Page 11 of The Equation of Us

Controlled Burn

Nora

Dean’s apartment is both exactly what I expected and nothing like I imagined.

The building itself is unassuming—a renovated warehouse a mile off campus, converted into lofts with exposed brick and industrial fixtures. His is on the third floor, at the end of a long hallway with concrete floors that echo under my boots.

I hesitate outside his door, number 307, my knuckles raised to knock. My heart is beating too fast, my palms slightly damp. I could still leave. Text some excuse about a paper or a headache. Return to the safety of my organized life and well-ordered plans.

But I don’t want to.

For once in my life, I want to step off the carefully constructed path I’ve laid out. I want to see what happens when I let go.

I knock, three short raps.

The door opens almost immediately, like he was waiting just on the other side. Dean stands there in dark jeans and a gray henley that clings to his shoulders, sleeves pushed up to reveal muscled forearms. He smells good—like soap and something woodsy, maybe cedar.

“Hey,” he says, voice quiet.

“Hey,” I respond, suddenly awkward despite everything we’ve said, everything we’ve agreed to.

He steps back, opening the door wider. “Come in.”

I step inside, immediately taking in details. The apartment is open concept, with high ceilings and large windows that look out over the town. The furnishings are minimal but intentional—a dark leather couch, a sturdy coffee table stacked with engineering journals, and bookshelves filled with texts on biomechanics and sports medicine. One wall is exposed brick; the others are painted a cool gray. A large desk in the corner holds a dual-monitor setup and what looks like technical drawings for a prosthetic limb.

“Nice place,” I say, unwinding my scarf.

“Thanks.” He takes my coat, hanging it on a hook by the door. “Roommate moved out last semester. Found a cheaper place with his girlfriend.”

“So you live alone?” I try to keep my voice casual, but the implication hangs in the air. We have privacy. Complete privacy.

“Yeah.” He gestures toward the kitchen area. “Want something to drink? Water? Soda? I have wine somewhere.”

“Water’s fine.” My throat feels dry, nerves making themselves known despite my attempts to stay

calm.

He moves to the kitchen, and I take the opportunity to look around more. There are surprisingly personal touches scattered throughout the apartment: a framed hockey jersey on one wall, a shelf of vinyl records, a photograph of a younger Dean with what must be his family—parents and a younger brother. And another photo, tucked on a bookshelf: two teenage boys in hockey gear, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, faces split with identical grins. Maybe Dean and Jesse, I think. Before.

“Here.” Dean returns with a glass of water, ice clinking against the sides.

“Thanks.” I take a sip, grateful for something to do with my hands. “So…”

“So,” he echoes, watching me with those intense gray eyes.

The air between us feels charged, electric. We’ve been building to this moment for weeks—maybe since that first tutoring session. We both know why I’m here, what we’ve agreed to. But now that I’m standing in his apartment, it feels suddenly, terrifyingly real.

“Second thoughts?” he asks, his voice neutral, giving me space to change my mind.

I set the glass down on the counter. “No.” I meet his eyes. He’s so much taller than I am that I’m forced to lift my chin and look up at him. “You?”

“No.”

He doesn’t move toward me, though. He just continues watching me with that careful attention that makes me feel like I’m the only thing in his world worth looking at.

It’s unnerving—having his complete attention like this.

“Before we start, we should talk about…” I trail off, not quite sure how to articulate it.

“Boundaries,” he supplies. “Limits. What you’re comfortable with.”

I nod, relieved he understands.

“Tell me what you want, Nora.” His voice drops slightly. “And what you don’t want.”

I take a breath. “I want… what we talked about at the lookout point. I want to let go. To not be in charge for once.”

“And what does that mean to you?”

The question catches me off guard. I’ve been so focused on the abstract concept that I haven’t fully defined it for myself.

“I’m not sure,” I admit. “I’ve never done this before.”

Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or satisfaction. “Never surrendered control to someone else?”

“Not like this.” I fidget with the hem of my sweater. “I mean, I’ve had sex before, obviously. But not… not with someone who…”

“Who takes charge,” he finishes for me.

“Yes.”

Dean moves closer, not touching me yet, but close enough that I have to lift my chin to maintain eye contact.

“Here’s how this works,” he says, his voice steady and calm. “I’ll tell you what to do. You decide if you want to do it. If you don’t, you say no. I stop. No questions, no pressure.”

The simplicity of it is reassuring.

“And if I want to stop completely?” I ask.

“Then you say ‘stop,’ and we stop. Everything stops.” His eyes hold mine. “I’ll never do anything you don’t want. But I won’t ask permission for every little thing either. That’s the point—you trust me to read you, to know what you need.”

My heart is racing now, nervous energy coursing through me.

“Do you think you can do that?” he asks. “Trust me?”

I consider it. Trust doesn’t come easily to me. I’ve been self-reliant for too long, responsible for too much. But there’s something about Dean—his steadiness, his careful attention, the way he watches me like he’s memorizing every reaction—that makes me want to try.

“Yes,” I say finally. “I can try.”

Something shifts in his expression then, a subtle change that transforms his entire demeanor. His shoulders straighten slightly, his chin lifts, and his eyes—those winter-gray eyes—darken with intent.

“Come here,” he says, the words quiet but unmistakably a command.

My body responds before my mind can analyze it. I move toward him, stopping just inches away.

“Closer,” he murmurs.

I step forward until we’re almost touching, the heat of his body radiating against mine.

He lifts a hand slowly and brushes a strand of hair back from my face. The touch is gentle but deliberate, his fingertips grazing my cheek.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he says, his voice low. “And then I’m going to tell you what I want from you tonight. Okay?”

“Okay,” I whisper, the word barely audible.

His hand slides to the back of my neck, firm but not rough, and he pulls me toward him. The kiss is different from our first one at the lookout point—more controlled, less frantic. He takes his time, his lips moving against mine with deliberate precision, like he’s learning the shape of my mouth.

I start to lift my hands to his chest, but he catches my wrists gently.

“No,” he says against my lips. “Not yet. Keep your hands at your sides.”

The instruction sends a shiver through me. It shouldn’t be arousing—being told not to touch him—but something about the quiet authority in his voice makes heat pool low in my belly.

I let my hands drop, fighting the instinct to reach for him.

“Good,” he murmurs, and the simple approval makes my chest tighten.

He kisses me again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm that makes my knees weak. One of his hands remains at the back of my neck, the other moving to my hip, holding me steady.

When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing harder. My lips feel swollen and sensitive.

I can feel my nipples pebble in my sports bra beneath my sweater, feel the way my leggings cling to my folds.

He studies my face for a moment, as if making sure I’m certain. Then he steps back, creating space between us.

“Take off your sweater,” he says.

The directness of it sends a shock of desire through me.

I reach for the hem, suddenly self-conscious. Beneath the sweater, I’m wearing a simple black bralette—nothing special. But the way Dean watches me, eyes tracking the movement as I pull the fabric over my head, makes me feel like I’m revealing something precious.

“Beautiful,” he says, the word simple but sincere.

Before I can respond, he continues, “On your knees.”

My breath catches. It’s such a loaded request—something that should feel degrading but instead sends a thrill of anticipation through me. I sink slowly to my knees on his hardwood floor, looking up at him.

Dean’s eyes darken further at the sight. He reaches down, cups my face in his hand, thumb brushing across my lower lip.

“You’re sure about this?” he asks, one final check.

I nod, then realize he wants me to say it. “Yes.”

He holds my gaze as he unbuttons his jeans, then lowers the zipper. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.

“Take me out,” he instructs, still touching my face, still stroking my cheek.

Still gazing down at me adoringly.

With slightly trembling hands, I reach for him, easing his jeans down enough to access his boxers. I can see the outline of his erection straining against the black fabric, impressively large. The rumors weren’t exaggerated, it seems. I hook my fingers into the waistband of his boxers and draw them down, freeing him.

My breath catches at the sight. First, because his size is impressive. He’s long and thick, already fully hard, the smooth skin taut over visible veins. And there’s already a drop of moisture beading at the tip.

But then I see it—just below, near the center of his thigh. A tattoo. Simple, understated, Roman numerals inked in black against warm skin. It’s subtle enough to stay hidden unless he’s naked or nearly there, which makes discovering it feel like I’ve uncovered a secret. Something private. Intimate. Mine, now.

I want to ask what it means—what memory he’s chosen to etch permanently into his skin—but not now. Not when he’s standing in front of me like this. Hard. Bare.

My gaze returns to his cock, and holy hell—it’s big and sexy and waiting for me. Desire curls low and tight in my belly.

I’ve done this before, but always in the context of reciprocal pleasure or as quick foreplay. Never as the main event, never with this kind of focused intention.

“Put your hands on my thighs,” Dean says. “Use just your mouth.”

I place my palms on his muscled thighs, feeling the strength in them, my thumb brushing close to the mysterious tattoo. Then I lean forward and take him between my lips.

Dean inhales sharply, his hand coming to rest at the back of my head—not pushing, just resting there. Circling the back of my neck with warm, steady pressure, just so I know who’s really in charge. I take him deeper, adjusting to his size, using my tongue to trace the underside.

“Go slow,” he instructs, his voice tight with restraint. “I want to feel every second of this.”

I obey, moving slowly, deliberately. I can tell he’s holding back, letting me set the pace for now. His thighs are tense beneath my hands, his breathing controlled but quickening.

“Look at me,” he says.

I raise my eyes, meeting his gaze while I continue working him with my mouth. The intensity in his expression nearly undoes me—desire mixed with something that looks almost like awe.

“Perfect,” he murmurs. “So fucking perfect.”

The praise washes over me, warm and intoxicating. I’ve always been driven by validation, by knowing I’m exceeding expectations. This is no different, except that it’s more visceral, more immediate. I can feel his pleasure, taste it, hear it in the way his breathing changes.

His hand tightens slightly at my nape. “Fuck, Nora.” He gazes down at me in wonder, like he can’t take his eyes away from where his very thick erection is pushing into my mouth again and again.

“You like doing this for me? Like sucking on my cock?” His voice is little more than a harsh pant.

I make an inaudible sound that sounds a lot like yes .

“Good.” A breath punches out of him. “Because you look perfect like this…” He brushes his knuckles along my cheek. “I love watching you follow my instructions. So precise, so perfect, even like this—on your knees for me.”

Warmth spreads through me at his praise, at the rough sound of his voice. I want to use my hands, want to feel how hard and solid he is against my palm, but I keep my hands on his thighs, my nails lightly grazing his skin.

“That’s it. Take me deeper. Such a good fucking girl,” he says with a grunt.

I never would have guessed the quietest guy in engineering had such a filthy mouth. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love it.

I increase my pace, taking him deeper, hollowing my cheeks on the upstroke. His thighs tense further under my hands.

A rough sound pushes past his lips.

“That’s it,” he says, voice strained. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”

The command in his tone sends another surge of arousal through me. I’m aware of my own body now—the ache between my legs, the sensitivity of my breasts pressed against the thin fabric of my bralette, the way my breasts bounce slightly each time he bumps his cock into the back of my throat.

Dean’s control starts to slip as I continue. His hips move slightly, meeting my rhythm. His hand guides my head more firmly, though never forcing.

“Nora,” he says, my name sounding like both a prayer and a curse. “I’m close. You can pull back.”

But I don’t want to. I want to feel him come apart because of me. I want to be the one who breaks that careful control.

I take him deeper, using every technique I know, looking up to maintain eye contact.

“Fuck,” he groans, the single word raw and unfiltered. His hand tightens in my hair—a warning. “I’m going to come.”

I don’t pull away. Instead, I double down, determined to take him over the edge.

With a low sound, he climaxes, his body tensing, his hand holding me steady. I take all of it, continuing to work him through the aftershocks until he gently tugs me away.

For a moment, we stay like that—me on my knees, looking up at him; him standing above me, chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, eyes dark and intense. His length huge and hard and damp with my saliva.

Then he’s pulling me to my feet, his movements swift and certain. Before I can process what’s happening, he’s kissing me deeply, seemingly unbothered by where my mouth has just been.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says against my lips. I’m guessing he means swallow.

“I wanted to,” I reply, feeling strangely powerful despite my supposed submission.

He studies my face, and whatever he sees there seems to please him. “You liked it,” he observes. Not a question.

I nod, a little embarrassed by how much I enjoyed it.

“Come here,” he says, leading me to the couch.

He sits, then pulls me down onto his lap, positioning me so I’m straddling him, my knees on either side of his hips. His hands settle on my waist, steadying me. His cock is still hard, pressed between us, but he ignores it.

“What do you need?” he asks, his voice softer now but still commanding.

“I don’t know,” I admit. The truth is, I’m so turned on I can barely think straight. Every nerve ending feels alive, hyperaware of his touch, his proximity.

“I think you do,” he counters. One of his hands slides up my side, brushing the edge of my breast through my camisole. “Tell me.”

My breath hitches. “Touch me,” I whisper.

“Where?” His hand hovers, waiting for direction.

“Everywhere. Please.”

A small smile touches his lips. “So polite.” His hand moves to cup my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple through the fabric. “Is this what you want?”

“Yes,” I breathe, arching into his touch.

“And this?” His other hand slides up my thigh, stopping just short of where I need him most.

“Yes. More.”

He studies my face for a moment, then says, “Stand up.”

Confused but trusting, I slide off his lap and stand in front of him.

“Take off your leggings,” he instructs.

I push them down my legs, stepping out of the tangle of fabric when it pools at my feet. I’m left in my bralette and plain black cotton underwear—again, nothing I would have chosen for seduction, but Dean looks at me like I’m the most exquisite thing he’s ever seen.

“Turn around,” he says.

I do, feeling exposed and vulnerable with my back to him.

“Come here. Back up.”

I step backward until I feel his hands on my hips, guiding me. He pulls me down onto his lap again, but this time with my back to his chest, my legs outside of his.

“Lean back against me,” he murmurs, his mouth close to my ear.

I do, letting my head rest on his shoulder. From this position, I can’t see his face, can’t anticipate his movements. I can only feel.

His hands slide up my sides, then down again, a slow exploration that makes me shiver. One hand moves to my breast, cupping it through my fabric, thumb circling my nipple until it tightens almost painfully.

“Does that feel good?” he asks, his voice low in my ear.

“Yes,” I manage, my voice breathier than usual.

“What about this?” His other hand slides between my legs, pressing against me through my underwear. I’m so sensitive that even this indirect touch makes me gasp.

“I can feel how wet you are,” he says, the words sending another rush of heat through me. “All from using your mouth on me.”

I should be embarrassed by how aroused I am, but there’s no judgment in his tone—only appreciation, wonder even.

His fingers move in slow circles over the fabric, building pressure in a way that has me squirming against him.

“Stay still,” he commands, his other hand moving from my breast to my hip, holding me in place.

I try to obey, but it’s difficult when every touch sends jolts of pleasure through me.

“Please,” I whisper, not even sure what I’m asking for.

“Please, what?” His voice is steady and controlled, despite the way I can feel him hardening again beneath me.

“More. I need more.”

“Like this?” His hand slips beneath the waistband of my underwear, fingers sliding through slick heat to find my clit directly.

“Yes,” I gasp, my hips bucking involuntarily.

“I said stay still,” he reminds me, his grip on my hip tightening in warning.

I force myself to remain as motionless as possible while his fingers work magic, circling and stroking with devastating precision. It’s like he already knows exactly how to touch me, how much pressure to use, and what rhythm will drive me to the edge.

“You’re so responsive,” he murmurs against my ear. “So perfect like this.”

His praise washes over me, adding to the building pleasure. I’m close already, embarrassingly so, but I don’t want this to end.

“I want to feel you come,” he says, his voice low and commanding. “I want to feel you let go.”

His words, combined with the expert movement of his fingers, push me right to the edge.

“I can’t,” I gasp, though I’m not sure what I mean. Can’t come like this? Can’t hold back? Can’t process the intensity of what I’m feeling?

“You can,” he assures me. “I’ve got you. Let go, Nora.”

And just like that, I do. The orgasm hits me with stunning force, washing through me in waves that leave me trembling and breathless. Dean holds me through it, his fingers continuing their movement until I whimper from overstimulation.

Only then does he withdraw his hand, wrapping both arms around my waist instead, holding me against him as I come down from the high.

For several minutes, we just sit like that, my back to his chest, his arms around me, both of us breathing hard. I feel strangely peaceful, my mind quiet for once, free of the constant chatter of thoughts and worries and plans.

Eventually, he turns me in his arms, shifting me so I’m facing him. His expression is softer now, the intensity replaced by something warmer.

“Okay?” he asks, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

I nod, not quite trusting my voice yet.

“Talk to me,” he prompts gently. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

What am I thinking? My brain feels pleasantly fuzzy, like I’ve had just enough wine to be relaxed but not drunk.

“That was…” I search for the right word. “Unexpected.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “In what way?”

“I didn’t expect to feel so…” I gesture vaguely, unable to articulate it.

“Free?” he suggests.

“Yes.” That’s exactly it. “Like I could just… be. Not think, not plan, not worry. Just feel.”

He smiles, a real smile that transforms his usually serious face. “That’s the point.”

I realize I’m still sitting in his lap, wearing only my bralette and underwear, his arms around me. It should feel awkward, but it doesn’t. It feels right, comfortable even.

“What happens now?” I ask.

“Now,” he says, pressing a light kiss to my forehead, “we order food, because I’m guessing you skipped dinner, and then you go home.”

“That’s it?” I’m surprised by the simplicity of it.

“For tonight.” His eyes meet mine. “Unless you want to stop completely?”

“No,” I say quickly. Too quickly, maybe. “No, I don’t want to stop.”

“Good.” He tucks me closer against him. “Because I’m not done with you yet. Not even close.”

We order Thai food and eat it on his couch, talking about classes and hockey and my research interests. It’s surprisingly normal, comfortable even, this transition from intimacy back to friendship. I find myself laughing at his dry humor, enjoying the way his mind works when he talks about his projects.

It’s only when I’m getting ready to leave, pulling on my scarf and coat, that the intensity returns.

Dean catches me by the wrist as I reach for the door, turning me to face him. His expression is serious again, focused.

“When can I see you again?” he asks.

“We have tutoring on Tuesday,” I remind him.

“Not for tutoring.” His thumb traces circles on the inside of my wrist, sending small shivers up my arm. “For this.”

The directness of the question, the clear desire in his eyes, makes heat bloom in my chest.

“I’m free Thursday night,” I offer.

“Thursday.” He nods once, as if confirming an appointment. “Come here. Nine o’clock.”

It’s not quite a question, but there’s room for me to decline if I wanted to.

I don’t want to.

“Okay.”

He leans down and kisses me, a slow, thorough kiss that feels like a promise.

“Until then,” he says when he pulls back, “I want you to think about what else you might want. What you’ve fantasized about. What scares you a little but excites you more.”

The suggestion sends a thrill through me. “And if I don’t know?”

He smiles, that rare, transformative smile. “Then I’ll help you figure it out.”

As I walk back to my dorm through the chilly night air, I feel different somehow. Lighter, maybe. Less constrained by my own expectations and limitations.

For the first time in years, I don’t have a plan.

And I’m completely okay with that.