Page 27

Breaking Point

Dean

Seven days.

Seven days of seeing Nora in tutoring sessions, in class, across the quad—and not being able to touch her the way I want to. Seven days of watching her tuck that strand of hair behind her ear, of seeing her bite her lower lip when she’s concentrating, of catching glimpses of her neck when she tilts her head just so.

Seven days of torture.

I understand why she needed space during her period. I respect it, even. But understanding doesn’t make the wanting any less intense. Doesn’t stop me from waking up hard and aching, her name on my lips. Doesn’t prevent me from taking longer showers, my hand a poor substitute for her touch.

“So the integration of force over distance,” Nora says, pointing to an equation in my mechanics textbook. “You’re calculating it incorrectly here.”

We’re in study room C3—tucked away on the fourth floor of the science building, far enough from main traffic that we rarely get interrupted. The space is small, just a table and four chairs, frosted glass partitions. Private. Isolated.

But still dangerous.

I glance at the problem she’s referencing, but all I can focus on is her hand on the page, her slender fingers tracing the equation. All I can think about is those same fingers on my skin last week, digging into my shoulders, tangling in my hair.

I pull a folded piece of paper from my notebook and slide it across the table. “Before we get into that, I have something for you.”

She looks up, momentarily distracted from the equations. “What’s this? Your practice quiz?”

“Take a look,” I say, keeping my voice casual despite the deliberate nature of this gesture.

She unfolds it with the methodical precision I’ve come to expect from her. The moment she registers what she’s looking at, her eyes widen slightly, then quickly return to their usual composed state. But the flush that starts at her neck and spreads upward to her cheeks gives her away.

Her eyes catch the header: “Dean Jackson Carter,” followed by a series of test results. All negative.

“This is…” she begins, then trails off, clearing her throat.

“My STI results,” I confirm. “From Tuesday.”

She folds the paper quickly, as if someone might see it over her shoulder, then tucks it into her notebook. The pink flush has now spread across her entire face, down her neck, undoubtedly continuing beneath the collar of her shirt.

“You could have just told me,” she says, her voice slightly lower than normal.

“I wanted you to have the official documentation.” I lean forward slightly. “No room for misinterpretation.”

She nods, avoiding my eyes in a way that tells me she understands exactly what I’m suggesting.

Something shifts in her expression—surprise giving way to understanding, then to something warmer. We can be careful… Condoms every time. But this—this is planning ahead. This is thinking about possibilities.

“We can still use condoms, if that’s what you want, for birth control reasons, but I wanted you to feel comfortable.”

I can tell she’s touched by this. “I take birth control to regulate my periods.”

I nod once, satisfied for now. “Now, where were we?”

“Integration of force,” she says, recovering her professional tone, though the flush remains. “As I was saying, you’re calculating it incorrectly here.”

“Dean?” She looks up, brow furrowed. “Are you listening?”

“No,” I admit, my voice rougher than intended.

She sighs, setting down her pencil. “This material is important. The midterm is—”

“I know when the midterm is.” I lean back in my chair, maintaining a fragile hold on my control. “I just can’t concentrate right now.”

“Why not?” But the slight flush creeping up her neck tells me she already knows.

I hold her gaze, letting her see exactly what I’m thinking.

Her lips part slightly, that perfect pink mouth that’s been haunting my dreams.

“Is your period over?”

She blinks once. “Yes.”

“It’s been seven days, thirteen hours, and—” I glance at my watch, “—twenty-two minutes since I last touched you properly.”

The blush deepens, spreading across her cheeks. “You’re counting?”

“I’m always counting.” I reach across the table, running my finger along the inside of her wrist where her pulse jumps beneath the skin. “Always calculating. Always wanting.”

Her breath catches, eyes darkening with an answering desire. “We’re supposed to be studying.”

“I’ve been studying you for seven days,” I say, my voice dropping lower. “Every expression. Every movement. Every sound you make when you’re trying not to react to me looking at you.”

“Dean…” Her voice holds a warning, but I can see the way her chest rises and falls more rapidly, the slight dilation of her pupils.

I stand, moving around the table until I’m beside her chair. She turns to face me, looking up with those clear, intelligent eyes that see straight through every defense I’ve built.

“Tell me to stop,” I say, “and I will.”

She doesn’t say anything, just watches as I reach behind me to lock the study room door. The soft click echoes in the quiet space.

“Someone could need this room,” she says, but there’s no conviction in her voice.

“I need this room.” I step closer, until she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. “I need you.”

“I missed you too,” she admits quietly.

It’s all the permission I need. I close the remaining distance, capturing her mouth with mine in a kiss that’s been building for seven endless days.

Her response is immediate, arms winding around my neck, body pressing closer.

I back her against the wall, hands finding her waist, then sliding lower to lift her. She wraps her legs around me instinctively, a small sound escaping her throat as I grind against her.

“We shouldn’t,” she gasps when I move to her neck, finding that sensitive spot beneath her ear. “Not here.”

“No one comes to this floor,” I murmur against her skin. “Not at this hour.”

Her fingers tighten in my hair, pulling slightly in the way she knows drives me crazy. “Still risky.”

I pull back just enough to meet her eyes. “Do you want me to stop?”

She holds my gaze, considering. Then, “No.”

The single word unleashes something primal in me. I carry her to the table, sweeping our books aside with one arm before setting her down. Her legs stay wrapped around my waist, keeping me close as I reclaim her mouth.

I’m very aware that we haven’t fucked.

But now’s not the time.

Our kisses turn desperate. I tug at the hem of her sweater, needing to feel her skin under my hands.

As my fingers trace the soft skin of her waist, an idea forms—one that’s been playing at the edges of my mind.

I pull back slightly, studying her flushed face. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” Her answer comes without hesitation, sending a surge of something powerful through me.

I reach for my gym bag on the floor, retrieving my spare set of hockey laces. When Nora sees what I’m holding, her eyes widen in understanding.

“Here?” she asks, her voice pitched low.

“Here,” I confirm, running the laces through my fingers. “Unless you don’t want to.”

She considers for only a moment before extending her wrists. “I want to.”

The simple submission—so at odds with her usual need for control—sends heat rushing through me. I take her right wrist first, wrapping the lace around it with practiced ease. The dark material contrasts beautifully against her pale skin.

“Not too tight?” I check, sliding a finger between the lace and her pulse point.

She shakes her head. “It’s good.”

I secure the other wrist, leaving enough slack between them for her to be comfortable but not enough to fully separate her hands. The sight of Nora—brilliant, analytical, always-in-control Nora—bound by my hockey laces stirs something primal in my chest.

“You look perfect like this,” I tell her, my voice rough with desire.

A hint of vulnerability crosses her features, quickly replaced by trust. “What now?”

I guide her to lie back on the table, her bound hands above her head. “Now I make up for seven days of not touching you.”

Her breath catches, chest rising and falling more rapidly as I work the button of her jeans, slowly lowering the zipper. The denim is tight, requiring her to lift her hips as I pull it down her legs. She’s wearing simple black cotton underwear—practical, like everything about her—but on Nora, it’s sexier than any lingerie.

“You’re beautiful,” I murmur, my hands skimming up her legs, feeling the slight tremble under my touch.

“Dean,” she whispers, a plea and a warning wrapped in one word.

I understand her concern—we’re still in a study room, still at risk of discovery despite the locked door and isolated location. We need to be quick, quiet, controlled.

But I’ve had seven days of nothing but imagination. Seven days of wanting her. I’m not rushing this moment.

“Quiet,” I instruct, leaning down to place a kiss on her inner thigh. “Can you do that for me?”

She nods, biting her lower lip.

“Good girl,” I praise, continuing my path up her leg, my mouth trailing where my hands have been.

When I reach the edge of her underwear, I look up to find her watching me, eyes dark with desire, wrists straining slightly against the laces. The position—her partially clothed, bound, and vulnerable on the table; me standing between her legs, fully dressed and in control—sends a surge of heat through me.

I hook my fingers in the waistband of her underwear, pulling it down with deliberate slowness. She lifts her hips again, allowing me to remove the fabric completely, leaving her exposed from the waist down.

“Beautiful,” I repeat, hands sliding up to push her sweater higher, revealing the smooth skin of her stomach. I want her completely naked, but the risk is too great. This partial exposure, this controlled vulnerability, will have to be enough for now.

I lean down, placing open-mouthed kisses along her abdomen, feeling the muscles tense beneath my lips. Her breathing quickens, hands flexing in their restraints as I move lower, toward the heat between her legs.

“Remember,” I murmur against her skin, “quiet.”

She nods again, more urgently this time.

The first touch of my mouth against her core tears a gasp from her throat—quickly stifled, but still audible in the silent room. I look up, a warning in my eyes that she understands immediately. She presses her lips together, determination replacing the momentary loss of control.

I return to my task, using everything I’ve learned about her body over the past months. I know exactly how much pressure she needs, what rhythm makes her muscles tense, and what movement of my tongue will send her spiraling toward release.

The combination of the restraints, the semi-public location, and seven days of anticipation has her more responsive than usual. Within minutes, I can feel her approaching the edge, her thighs trembling beneath my hands, her breath coming in short, controlled pants.

“Not yet,” I murmur against her heated skin. “Wait for me.”

A small sound of frustration escapes her, quickly suppressed. I smile against her, enjoying this power—the ability to push her toward release and then pull her back, to control not just her body but her pleasure.

I straighten, admiring the sight before me—Nora spread out on the study table, wrists bound with my hockey laces, sweater pushed up to reveal the bottom curve of her breasts, naked from the waist down, skin flushed with desire. It’s a picture I want to burn into my memory.

“Please,” she whispers, the rare plea making my control slip further.

I unbutton my jeans, lowering them just enough to free myself. The action draws Nora’s gaze, her lips parting slightly in anticipation. Seven days of nothing but my own hand has me fully hard, aching for her.

“Open,” I command softly.

She complies immediately, parting her lips as I guide myself to her mouth. The first touch of her tongue against me tears a harsh breath from my lungs. I fight to maintain my composure, to not thrust too deeply too quickly.

With her hands bound, she can’t guide me, can’t control the pace or depth. She’s completely surrendering control to me, trusting me not to push too far.

The knowledge sends a surge of both desire and protectiveness through me. I’ll take what I need, but I’ll be careful with her.

“Good girl,” I praise as she takes me deeper, her eyes never leaving mine.

There’s something incredibly powerful about this moment—Nora bound on the table, her brilliant mind focused solely on pleasing me, her usual control temporarily surrendered. It’s more intimate, in some ways, than actual sex—this willingness to be vulnerable, to trust me not to take advantage.

I establish a rhythm, fucking her mouth with one hand tangled in her hair to guide her movements, while softly stroking her pussy with the other.

The position isn’t ideal—the angle awkward, her mobility limited by the restraints—but the visual alone nearly pushes me to the edge.

Nora Shaw—top of her class, always composed, always in control—looking up at me with those intelligent eyes while taking me in her mouth. It’s a fantasy I’ve had more times than I’d care to admit.

“You’re perfect,” I tell her, my voice rough with restraint. “So fucking perfect.”

She hums in response, the vibration sending shocks of pleasure up my spine. Despite the awkward position, she’s applying everything she’s learned about what I like—the right pressure, the way her tongue swirls just so.

Seven days of nothing but imagination, of relying on my own hand and memories, has left me with embarrassingly little stamina. Already, I can feel the familiar tightening, the building pressure signaling release.

“I’m close,” I warn her, giving her the chance to pull away.

But Nora—brave, brilliant Nora—just looks up at me with those clear eyes and takes me deeper, an unmistakable message in her gaze: Don’t stop.

The sight of her—flushed cheeks, lips stretched around me, eyes full of heat and hunger—combined with the tight, wet heat of her mouth is my undoing.

Release hits with unexpected intensity, a wave of pleasure that has me gripping the edge of the table with white knuckles to keep from making noise.

Throughout it all, Nora maintains eye contact, watching my reaction with the same focused attention she brings to everything. Taking note of what works, what drives me to the edge, storing the information away for future use.

Even in submission, she’s studying me. Learning me. It’s so quintessentially Nora that it makes my chest tighten with something that feels dangerously close to more than just desire.

When it’s over, I carefully withdraw and lean over her to bring my mouth to her clit.

I part her with my thumbs and suck, tongue swirling, one hand wandering up to squeeze a perfect tit—and Nora begins to unravel almost immediately.

With her hands still bound, she reaches for me. “Oh—God. Right there,” she gasps, her fingers tangling in my hair. “Don’t stop.”

She comes with a breathy exhale and a series of soft whimpers.

I really hope no one’s in the room next to us. She’s quiet, but she’s not that quiet.

After one last kiss to the flat of her belly, I help her sit up on the table. I untie the laces from her wrists, fingers gently massaging the slight marks they’ve left behind.

“Okay?” I ask, concerned that I might have been too rough, too demanding.

She flexes her hands, examining the faint red lines with scientific interest rather than discomfort. “More than okay. That was…”

“Yeah,” I agree, understanding what she can’t quite articulate. “It was.”

For several moments afterward, we stay like this, both breathing hard but careful to remain quiet. The reality of our location—a study room in the science building—slowly filters back into awareness.

I press my forehead against hers, a gesture of intimacy that feels different from the physical pleasure we just shared. “Worth the wait?” I murmur.

A small smile curves her lips. “Seven days, thirteen hours, and twenty-two minutes? Definitely.”

I laugh softly, carefully helping her climb off the table. We clean up and rearrange our clothing with the efficiency of people aware they’re in borrowed time and space. I gather our scattered books while Nora smooths her hair, returning to the composed, controlled woman most people see. But I notice the lingering flush on her cheeks, the slight swell of her lips from our kisses, the relaxed set of her shoulders that wasn’t there before.

“We should probably actually study now,” she says, her voice returning to its usual practical tone. “The final—”

“Isn’t going to pass itself,” I finish for her, smiling at her predictability. “I know.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s affection in the gesture. “Some of us care about more than just hockey, you know.”

“I care about a lot of things,” I say, catching her wrist as she moves to sit down. I press a kiss to the faint mark left by the lace, feeling her pulse jump beneath my lips. “Including the final. But I care about this too.”

The simple admission—that this thing between us matters, that she matters—seems to catch her off guard. Her expression softens, analytical precision giving way to something warmer, more vulnerable.

“Me too,” she says quietly.

It’s not some big declaration. It’s not even a label for whatever we’re doing. But somehow, in this moment, it feels like enough—this acknowledgment that what we’re building together has value, has meaning beyond physical release.

As we settle back into our chairs, returning to the mechanics problem that started this whole encounter, I find myself watching her—the focused set of her brow, the precise movements of her hand as she corrects my work, the way she unconsciously touches her wrist where the lace left its mark.

Seven days without touching her was torture.

But this—watching her explain integration problems as if she wasn’t just spread out on the table beneath me, knowing the marks of my laces are still fresh on her skin beneath her sweater—this feels like a different kind of exquisite torture.

One I’d happily endure for another seven days, if it led to moments like this.

But preferably not seven days. I don’t think either of us could handle that again.