanned the list. “Jensen and Y/N…”

Clay held his breath. Please be something normal. Please be something normal.

“…Pleasure in partnered sex.”

The room went dead silent for half a second—and then a wave of muffled snickers and “ooohs” rippled through the class.

Clay felt every drop of blood in his body rush straight to his face.

Pleasure. In partnered sex.

He stared at the desk like it had personally betrayed him. His mind was screaming. Someone needed to shoot him. Right now. In the temple. Mercy kill.

Across from him, you let out a soft, surprised laugh—not mocking, just… taken aback. You looked over at him, eyebrows raised, cheeks a little pink now too.

“Seriously?” you whispered, half to yourself.

Mr. Porter didn’t even blink. “Yes, seriously. It’s an important part of comprehensive sex education. Mutual pleasure, anatomy, dispelling myths, body positivity—all of it. Make it respectful, make it informative. You two are both mature students; I trust you’ll handle it well. You two are my best students”

A few people were still giggling. Someone in the back whispered, “Poor Clay’s gonna combust.”

Justin, now partnered with Monty, turned around in his seat and shot Clay the world’s biggest shit-eating grin, mouthing: “You’re. So. Fucking. Welcome.”

Clay wanted to flip him off. He wanted to run out of the room. He wanted to transfer schools. Countries. Planets.

Instead, he just sat there, rigid, praying the bell would ring.

You leaned over slightly, voice low so only he could hear. “Hey. It’s okay. We’ll make it educational. Like… super clinical. Diagrams and stuff. No big deal.”

Your tone was kind, reassuring. Not teasing.

Clay finally dared to meet your eyes. You were smiling—small, genuine, not at all freaked out.

He managed a weak nod. “Y-yeah. Totally. Clinical. Diagrams. Great.”

Inside, his brain was short-circuiting.

He was going to have to talk to you—you, the girl he’d been crushing on for months—about pleasure. In partnered sex.

Out loud.

For a grade.

The bell rang.

Everyone started packing up, but Clay didn’t move. He just sat there, staring at his hands, wondering how his life had come to this.

You stood up, slinging your backpack over your shoulder. Before you walked away, you paused by his desk.

“Hey, Clay? Want to work on it at your place tomorrow after school? We can get a head start.”

His heart stopped.

“Y-yeah,” he stammered. “Sure. My place. Tomorrow.”

“Cool.” You smiled again, softer this time. “See you then.”

You walked out.

Clay stayed seated for another minute, trying to breathe.

Tomorrow.

In his bedroom.

Talking about pleasure.

With you.

He was so screwed.

The next afternoon, Clay’s bedroom looked like it had been hit by a Category 5 cleaning hurricane.

He was on his knees scrubbing the baseboards with a damp rag—baseboards that hadn’t been touched since his parents moved in years ago. The floor was vacuumed to the point where the carpet lines looked like a freshly mowed lawn. Every poster on the wall had been straightened with a level. His desk was organized by color and size. Even his vinyl collection was alphabetized, then re-alphabetized by release date, then switched back because he panicked.

He’d changed the sheets twice. Once because the first set “smelled like old laundry,” and the second time because he wasn’t sure if the new ones were soft enough.

He was currently on a step stool, dusting the top of his bookshelf, when Justin pushed the door open with his foot, holding a bag of chips.

“Dude,” Justin said, mouth full, eyes sweeping the room. “What the hell happened in here? Did you hire a cleaning service, or are you prepping for a health inspection?”

Clay didn’t stop dusting. “It was messy.”

“It was fine yesterday.” Justin stepped inside, crunching loudly. “Now it looks like a fucking Airbnb listing. ‘Cozy teen room, recently sanitized, perfect for… what exactly?’”

Clay shot him a glare. “Shut up.”

Justin flopped onto the freshly made bed—earning an immediate horrified gasp from Clay—and grinned up at the ceiling.

“Oh my God,” he said, realization dawning. “This is about Y/N coming over, isn’t it? You’re trying to make the room sexy.”

“It’s not—” Clay started, then gave up. He climbed down from the stool, face already red. “I just want it to look nice.”

“Nice?” Justin sat up, brushing crumbs onto the comforter just to be an asshole. Clay winced. “Bro, you dusted your ceiling fan. Nobody dusts their ceiling fan unless they’re expecting someone to be staring up at it for an extended period of time.”

Clay froze.

Justin’s grin turned demonic. “Holy shit. You’re hoping she gives you a hands-on demonstration of the project topic, aren’t you? A fucking Sex Education Practical lesson”

“Justin—”

“‘Pleasure in partnered sex: A Practical Guide by Y/N.’” Justin made dramatic air quotes. “You’re out here Febreezing your pillows like she’s gonna be rolling around on them by the end of the study session.”

“I am not—” Clay’s voice cracked. He grabbed the pillow Justin was lying on and yanked it out from under him. “I’m just cleaning. Normal cleaning. For a school project.”

“Uh-huh.” Justin stood up, brushing more crumbs off deliberately. “Tell me, Helmet—did you change your sheets to the soft ones? The gray ones Lainie got you for Christmas?”

Clay didn’t answer. He was aggressively fluffing the pillow.

“You did,” Justin cackled. “You absolute horndog. You’re setting the mood. Candles next? Mood lighting? A little Lana Del Rey on the speakers?”

“Get out,” Clay hissed, throwing the pillow at him.

Justin caught it and hugged it to his chest. “Come on, man. It’s cute. You’re finally shooting your shot. Or at least hoping she shoots hers.”

“I’m not hoping for anything,” Clay muttered, but his voice was way too high-pitched to be convincing. “We’re just working on the project.”

“Sure. That’s why you’re wearing cologne at three in the afternoon.” Justin leaned in and sniffed dramatically. “Is that… Axe? No, wait. You upgraded. That’s the good stuff. The one you save for concerts.”

Clay shoved him toward the door. “Out.”

Justin backed up, hands raised, still laughing. “Fine, fine. I’ll leave you to your seduction lair. But hey—if things go well and you need tips, you know where to find me.”

“I will never ask you for tips.”

“Your loss.” Justin paused in the doorway. “But seriously, bro. Relax. She already likes you enough to come over. You don’t need to disinfect the room like she’s royalty.”

Clay slammed the door in his face.

From the hallway, Justin’s voice echoed: “Don’t forget protection! We’ve got a whole project on it!”

Clay leaned against the door, heart hammering, and looked around at his spotless room.

He had maybe thirty minutes before you arrived.

He grabbed the Febreze again.

Just in case.

The doorbell rang at exactly 3:47 p.m.—thirteen minutes early, because of course you were the kind of person who showed up a little early instead of fashionably late.

Clay nearly tripped over his own feet rushing down the stairs. He’d been pacing in his room for the last twenty minutes, rehearsing casual greetings in his head like an idiot.

Hey, good to see you.

Hi, come on in.

You look… nice—no, don’t say that, too weird.

He opened the door mid-deep-breath.

And then his brain short-circuited.

You were standing on the porch in the late afternoon light, wearing a simple sundress—soft blue, thin straps, the kind that made you look effortlessly pretty. Your hair was down, a little wavy from the breeze, and you had a backpack slung over one shoulder, notebook peeking out the top. You smiled when you saw him—warm, easy, like you weren’t about to spend the next few hours discussing pleasure in partnered sex with the guy who’d been secretly in love with you since Junior year.

“Hey, Clay,” you said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Hope it’s okay I’m a little early. Traffic was light.”

“Y-yeah! No, totally fine. Great, actually. Early is… good.” He stepped aside quickly, holding the door open wider than necessary. “Come in. Please.”

You stepped past him, and he caught the faint scent of your shampoo—something clean and sweet, like vanilla and citrus. His heart did an embarrassing flip.

“Thanks,” you said, looking around the living room curiously. “Your house is really nice.”

“Oh, uh, thanks. My parents are both at work, so it’s just… us.” He winced internally. Smooth, Jensen. Real smooth

You didn’t seem to mind. You turned back to him with that same easy smile. “Cool. Less embarrassing, right?”

“Right. Yeah.” He gestured awkwardly toward the stairs. “My room’s upstairs. We can work there. I mean—if that’s okay? There’s more space on my desk. And, uh, snacks. I have snacks.”

You laughed softly. “Snacks are always a yes. Lead the way.”

He started up the stairs, hyper-aware of you behind him. He’d never been more grateful that he’d vacuumed the steps this morning.

When you stepped into his room, you paused in the doorway, taking it in. The posters The Smiths, Radiohead, a vintage Star Wars one, the neatly made bed, the organized desk with two chairs pulled up side by side, a bowl of chips and some drinks already set out.

“Wow,” you said, genuinely impressed. “Your room is so clean. And cozy.”

Clay rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks warm. “I, uh… tidied up a little.”

“A little?” You grinned, setting your backpack down. “This is like… museum-level tidy.”

He laughed nervously. “Yeah, well… didn’t want you thinking I was a slob.”

You looked at him then—really looked—and your expression softened. “I wouldn’t have thought that anyway.”

He swallowed hard.

You moved to one of the chairs, sitting down and pulling out your notebook. “So. Pleasure in partnered sex. Where do you wanna start?”

Clay sat beside you close, but not too close trying to keep his hands from shaking as he opened his laptop.

“Uh… maybe with an outline?” he suggested, voice a little higher than usual. “Like… anatomy basics? Or myths? Or… communication?”

You nodded, leaning in slightly to look at his screen. Your arm brushed his for a second, and he nearly forgot how to breathe.

“Communication’s good,” you said, completely unaware of the chaos you were causing. “That’s kind of the foundation of everything, right? Making sure both people feel good.”

Clay nodded way too enthusiastically. “Exactly. Totally. Foundation.”

You smiled again, flipping open your notebook. “Okay, Mr. Jensen. Let’s make the best damn sex ed campaign Liberty High has ever seen.”

He laughed actually laughed, the tension easing just a fraction.

“Yeah,” he said, meeting your eyes. “Let’s do it.”

And for the first time since this whole thing started, he thought:bMaybe I won’t die today after all.

You’d been working for about forty-five minutes—outlines, bullet points, googling “female anatomy” with SafeSearch on, obviously and the initial awkwardness had mostly melted away. You two had found a rhythm: you typed up notes on your laptop, Clay scribbled ideas on paper, and you bounced thoughts back and forth like it was any other project.

But the topic was… the topic.

At some point, you leaned back in your chair, stretching your arms above your head with a little laugh.

“Okay, wait,” you said, shaking your head like you couldn’t believe it. “Mr. Porter literally just handed us a free pass to make a presentation about how people like to fuck. Like… are we allowed to say that in school?”

Clay choked on his sip of soda, coughing hard enough that you had to pat him on the back a couple times.

“Jesus—sorry,” you said, still laughing. “But seriously. This is wild.”

He cleared his throat, face pink but smiling despite himself. “Yeah. It’s… definitely not what I expected when I signed up for biology.”

You spun your chair to face him fully, tucking one leg under yourself. The vibe had shifted—still focused, but way more relaxed. Like you’d crossed some invisible line into actual trust.

“Okay, but real talk,” you said, lowering your voice a little, eyes playful. “If we’re gonna make this good, we have to be honest, right? Like… we can’t just copy Wikipedia. We need to talk about what actually feels good. Otherwise the freshmen are gonna tune out in five seconds.”

Clay nodded slowly, swallowing. “Right. Honest. Educational.”

You bit your lip, thinking for a second, then just went for it.

“So, for me—girls’ side—foreplay is everything. Like, everything. Kissing down the neck, slow teasing, fingers first… not just jumping straight to the main event.” You gestured vaguely, totally casual, like you were talking about pizza toppings. “And oral? Game-changer. When someone actually takes their time and pays attention to the clit—like circles, not just random stabbing with the tongue—that’s when it’s fucking mind-blowing.”

Clay’s eyes were wide, but he wasn’t looking away. His face was red, sure, but he was listening. Intently.

You kept going, warming up to it. “Also, being on top? Love that. Feeling in control, setting the pace… and when a guy grabs your hips or plays with your tits at the same time? Yeah. Instant favorite.”

You paused, tilting your head at him with a teasing smile. “Your turn, Jensen. Fair’s fair. What do you like? Or… what do boys really like?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

His hands were fidgeting in his lap, and he couldn’t quite meet your eyes anymore.

“I, uh…” He let out a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I actually… don’t really know. From experience, I mean.”

You blinked, waiting for him to elaborate.

He took a shaky breath, staring at his knees.

“Because… I’m, um… I’m still a virgin.”

The room went quiet for a beat just the low hum of his computer fan and the distant sound of a car passing outside.

You didn’t laugh. You didn’t look shocked or pitying. You just softened, leaning forward a little.

“Hey,” you said gently. “That’s totally okay.”

He risked a glance up at you. You were smiling—small, kind, zero judgment.

“Really,” you added. “It’s not a big deal. And honestly? It makes you the perfect person for this project. You’re not gonna bullshit your way through it. You actually want it to be real.”

Clay exhaled, tension easing out of his shoulders. “Yeah. I just… didn’t want you to think I was, like… clueless or something.”

“You’re not clueless,” you said firmly. “You’re listening. That’s more than most guys ever do.”

He smiled then—shy, but real.

You nudged his knee with yours. “So… even if you haven’t done it yet, you’ve thought about it, right? Everyone has fantasies.”

His blush came back full force, but he didn’t deny it.

You grinned. “Tell me one. Just one. For research.”

Clay laughed under his breath, covering his face with his hands for a second.

“…Slow kissing,” he mumbled finally, voice muffled behind his fingers. “Like… a lot of it. And someone who actually wants to be there. With me.”

Your expression softened even more.

“That’s a good one,” you said quietly.

And for the first time all afternoon, the air between you felt different.

Not just educational.

Something else.

The room felt smaller after Clay’s confession. The air was thicker, charged with something neither of you had named yet. You were still turned toward him in your chair, knees almost touching, both of you pretending to look at the open laptop but not really seeing the screen anymore.

You broke the silence first, voice soft and teasing, but warm.

“That’s cute,” you said, smiling at him. “Like… really cute.”

Clay let out a breathy laugh, still embarrassed. “Cute. Right. That’s me. Cute virgin Clay Jensen.”

You shook your head. “No, seriously. Justin already screamed to the entire class that you basically live for your alone time. And honestly? I respect that.”

He raised an eyebrow, waiting for the punchline.

You shrugged, completely sincere. “Most guys our age treat girls like walking fleshlights. Like we’re just… there for them to use and brag about later. But you? You actually take care of yourself. You’re not desperate or gross about it. You’re patient. That’s hot, Clay.”

His mouth parted slightly, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“You think that’s… hot?”

You nodded, biting your lip to keep from grinning too wide. “Yeah. I do.”

He looked at you for a long second, eyes searching your face. Then, quietly:

“Why are you so interested in my lack of a sex life, anyway?”

You didn’t hesitate. You leaned in just a little closer, voice dropping.

“Because that way… I get to change that.”

And then you kissed him.

It was soft at first just a press of your lips against his, testing. His breath caught, hands freezing in his lap. For a split second he was completely still, like his brain had blue-screened.

Then he melted into it.

His hand came up slowly, carefully, cupping your cheek like you were something fragile and priceless. He kissed you back—tentative, sweet, a little clumsy in the best way. Like he’d been thinking about this for months which, let’s be real, he had.

You tilted your head, deepening it just slightly, your fingers brushing the collar of his t-shirt. He made a quiet sound—almost a whimper—and it sent heat straight through you.

When you finally pulled back, just an inch, your foreheads still touching, his eyes were wide and dazed.

“Holy shit,” he whispered.

You smiled against his lips. “Yeah. Holy shit.”

He was breathing hard, thumb still stroking your cheek.

“So… uh,” he said, voice shaky. “Was that… for research?”

You laughed quietly, nudging his nose with yours.

“No, dummy. That was because I’ve wanted to do that for a while.”

Clay blinked, like he was trying to process the words.

“You… have?”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I have.”

He stared at you, lips parted, completely speechless.

You leaned in and kissed him again—just once more, quick and soft.

“Now,” you said, pulling back with a grin, “let’s get back to this project before I decide to give you some real hands-on education.”

Clay let out a strangled laugh, face bright red, but his hand was still on your cheek.

He didn’t move it for a long time.

He swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper.

“So… uh… it wouldn’t bother you if I asked for… the practical lesson?”

His eyes flicked up to yours, nervous but hopeful, like he couldn’t believe he’d actually said it out loud.

You felt your heart slam against your ribs. A slow, wicked smile spread across your face.

“Bother me?” you repeated, voice low and teasing. “Clay, I’ve literally dreamed about this since the second Porter put us together in this stupid class.”

His breath hitched. Visibly.

Before he could respond, you moved—swinging one leg over his lap and straddling him in the desk chair. The sudden warmth of you settling against him made his hands fly to your hips on instinct, gripping lightly like he was afraid you’d vanish if he held too tight.

You cupped his face with both hands and kissed him again.

This time it wasn’t soft or tentative.

It was hungry.

Your lips parted against his, tongue brushing his bottom lip until he opened for you with a shaky exhale. He tasted like the soda he’d been drinking and something uniquely Clay—nervous and sweet and completely overwhelming.

His fingers tightened on your hips as you rolled them slowly, just once, feeling him harden beneath you instantly. A soft, involuntary groan escaped him into your mouth.

You pulled back just enough to look at him—his pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and wet.

“Still want that lesson?” you whispered against his mouth.

Clay nodded frantically, words failing him.

“Good,” you said, grinning as you kissed him again, deeper this time. “Because I’m an excellent teacher.”

His hands slid up your sides, tentative but eager, like he was finally letting himself touch what he’d only ever imagined.

And just like that, the project notes on the desk were completely forgotten.

Clay’s hands were trembling against your hips, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts as you hovered over him in the chair. The kiss had left you both dizzy, lips brushing as you pulled back just enough to look at him.

His eyes were dark, pupils blown, voice barely a whisper.

“Teach me how,” he said, raw and pleading. “Please.”

You smiled, soft and filthy at the same time, threading your fingers through his hair.

“Okay, baby,” you murmured. “Start slow.”

You tilted your head to the side, exposing your neck to him.

“Kiss me here,” you guided, tapping just below your ear. “Soft at first. Lips… then tongue if you want.”

Clay leaned in like he was afraid to break you, pressing a tentative, open-mouthed kiss to the spot you’d shown him. His lips were warm, unsure, but so fucking eager. You let out a quiet hum of approval, and he did it again—bolder this time, a little suck that made your breath catch.

“Good,” you whispered. “Just like that. Lower… yeah, there.”

He trailed down the column of your throat, kissing and licking, finding the places that made you arch into him. Every time you sighed or moaned softly, he grew braver, hands starting to move.

You took one of his wrists and guided his hand up your side, over the thin fabric of your sundress, until his palm cupped your breast.

“Touch me,” you said against his ear. “Over the dress is perfect. Feel me.”

His thumb brushed over your nipple—hesitant, then firmer when you pushed into his hand. You could feel how hard he was beneath you now, the heat of him pressing up through his jeans, and when you rolled your hips just slightly, a shaky groan escaped him.

You glanced down and saw the small wet spot forming at the front of his jeans, precum leaking through the denim.

Clay noticed too and froze, face flaming with embarrassment.

“Oh shit—sorry, I—”

You silenced him with a soft laugh, cupping his face and making him look at you.

“That’s okay, baby,” you whispered, stroking his hair gently, fingers combing through the soft strands. “That’s so fucking okay.”

You kissed him slow and deep, rocking against him again just to feel him twitch.

“It means you want me,” you continued, voice low and soothing. “It means you feel good. I love it.”

He exhaled shakily, forehead dropping to your shoulder as you kept petting his hair.

“You’re doing so well, Clay,” you praised, guiding his hand to your other breast. “Keep going. I’ll tell you exactly what I want.”

His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer, like he never wanted to let go.

And you had no intention of making him.

The kisses had turned messy—deep, desperate, hands everywhere but still somehow not enough. You shifted in Clay’s lap, the chair creaking under both of you, and reached under your sundress.

Clay felt the movement and broke the kiss just enough to look down, confused for a second—until you hooked your thumbs into the sides of your panties and slowly slid them down your thighs, letting them drop to the floor around the chair legs.

His eyes went huge.

You took his hand without a word and guided it between your legs, pressing his fingers against you.

Clay’s breath stopped completely.

“You’re…” he whispered, voice cracking, fingers trembling as he felt how wet you were—slick, swollen, completely soaked for him. “Holy shit, you’re so wet.”

You smiled against his lips, rocking into his touch. “All for you, baby.”

He groaned, low and wrecked, fingers sliding experimentally through your folds, careful but curious. You moaned softly into his mouth, encouraging him, and he kissed you harder—like he was trying to pour every month of wanting you into it.

While his fingers explored hesitant circles on your clit that made your hips buck, you reached down between you and popped the button on his jeans.

Clay pulled back just an inch, eyes wide again. “Wait—are we—?”

“We are,” you whispered, kissing him quiet. “I want to feel you.”

You tugged the zipper down slowly, your hand brushing over the bulge straining against his boxers. He hissed, hips jerking up involuntarily.

Without breaking the kiss, you slipped your hand inside and wrapped your fingers around him—hot, hard, leaking at the tip. You freed him completely, pushing his jeans and boxers down just enough.

Clay broke the kiss with a shaky gasp, forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard.

You stroked him once, slow and firm, thumb swiping over the head, and he whimpered—actually whimpered—into your mouth.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “This is really happening.”

“Yeah,” you murmured, guiding his hand back between your legs while you kept stroking him. “It really is.”

You shifted up slightly in his lap, guiding his hand exactly where you wanted it.

“Here,” you whispered against his lips, pressing two of his fingers inside you slowly. You were so wet they slid in easily, and Clay’s eyes fluttered shut at the tight heat enveloping him.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice trembling. “You feel…”

You rocked down onto his fingers, showing him the rhythm. “Curl them up—just like that. Right there.”

He followed your instructions perfectly, crooking his fingers and stroking that spot inside you that made your breath hitch. You moaned softly, rolling your hips to meet each thrust of his hand.

“Good boy,” you praised, threading your fingers through his hair. “Keep going. Add your thumb—on my clit, circles, yeah—”

The second his thumb brushed over your swollen clit, you gasped, grinding harder against his palm. Clay watched your face like he was memorizing every reaction, completely mesmerized.

While he worked you with his fingers—steady, deep strokes that had you dripping down his hand—you felt his other hand tug impatiently at the thin straps of your sundress.

He didn’t pull it all the way off. Just down—exposing your breasts, the fabric bunching at your waist as he freed them.

Clay groaned at the sight, leaning in immediately. His mouth closed over one nipple, hot and eager, sucking gently at first, then harder when you arched into him with a loud moan.

“Yes—fuck, Clay—”

He left the dress on, the soft blue fabric still hugging your hips and waist while your top half was bare to him. Something about it—the contrast, the way it framed you—made it ten times hotter. He switched to the other breast, licking and sucking like he was starving, all while his fingers kept pumping inside you, thumb relentless on your clit.

You were loud now—whimpering, moaning his name, hips grinding shamelessly against his hand. The chair creaked under the movement, but neither of you cared.

“Clay—oh god, don’t stop—”

He didn’t. If anything, he went harder—sucking marks into your chest, fingers curling deeper, like he was determined to make you fall apart right there in his lap.

And you were so fucking close already.

Clay’s fingers were relentless now—curling deep inside you, thumb circling your clit exactly how you’d shown him, his mouth hot and greedy on your breasts. The sundress was still bunched around your waist, straps hanging off your shoulders, and the sight of you like that—half-dressed, completely undone—had him throbbing painfully against your thigh.

Your moans were getting louder, breathier, turning into broken whimpers as the pressure built fast and overwhelming.

“Clay—fuck, baby, right there—don’t stop—”

He didn’t. He couldn’t. He was watching you fall apart with wide, desperate eyes, sucking harder on your nipple every time you gasped his name.

Your hips started grinding erratically against his hand, chasing the edge. One of your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer to your chest; the other stroked through his curls gently, lovingly, even as your body started to shake.

“I’m—oh god, Clay, I’m gonna—”

You came hard.

A choked cry tore from your throat as your walls clenched around his fingers, pulsing over and over. Your whole body trembled in his lap, thighs squeezing his hips, back arching so beautifully he thought he might pass out. You were a moaning mess—whimpering his name, gasping, riding his hand through every wave while you petted his hair like he was the most precious thing in the world.

“Clay… baby… fuck, you’re so good—”

That was it for him.

He didn’t even need you to touch him again.

Just hearing you—your voice breaking on his name, the wet sounds of his fingers still inside you, the way you trembled and praised him—sent him over.

Clay groaned deep against your chest, hips jerking up once, twice. Hot stripes of cum spilled across his own abdomen, soaking into his shirt, pulsing out of him in thick waves as he came untouched, just from the sound and feel of you coming apart on his lap.

His forehead dropped to your shoulder, breathing ragged, body shaking with aftershocks.

You kept stroking his hair, soft and soothing, peppering little kisses to his temple as you both came down.

“Good boy,” you whispered, voice hoarse and affectionate. “So fucking good for me.”

Clay let out a weak, incredulous laugh against your skin, arms wrapping tight around your waist like he never wanted to let go.

He was completely, utterly wrecked.

And it was perfect.

You were both still catching your breath, bodies pressed close, the air thick with the scent of sex and the soft sounds of your breathing. Clay’s shirt was ruined, sticky across his stomach, but he didn’t care—he was too busy staring at you like you were a miracle.

You shifted in his lap, reaching down between you. Your fingers wrapped around his cock—still hard, slick from his release, twitching at your touch.

Clay gasped, hips bucking up into your hand involuntarily.

You stroked him slowly, base to tip, thumb circling the head just to watch him shudder.

“Look at you,” you whispered, voice low and filthy-sweet. “Still so ready for me.”

His head fell back against the chair, eyes half-lidded. “Fuck…”

You lifted your hips slightly, positioning yourself over him, the head of his cock brushing against your soaked entrance.

You paused, looking down at him—flushed, wrecked, beautiful.

“Are you ready, baby?” you asked softly, squeezing him gently.

Clay’s hands flew to your waist, gripping tight. His voice came out desperate, almost broken.

“Yes—please, yes.”

You started to sink down, just the tip pressing in—and then he froze, eyes snapping open wide.

“Wait—” he breathed, panic flashing across his face. “We’re… we’re going raw?”

You stilled immediately, hovering over him, hand still wrapped around his base.

“Yeah,” you said calmly, brushing his hair back with your free hand. “I’m on the pill. And I’m clean—I got tested last month. Everything’s good.”

He searched your face, breathing hard, like he was waiting for the catch.

“You… you’re sure?”

You nodded, leaning down to kiss him slow and deep, letting him feel how much you wanted this.

“Completely sure,” you murmured against his lips. “I want to feel you. All of you. No barriers. I'll tell yo later why”

Clay exhaled shakily, forehead dropping to yours. His hands slid up your back, pulling you closer.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay. I trust you.”

You smiled, kissing him once more—soft, reassuring.

“Then let me take care of you,” you said.

And with that, you started to sink down again—slowly, deliberately, taking him inch by inch.

The stretch was intense, perfect, overwhelming. He was big—bigger than you’d expected—long and so fucking thick that your breath caught halfway, walls fluttering around him as you adjusted.

Clay’s head fell back against the chair with a strangled groan, hands gripping your hips like anchors.

“Oh my god,” he rasped, eyes squeezed shut. “You feel… fuck, you feel unreal.”

When you finally bottomed out, seated fully in his lap with him buried to the hilt, you both stilled—just breathing, feeling each other. The sundress was still bunched around your waist, breasts bare and pressed to his chest, and the sight of you like that made him throb hard inside you.

You rolled your hips once, testing, and moaned at how perfectly he filled you—stretching you so good, hitting every spot like he was made for you.

“Clay,” you whispered, cupping his face and making him look at you. His eyes were glassy, lips parted. “You’re so big, baby. You fill me so fucking well. Feels perfect.”

He whimpered—actually whimpered—hips twitching up involuntarily, pushing even deeper. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Shit—sorry—” he panted, trying to hold still. His whole body was trembling with the effort of not thrusting up into you, not losing it right then and there.

You stroked his cheeks, his hair, kissing him soft and slow.

“You’re doing amazing,” you praised, voice low and soothing. “So thick inside me… stretching me just right. I love how you feel raw, baby. Nothing between us.”

Clay groaned again, forehead dropping to yours. His cock pulsed inside you, and you could tell he was already right on the edge—just from the heat, the tightness, the slick grip of you around him.

“I’m—fuck—I don’t wanna come yet,” he choked out, voice desperate. “I’m trying so hard—”

You smiled, rocking gently, clenching around him on purpose just to feel him jerk.

“Don’t worry, baby,” you murmured, kissing his jaw, his neck. “Let go. Come whenever you need to. That’s why I wanted it raw—because it’s your first time, and you’re gonna come a lot. Over and over. And that’s so fucking hot to me. It’s normal. It’s perfect.”

You started moving—slow, deliberate grinds at first, lifting just a little and sinking back down.

“Come for me, Clay,” you whispered against his ear. “Fill me up. I want it.”

That was all it took.

His hips snapped up hard, a broken cry tearing from his throat as he came—deep, pulsing, spilling hot inside you in thick waves. You moaned with him, feeling every spurt, every twitch, riding him gently through it.

“Good boy,” you praised, stroking his hair as he shook beneath you. “Just like that. So good for me.”

He was breathing like he’d run a marathon, arms wrapped tight around you, face buried in your neck.

And even as he softened slightly inside you, you could already feel him stirring again—still half-hard, ready for more.

Because you weren’t done.

Not even close.

You stayed still for a moment after his first orgasm, letting him pulse inside you, feeling every hot spurt coat your walls. Clay was trembling, arms locked around your waist, breathing like he’d just surfaced from deep water. You kissed his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth—soft, soothing, giving him time.

But he was still hard. Young, desperate, and already swelling thicker again inside you.

You smiled against his skin and started to move.

Slow.

Agonizingly slow.

You lifted your hips just a few inches and sank back down, taking him deep, rolling forward so your clit dragged against his pelvis. Again. And again. A lazy, filthy rhythm that had you both moaning low and constant.

Clay’s head fell back at first, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Fuck, now I get it.”

You tilted your head, grinding down in a slow circle that made him throb hard inside you.

“Get what, baby?”

He opened his eyes—dark, glassy, completely fucked-out—and looked at you like you were everything.

“Why Scott used to call you his pretty cowgirl sometimes,” he panted. “Jesus Christ… you ride so good.”

You laughed, low and dirty, clenching around him deliberately so he jerked and groaned.

“You think that?” you teased, leaning in until your lips brushed his. “Lucky you, Clay. Scott only got pieces. Now you get all of me.”

His hands slid down to your ass, gripping hard, pulling you down harder onto him.

You took the cue.

The pace changed—still not fast, but deeper, harder, more deliberate. You rose higher each time, almost letting him slip out before slamming back down, taking him to the root. Every drop made wet, obscene sounds—his cum and your slick mixing, dripping down his balls, coating his thighs.

You kissed his neck, sucking marks into the pale skin, biting gently at his pulse point while you rode him. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him close so your bare breasts pressed to his chest, nipples dragging against his shirt.

Clay buried his face between them immediately—desperate, muffling his moans against your skin. He turned his head, mouth latching onto one nipple, sucking hard, tongue flicking while his hands kneaded your ass, spreading you, guiding your hips.

“God, your tits—” he groaned against you, switching to the other, leaving them shiny and swollen. “So perfect… fuck, I wanna live here.”

You moaned louder, riding him faster now, grinding your clit against him on every downstroke. The chair was creaking dangerously, but neither of you cared. Your thighs burned, but the stretch of him—so thick, hitting so deep—made you dizzy.

“You fill me so good, baby,” you gasped into his hair. “So fucking big—stretching me open every time I take you. You feel that? How deep you are?”

He whined—high, broken—thrusting up to meet you, sloppy and desperate.

“Yes—fuck, yes—”

You clenched around him hard, and he cried out, face pressed back between your breasts, breathing you in like he was drowning.

“I can feel you getting close again,” you whispered, licking the shell of his ear. “I want it. Want you to fill me up again. Come on, Clay—give it to me.”

He was babbling now—half-words, your name, curses muffled against your skin. His hips snapped up harder, erratic, chasing the edge.

You slammed down one more time, grinding slow and filthy, and he lost it.

Clay came with a choked shout, hips bucking wildly as he spilled inside you again—hotter, thicker than the first time, pulsing so hard you felt every jet. You kept riding him through it, milking him, drawing it out until he was shaking, oversensitive, whimpering into your chest.

You slowed, but didn’t stop—gentle rolls of your hips, keeping him buried deep while he softened just slightly, then hardened again almost immediately.

“Again,” you murmured, kissing his sweaty forehead. “I want you again.”

He looked up at you, eyes wet, lips swollen, utterly destroyed.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he rasped, but his hands were already pulling you down for more.

You smiled, wicked and sweet, and started moving—slow, deep, relentless.

The third time, he lasted longer—long enough for you to chase your own second orgasm, grinding hard on his cock while he sucked bruises into your chest, hands gripping your ass like he never wanted to let go.

You came clenching around him, moaning his name loud enough that you were glad his parents weren’t home, walls fluttering as you soaked him even more.

He followed seconds later—whimpering, thrusting up weak and shaky, spilling what felt like everything he had left, filling you so full it leaked out around him, dripping down your thighs.

You rode him softly through the aftershocks, both of you trembling, sweat-slick and breathless.

Finally, you stilled—him still inside you, softening slowly, your arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, his face nestled between your breasts, breathing hard.

You stroked his hair, kissing the top of his head over and over.

“Good boy,” you whispered, voice hoarse. “So fucking perfect.”

Clay’s arms tightened around you, holding you like he’d never let go.

He was yours now.

Completely..

You stayed straddled in his lap long after the last waves had faded, bodies slick with sweat, hearts still hammering against each other. Clay’s arms were wrapped loosely around your waist, his face tucked into the crook of your neck, breathing slow and deep like he was trying to memorize the way you smelled.

Eventually, you lifted your hips just enough to let him slip out both of you hissing softly at the loss, then shifted forward to lie fully against his chest. Your sundress was still bunched around your waist, breasts pressed to his soaked shirt, thighs sticky with the mess you’d made together.

You rested your head over his heart, listening to it thunder, and started rocking again—tiny, gentle movements, barely more than a grind. He was soft now, but still half-buried inside you, and every little shift made you both shiver.

Clay’s hands stroked your back, fingers tracing lazy patterns over your bare skin.

“You okay?” he whispered, voice hoarse and small.

You smiled against his collarbone, pressing a soft kiss there.

“More than okay,” you murmured. “You feel so good, Clay… even like this. I don’t want you to ever leave me. I just wanna stay here, with you inside me, moving slow like this forever.”

He exhaled shakily, arms tightening around you. One hand came up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair.

You kept rocking—barely riding, just tiny circles, keeping him warm and close, feeling the slick slide of everything you’d done together.

For a long minute, neither of you spoke. Just breathing. Just holding.

Then Clay’s voice came out quiet, almost afraid.

“So… what was this?” he asked, barely above a whisper. “Today. Was it just… a one-time thing? Getting carried away with the project? Or…”

He trailed off, but you heard everything he wasn’t saying.

You lifted your head to look at him—his eyes were nervous again, searching yours, lips swollen, hair a mess from your fingers.

You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing over his bottom lip.

“It can be whatever you want it to be, Clay,” you said softly, honestly. “If you want it to be just today… okay. If you want it to be more—dates, holding hands in the hallway, me riding you in this chair every time we ‘study’—I want that too.”

His eyes widened slightly, hope flickering bright.

“You… you’d want that? With me?”

You leaned in and kissed him—slow, deep, tender. The kind of kiss that promised things.

“I’ve wanted you for a long time, Clay Jensen,” you whispered against his lips. “Today wasn’t an accident. I just finally stopped pretending.”

He let out a shaky breath that sounded a lot like relief, and pulled you closer, burying his face in your neck again.

“I want more,” he mumbled into your skin. “I want you. All of it. All of you.”

You smiled, resting your cheek against his hair, still rocking gently—just enough to keep you connected.

“Then you have me,” you said simply.

Outside, the afternoon light was turning golden through his curtains. Inside, you stayed like that—wrapped around each other, hearts syncing up, the project long forgotten on the desk.

Whatever came next school gossip, Justin’s inevitable smugness, presentations, real dates, none of it mattered right now.

Right now, it was just you and Clay.