Page 24

Compromised

Nora

The month of April brings the particular madness of approaching finals—campus coffee consumption triples, the library stays open until 2 AM, and dark circles become the season’s hottest accessory.

For the past week, I’ve barely seen Dean outside of scheduled tutoring. Hockey playoffs combined with end-of-year assessments have him stretched thin, our texts reduced to quick logistics.

It’s Thursday afternoon, warm enough that I’ve ditched my usual jeans for a navy skirt with a crisp white button-down—professional enough for my meeting with Professor Wexler later, but comfortable in the unseasonable heat. My hair is pulled back in its usual ponytail, though wisps have escaped in the humidity.

The library’s study room B4 is my favorite—tucked away on the third level, away from high-traffic areas, with actual walls instead of the glass partitions that make the main floor rooms feel like fishbowls. Perfect for intense concentration. Or, apparently, other intense activities.

“Focus, Nora,” Dean says, his voice deceptively casual as he slides his chair closer to mine. “Tell me about dopamine’s role in reward pathways.”

I swallow hard, trying to remember basic neuroscience while his hand rests on my knee under the table, thumb drawing slow circles against my bare skin. This was his idea—quizzing me on neurotransmitter functions while systematically dismantling my ability to think clearly.

“Dopamine acts as a—” I pause, momentarily distracted as his hand inches higher. “As a chemical messenger that influences pleasure and motivation.”

“Good.” His hand continues its upward path. “And what happens during reward anticipation?”

My breath catches as his fingers trace the inside of my thigh. “The ventral tegmental area activates, releasing dopamine into the nucleus accumbens and—”

His hand slides higher, fingers brushing against the edge of my underwear. I lose my train of thought entirely.

“And?” Dean prompts, his voice steady despite the heat in his eyes.

“And the prefrontal cortex,” I manage, fighting to keep my voice level. “Creating a feedback loop that reinforces pleasure-seeking behaviors.”

“Very good.” The praise sends an unexpected thrill through me—or maybe it’s the way his fingers have now slipped beneath the fabric, stroking lightly. “Now explain how neurotransmitter depletion affects this process.”

It’s impossible to concentrate with his touch becoming more deliberate, more precise. But that’s the point of this exercise—maintaining cognitive function under extreme distraction. A twisted study method only Dean would devise.

His fingers slide back and forth, lazily, and pleasure rockets through me.

“When neurotransmitters are depleted,” I begin, my voice embarrassingly breathy, “the brain can’t—can’t maintain normal signaling patterns.”

“And what happens then?” His fingers find exactly the right spot, applying perfect pressure.

“Reduced—reduced pleasure response,” I gasp, fighting to keep my composure. “Leading to compensatory behaviors to stimulate—oh god.”

Dean leans closer, his mouth near my ear. “That’s not the scientific terminology.”

I’d laugh if I weren’t so focused on controlling my breathing, on not making any sound that might carry beyond our study room. His fingers continue their relentless attention, driving me slowly toward the edge of control.

“I can’t concentrate like this,” I whisper, gripping the edge of the table.

“Yes, you can.” His voice holds the same quiet authority that never fails to make my pulse race. “Tell me about serotonin’s relationship with impulse control.”

Somehow, I comply, piecing together a reasonably coherent explanation while his touch becomes increasingly focused. It’s torture and ecstasy combined—the academic challenge, the illicit thrill of his hand between my legs in a semi-public space, the constant threat of discovery.

His fingers against my flesh make an erotic, slippery noise that’s filthy and also hot as hell.

“Good,” he says when I finish reciting science facts, his approval making the tension coil tighter inside me. “Now come here. I want your mouth.”

The crude instruction, delivered in his controlled, even tone, sends heat flooding through me. We shouldn’t. We really shouldn’t. But I’m already sliding from my chair, ducking under the table before reason can override desire.

The space is tight, cramped, my knees uncomfortable against the thin carpet. Dean shifts, making room for me between his legs, his hand coming to rest on the back of my neck as I reach for his belt.

“Quiet,” he reminds me unnecessarily.

I work his belt open, then his jeans, freeing his already hard length. The position is awkward, exposed, nothing like the dim intimacy of his bedroom. Which makes it all the more thrilling.

When I take him in my mouth, his hand tightens in my hair—not forcing, just holding, a reminder of who’s in control despite his being the one receiving pleasure. I establish a rhythm, using everything I’ve learned about what he likes, driven by the small, almost imperceptible sounds he makes above me.

I’m so focused on my task that I don’t register the approaching footsteps until it’s too late. The study room door opens without warning.

“Carter, you in here? Coach wanted me to—”

I freeze, heart stopping in my chest. Dean’s hand keeps me hidden under the table, his body tense but his voice remarkably steady.

“Gavin. What’s up?”

There’s a pause, then a low chuckle. “Well, well. Am I interrupting something?”

“Yes,” Dean says, no hint of embarrassment in his tone. “Did Coach need something specific?”

I’m dying beneath the table, mortification and fear paralyzing me. Dean’s hand on my neck is now comforting, steadying.

“Just wanted to confirm you’re good for the strategy session tomorrow.” Gavin’s voice holds barely suppressed amusement. “But I can see you’re already engaged in some… strategic planning.”

“I’ll be there,” Dean says evenly. “Anything else?”

“Nope. Carry on.” Another pause. “Oh, and Nora? Your panties are visible under the table.”

My entire body flushes hot with humiliation. Dean’s hand tightens slightly on my neck.

“Get out, Gavin,” he says, voice dropping to that dangerous register I rarely hear.

The door closes, Gavin’s laughter audible even through the wood. When I’m certain he’s gone, I emerge from under the table, face burning, unable to meet Dean’s eyes.

“Oh my god,” I whisper, straightening my skirt with trembling hands. “Oh my god.”

Dean tucks himself away, zipping his jeans with annoying composure. “It’s fine.”

“Fine?” I hiss, panic making my voice high. “Gavin just caught me—about to—under the table! In the library!”

“He won’t say anything.”

“How can you be so calm about this?” I demand, gathering my scattered study materials with jerky movements. “Your teammate just walked in on us!”

Dean catches my wrist, stilling my frantic motions. “Nora. Look at me.”

I force myself to meet his eyes, expecting to find the same mortification I feel. Instead, I see calm certainty.

“Gavin won’t say anything,” he repeats. “He’s known something was going on for weeks.”

“What?” I stare at him. “How?”

“Because he’s not blind.” Dean’s thumb strokes my pulse point. “He’s noticed how I look at you. How I’ve been turning down team gatherings to ‘study.’”

“So he knew? Before this?”

“He suspected. Now he knows.” Dean shrugs, the gesture casual but his eyes still intense on mine. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“It changes everything!” I pull my hand away, resuming my frantic packing. “Someone knows, Dean. Someone has actually seen us. This isn’t—this isn’t what we agreed to.”

He watches me, head tilted slightly. “Are you embarrassed that someone knows? Or scared?”

The question cuts through my panic, forcing me to confront the real source of my anxiety. “Both,” I admit. “If Gavin knows, others might find out. Daphne might find out.”

“And that bothers you.”

“Of course it bothers me! She’s my friend!”

Dean stands, moving around the table to face me directly. “So what do you want to do? End this? Go back to just tutoring?”

The question hangs between us, weighted with more significance than it should have. What do I want? The safe, controlled life I had before Dean? Or this messy, complicated, exhilarating thing we’ve created together?

Before I can answer, the door opens again. This time, it’s Professor Wexler, his eyebrows rising in surprise when he sees us.

“Nora! Thought I might find you here.” He glances at Dean, then back to me. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all,” I say quickly, my voice unnaturally high. “Just finishing up a tutoring session.”

“Excellent. I wanted to discuss your latest data set. The oxytocin binding results came in, and I have some questions about your methodology.”

I nod, trying to look normal while acutely aware of how I must appear—flushed, disheveled, panties askew under my skirt. “Of course.”

Wexler settles into a chair, spreading papers across the table, completely oblivious to the tension in the room. Dean catches my eye.

“I should go,” he says. “I have class in fifteen minutes.”

“Right,” I say, relief and disappointment warring inside me. “We can continue this… tutoring session later?”

Something flickers in his eyes—heat, promise, a hint of that dominant intensity that never fails to make my breath catch. “Definitely. Text me when you’re done here.”

As he leaves, nodding respectfully to Wexler, I sink into my chair, trying to focus on my professor’s questions about binding proteins and receptor sites. But all I can think about is Dean’s parting look, Gavin’s knowing laughter, and the growing certainty that our carefully contained arrangement is spinning rapidly out of control.

And the most frightening part?

I’m not sure I want to stop it.