#prof!grace.

Professor!Ryland Grace who decides to wine and dine you when summer break hits. You finished the year off with a near perfect score in his class and he thought you deserved a reward for all of your hard work. He tells you to dress nice, maybe even sends you some money to buy something to wear if you don’t have anything. (he loves the thought of you spending his money. He already takes care of you during class as your professor to make sure you’re doing your best, why not do it a little more outside the classroom too?)

but you’re so nervous because neither of you had done something like this before. All of your time together was spent in his office or when he invited you to his house to help go over lecture notes and “study” so when you assisted him in cleaning the lab room after class like you usually do and he asked if you were busy tomorrow night, you assumed it was for something less intimate. But then he tells you to dress nicely and says he’ll pick you up that evening you're not quite sure what to expect.

Suddenly you’re tearing apart your closet in search of something that qualifies as nice—what does he mean by nice? What color do you wear? What shoes to get?

But then he sends a couple hundred to your phone and a link to the restaurant he made a reservation at and it somehow soothes everything over a little. And you do use his money! You go to a shop that has exactly what you’re looking for, getting something that makes you look classy but also reveals just enough to tease a little, but publicly unacceptable. You spend hours getting ready, checking yourself over time and time again because Professor Grace is incredibly handsome and you’re anxious about looking good for him.

When he pulls out in front of your apartment in an unfamiliar car—you assume he’s probably renting it since the only wheels you’ve ever seen him on are the ones attached to his bicycle—in a black striped suit, slightly unbuttoned red shirt beneath it, you pause to fan yourself. He looks really fucking good. Part of you wonders if there’s enough time before your reservation to take him in the backseat of the car.

Yet all those thoughts melt away when he opens your car door, hand pressed against your back when he greets you. “Hi, sweetheart. You use my money on this? It’s gorgeous on you—you look gorgeous in it. No, wait, you’re gorgeous all the time.”

The feeling of his fingers tracing along the fabric of your outfit sends goosebumps across your skin. But you laugh when he cuts off his ramble by kissing your temple, something he’s only ever done when he was fucking you into the mattress and making you tell him about your previous research project.

“You don’t look half bad yourself, Dr. Grace.”

“Ryland. Call me Ryland. Please.”

You can’t help the way you grin when he corrects you. He’s letting you call him Ryland. None of your peers call him that, you’ve only ever heard it from other professors when they talked during office hours or in the halls. “Ryland.” You amend, finally climbing into the car and letting him close the door for you.

He’s a complete gentleman the rest of the night. A little nervous, awkward quips coming from him while you eat and share a bottle of wine that sounds like it costs more than your monthly phone bill. You’ve never seen him like this. Shy, you mean. He is always so self-assured in the lecture rooms, especially when he lets some of his sass slip. It makes this feel incredibly intimate, like you’re special for being able to see this side of him. Like he’s trying to impress you even though he has a Phd and numerous published papers.

The night moves from the restaurant—where he paid the bill and gave you a look when you offered to split it—to his house. You’ve had sex before, many times actually, but this was different. You could feel it in the way he lets you press him against his front door, his hands gliding along your body like he’s trying to commit the shape of you to memory, kisses all slow and tender. It makes your heart hammer beneath your sternum. You can feel his matching the pace of yours beneath the palms you’re resting against his chest.

He guides you gently to his bedroom with sensual kisses. Letting his lips meet yours before slowly traveling along your jaw, his hand moving to cup your cheek so he can tilt your head to the side. He’s murmuring sweet things as he does it. All kinds of compliments that make an overly giddy smile bloom on your face.

He takes his time with you tonight. He undresses you and leaves kisses on each area of you he opens to himself. It’s an intense contradiction to your usual nights spent together. He’s worshipping you, and he looks good doing it. He hasn’t bothered to remove any article of his suit—much to your enjoyment—even when he has you sprawled on his mattress, bottoms gone and thighs pushed apart to make room for his face between them.

He lets his hands caress up and down your legs, his lips tracing where his fingers don’t reach. His glasses dangle from his ears in a way that is simultaneously attractive and amusing. You want to run your fingers through his hair that’s a little overgrown, something he stopped caring for so close to the end of semester. His kisses slowly trail down to your core in a way that has you almost whining from impatience. He must seem to notice because his tongue takes a long drag through your folds, pulling a quiet sound from you. He lets one hand travel down to rest on the spot where your hips meet your thighs, using it to keep your body in place when you try to squirm away. “No, baby, hold still. I skipped dessert for this.” The other one squeezes your other thigh like he’s trying to ground himself to you. He spends a long time there, slowly pulling more and more sounds from you, moaning into your slick when he feels you tug on his hair.

His lips glisten when he finally pulls away, his swiping along them in an attempt to catch the remains of your taste on his tongue as he stands. His hands move to his blazer but you stop him quickly, sitting up with a vigorous shake of your head. “No! Leave it on. Please. You look good. Really good. I like it.”

He laughs at you. Not in a mean way, the sound is laced with something incredibly sweet, like the whole idea of you liking the suit so much has him completely charmed. And it does.. He’s enamoured with you.

“I can wear it another time. It won’t be leaving my closet anytime soon.” His reasoning is sound, but the huff you let out tells him you don’t really care for a reasonable argument. And the idea makes him pulse. The ever present fact that you’re so attracted to him you want him to keep it on. “Is that it, then? You want me to fuck you like this?”

He leans closer to you as he says it, voice low as he plants his hands on your waist. You nod so quickly he wonders if you even heard what he said. “Yes.”

He guides you further back on his bed until you meet his headboard, where he gives you a kiss that lets you taste yourself on him. It’s sensual, his tongue sliding between your lips as he kneels in front of you, one of your legs trapped between his knees, using his headboard to keep him upright while he keeps your face pressed to his.

You’ve come to learn that you thoroughly enjoy his slightly overgrown hair. You lace the strands at the nape of his neck between your fingers, slightly pulling on them until he whimpers into your mouth. It’s like the sound alone breaks him from his trance, a pink tint blooming along his cheeks like he’s embarrassed to have made the sound at all.

You pout a little when he pulls away, but it’s immediately replaced after you hear him shuffle around in his dresser drawer. You don’t have a chance to peek at what he’s doing before a familiar packaged square is held by two of his fingers in front of your face. “Show me what you know.”

You nod and snatch it from his fingers. He laughs at you again, amused and a little (very) turned on by your excitement. He leans back just enough that he can undo his belt and unzip his slacks before your hands are on him. He almost moans when you guide his cock out of his underwear, his body tensing at the feeling of your hands on it before you roll the condom down his length.

Suddenly he’s the impatient one. He leans forward again, guiding you into your back, resting your head on his pillows until he’s laying over you. His hand clings to your hip as he starts kissing you senseless, swallowing down your moan when he pushes inside of you. Your hands grasp onto the back of his blazer.

You didn’t know someone could be so fucking hot—especially a man at least ten years your senior, wearing an all too appealing suit, pants and underwear undone just enough so he can fuck you in it.

“Fu—fudge, sweetheart. Always such a good listener for me. My best student,” he cuts himself off with a moan, grabbing ahold of your arm to press it against the mattress, hand sliding up until he can interlock his fingers with yours, holding your hand while he pounds into you with a new vigor. He uses his other forearm to hold himself up, resting it right beside your head. “God, you’re an angel. Perfect scores on all your work, always so helpful after class. Now look at you, taking me so well.”

“Dr. Grace!” You moan it loud when he hits a certain spot, his words sinking into your brain all nice and slow until his pace falters, slows down, and you huff. When you open your eyes, there’s less pressure from above you, your eyes barely managing to meet his piercing blue ones.

His glasses are askew, barely holding on when he speaks. “Nuh uh. What’d I tell you earlier, hm? Use that brain of yours and think back. You’ve always been good at remembering stuff for me.”

At first you’re confused. He’s said a lot of things earlier—Dr. Ryland Grace is a rambler. He talks and talks and talks, which you suppose is good for being a professor, but it’s less good now when you’re so drunk off of him.

“Wh—“ You speak, trying to blink away the fog before he rolls his hips into yours, slow and deep, like he’s trying to give you incentive.

“When I picked you up. What was it I told you?”

It’s a hint that you grab onto like a life line, because god you just want him to move, and you really, really try to think.

Ryland. Call me Ryland. Please.

“Ryland, please fuck me.”

A breathy moan is rung from your throat as Ryland licks through your sensitive folds. He’s been down there for what feels like hours—kneeled at the foot of your bed, one hand pressing on your pelvis to steady your twitching body still while the other grips the upper part of your thigh, fingers twisted into the soft lace of your panties.

You can feel his facial hair rubbing against your skin in a way that’s bound to leave a more pleasant version of carpet burn.

This isn’t a completely unfamiliar position. Your professor often finds himself pressing his face between your legs. He’d whisper about it being his favorite place in the world in a way that felt entirely truthful. Whenever you brought it up he’d get this shy tint of red on his face and pretends like he didn’t know what you were talking about.

He just continues to prove how honest he was when he said it.

It’s never happened here, in your apartment—he’s been here a total of once, on a night you’d gotten a little too drunk and forgotten by your friends. Him having you in such an intimate position in such a vulnerable place made each hot press of his tongue against you stronger.

When he replaces his tongue with his thumb, lightly brushing the pad against your clit, the pleasure it causes makes you blank. You twitch so hard it makes Ryland chuckle, the sound deep and breathless. When he pulls away you’re unsure if the cry is from relief or missing him.

“I can’t get what I want out of you if you keep moving, angel,” his words are thickly sweet but entirely lustful. He shifts, deciding to pull your panties fully off before wrapping his toned arm around your leg, laying his other arm fully across your hips. “Let me work.”

His mouth returns to you with a new sense of passion—one that makes him groan into your folds when you moan his name, the sound wet and choked. Before he was slow, savoring you like he’d never get a taste of you again. Now he’s drinking you up like you’re a fountain of youth, and he’s a greedy mortal who found you after years of searching.

When he pushes you over the edge, you swear you’re on cloud nine. He takes you through it, not letting up until he feels your trembling hand push at his head. You barely manage to catch a glimpse of his face as his tongue darts out from his lips, licking the remaints of you off them.

Ryland quickly climbs over you, hands starting at your hips before he glides them up your slick skin until it reaches the fabric of your shirt that’s bunched around your ribs. He pulls the fabric down and presses a kiss to your cheek. “Shower?”

You don’t process his question at first, your response breathless and endearingly late. “I need to wash my bedding.”

“Let me.”

You laugh, turning to face where he’s laying beside you. You ignore how warm his gaze makes you. “You don’t know where the laundry machines are in my apartment.”

“I can find them.”

“You also don’t know where my laundry detergent is.”

“You have little faith in my detective skills. I put Sherlock to shame.”

You roll your eyes as you sit up, your heart calmer than it was. “I would need the entire student body to count the number of times you’ve lost your glasses.”

Ryland is unaware that a big reason he can never find them is because you’ve hidden them. You like seeing the frustration on his features when he can’t figure out where he misplaced them, partly because it put you on the receiving end of some pretty amazing sex. “That doesn’t count! Just let me do this for you. Please.”

His plea is compelling. You give in quicker than you should. When you guide him to the small closet beside your bathroom where you keep all of your cleaning supplies, he gives you a tender kiss that almost masks the way his hand grazes your ass.

He looks a little too smug when he retreats back to your bedroom. There’s a distant sound of running water as he strips your mattress of its blanket, then the comforter and sheets. They all lie in a pile on the floor right beside your discarded panties.

Ryland has seen similar pairs on you in a variety of colors. Some he liked a little more than others. He doesn’t think twice when he picks them up and stuffs them into his back pocket.

By the time your shower is done and you’ve changed into something that isn’t drenched with sweat, Ryland is returning from transferring your bedding from washer to dryer. Your shower was much longer than you intended.

The rest of your afternoon starts in the kitchen as he assists in making something to eat, which is more of you cooking and him offering words of encouragement and cleaning the dishes when you finish with them, then continues with you two on your couch. Your socked feet rest in his lap while the two of you watch New Girl.

It’s more of him watching New Girl as you admire him.

He pretends to be less into the show than he is, eyes glued to the screen despite his glasses dangling off his ears. Ryland’s hands have been softly massaging your foot the entire time; the gesture is domestic and ventures outside of the lust-filled box you two have built around yourselves. It makes you wonder what’ll happen when you graduate—if this will even last that long.

The sense of dread that brings is all consuming, but is washed away when he turns to look at you.

Neither of you say anything, the space filled with the sound of the tv and your rotating fan that sits in the corner of your living room. He slowly moves on of your feet so he can twist himself onto his knees, slowly crawling between them until he’s hovering over you. You’re caged beneath him as he stops, one hand on the armrest of your couch while the other cradles your face.

The kiss you share is instinct, almost. His lips are soft against your own, before he trails them all across your face, using his warm palm against your cheek as some kind of leverage to keep you from moving even when you're laughing at the tickle of his stubble against your skin. Ryland doesn’t bother to hide the way he’s smiling before he’s diving back in, kissing you with want.

He rests his body weight on you, letting go of the armrest so he can pull your leg over his hip, grinding his crotch into your own with slow rolls of his hips. When he makes you gasp he doesn’t hesitate to push his tongue into your mouth. He can taste a hint of mint from when you brushed your teeth after eating.

He suddenly misses the taste of you he’d gotten earlier.

When he pulls away, you’re trying to catch your breath. In the process of grinding and sucking in his tongue, you managed to pull off his Periodic Table of Elements shirt that fits him a little too snug.

The sight of him leaning back so he can shuffle further down your couch, shirtless with low hanging sweats, makes your core feel like molten lava. Part of you wonders if he can sense it with how desperately he’s trying to tug your pants and underwear off—which he manages to do at once.

You’re filled with a sense of disbelief as you sit up, watching him lie down between your legs. “Ryland, you were down there not that long ago.”

He doesn’t respond right away, preoccupied with tossing one of your legs over his shoulder as he guides himself closer, kissing along your groin. “I’m going back for seconds.”

The embarrassed shiver his words send through you is short-lived. He doesn’t let you process them a second longer before he’s kissing your folds, taking a long, slow drag of his tongue through them that makes you lie back down.