Page 13 of The Good Student (Straight No More #2)

MY HEART POUNDS as I sink to my knees in front of Asher, the carpet rough against my jeans.

This position—me kneeling, looking up at Asher—is a mirror image of our encounter in the library, roles reversed.

The symmetry feels significant somehow, like we're completing a circuit that started hours ago between dusty bookshelves.

The thought makes my mouth quirk up in an unexpected smile.

"What's funny?" Asher asks, catching the expression.

"Just thinking about how we've come full circle," I admit. "You on your knees in the library, me on my knees here."

Asher's lips twitch. "Except I knew what I was doing."

"Are you saying I don't?" I challenge, surprising myself with my boldness.

"I'm saying," Asher replies, his voice dropping lower, "that you're about to learn."

The words send a shiver down my spine. I've always been a quick study—top of my class since elementary school—but this is an entirely different kind of education.

"You don't have to do this," Asher says, giving me one last chance to back out. "We can take it slower."

"I want to," I insist, and I'm surprised to find it's true. The nervousness is still there, coiled in my stomach like a spring, but it's overshadowed by curiosity, by desire, by the need to explore this new aspect of myself. "I want to know what it's like. What you taste like."

Asher's pupils dilate at the words, his breath catching audibly. "Fuck, Philip," he murmurs. "You can't just say things like that."

"Why not?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"Because it makes me want to skip the tutorial and go straight to advanced placement."

The academic metaphor makes me laugh, the sound breaking some of the tension. "I thought you were all about thorough education."

Asher grins down at me. "I am. Very hands-on learning."

As if to demonstrate, Asher's hands move to his belt. I watch, unmoving, as he unbuckles it, the leather sliding through the loops with a soft hiss. Then he unbuttons his jeans, the movement deliberate, almost teasing. The sound of the zipper being lowered seems impossibly loud in the quiet room.

My mouth goes dry as Asher pushes his jeans down, revealing black boxer briefs that do little to hide his arousal. There's a damp spot at the front where the head of his cock has leaked pre-cum, and the sight makes my own cock twitch in response.

"You can touch me through them first," Asher suggests, noticing my hesitation. "If that's easier."

I nod, grateful for the guidance. I reach out, my hand hovering for a moment before pressing against the hard length contained by the thin fabric.

Asher's sharp intake of breath encourages me, and I explore more boldly, tracing the outline with my fingers, feeling the heat radiating through the cotton.

"That feels good," Asher says, his voice slightly strained. "But I think we can lose these now."

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and pushes them down in one smooth motion, freeing his cock. It springs up, hard and flushed, the head glistening.

It's... not as alien as I expected. Different from my own, slightly longer, curved a bit to the left, but fundamentally familiar. The sight of it—so close, so real—makes my heart race, but not with fear.

"You can touch it," Asher says softly. "However you want."

I reach out, my hand wrapping around his length. The sensation is strange—like touching myself but from a completely different angle, with none of the direct feedback. The skin is soft over hardness, warm and alive under my palm.

I stroke experimentally, a slow up-and-down motion, watching Asher's face for reaction. His breath hitches, eyes darkening, and I feel a surge of satisfaction at having caused that response.

"That's good," Asher encourages, his voice slightly strained. "You can grip a little tighter if you want. I won't break."

I adjust my grip, tightening my fingers slightly, and am rewarded with a soft moan from Asher. The sound goes straight to my own cock, making it strain against my jeans uncomfortably.

"How does it feel?" Asher asks. "Touching another man like this?"

I consider the question, trying to articulate the strange mix of familiarity and novelty. "Weird," I admit. "But good weird. Like... I know the mechanics, but it's completely different when it's not my own."

Asher laughs softly. "That's a pretty accurate description, actually."

I continue my exploration, growing more confident with each stroke. I pay attention to Asher's reactions—the way his breath catches when I run my thumb over the head, the way his hips twitch forward when my grip tightens at the base.

"Now," Asher says, his voice rougher now, "if you're comfortable, try using your mouth. Just the tip at first."

I lean forward, heart racing. This is it—a line I never thought I'd cross, a boundary I never expected to push. But as I part my lips, taking just the head of Asher's cock into my mouth, the strangeness of the act is quickly overshadowed by Asher's reaction.

He makes a sound—half gasp, half moan—that sends a thrill through me. I did that. I caused that reaction. The power of it is intoxicating.

The taste is unfamiliar but not unpleasant—skin and salt and something uniquely Asher. I experiment with my tongue, remembering what feels good when done to me, trying to replicate it. I swirl my tongue around the head, paying special attention to the sensitive spot just under the crown.

"Fuck," Asher breathes, his hand coming to rest lightly on my head, not pushing, just a point of connection. "That's... you're a natural."

The praise sends a wave of warmth through me. I hollow my cheeks, sucking more firmly, and am rewarded with another moan from Asher.

"Try taking a bit more if you can." Asher’s voice is tight with restraint. "But don't push yourself too far. Use your hand for what you can't fit in your mouth."

I follow the advice, taking Asher deeper while wrapping my hand around the base. The combination seems to work well, judging by the way his fingers tighten in my hair.

"That's it. Just like that."

I fall into a rhythm, alternating between using my hand and my mouth, paying attention to Asher's reactions to guide me. When I swirl my tongue around the head, his hips jerk forward slightly. When I use my hand to stroke the base while my mouth works the tip, his breathing becomes more ragged.

It's like learning a new language, decoding what each sound, each movement means. And I find I enjoy the learning process, enjoy the feedback loop of action and reaction.

"You're sure you've never done this before?" Asher asks, his voice strained with pleasure. "Because you're doing things with your tongue that should be illegal."

I pull off for a moment, looking up with a grin. "Beginner's luck?"

"If this is you as a beginner," Asher says, "I can't wait to see what you're like with practice."

The implication that there will be more of this, more opportunities to explore and learn, sends a thrill through me. I return to my task with renewed enthusiasm, taking Asher deeper than before.

"Careful," Asher warns, his hand tightening in my hair. "Don't try to take too much at once. It takes practice to suppress your gag reflex."

I nod, adjusting my approach. I focus on using my tongue and lips on the head and first few inches, while my hand works the rest. The combination seems to be effective, judging by the way Asher's thighs are tensing, the way his breathing has become more erratic.

"Wait," Asher says suddenly, his voice strained. "Stop for a second."

I pull back immediately, concerned. "Did I do something wrong?"

"God, no." He laughs breathlessly. "The opposite. You're doing too well. I don't want to finish yet."

Pride blooms in my chest at the admission. "What do you want instead?"

Asher's eyes darken. "How far do you want to take this?"

The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with implication. I consider it, surprising myself with how easily the answer comes. "All the way," I say, the words feeling right as they leave my mouth. "I want everything."

Asher's expression shifts, surprise giving way to hunger. "Are you sure? We can take it slow."

"I'm sure," I say, rising to my feet. My knees protest the movement, stiff from kneeling on the carpet. "I want to know what it feels like. All of it."

Asher studies me for a moment, as if gauging my sincerity, then nods. "Okay," he says, moving toward the bed. "But we do this right."

He reaches into his bedside drawer, pulling out a bottle of lube and a condom. The sight makes the reality of what we're about to do crash over me. This is happening.

I'm about to have sex with a man.

The thought should terrify me, but instead, it sends a thrill of anticipation down my spine.

Asher sits on the edge of the bed, fully naked now. "You're a bit overdressed," he points out, nodding at my fully clothed state.

I look down at myself, suddenly aware that I'm still wearing everything—jeans, t-shirt, even my shoes. "Right," I say, bending to untie my sneakers. My fingers feel clumsy, uncooperative.

"Let me help," Asher offers, sliding off the bed to kneel in front of me. The role reversal is back, but this time with a different purpose.

He helps me out of my shoes and socks, then rises to his feet, hands moving to the hem of my shirt. "Arms up," he instructs, and I comply, allowing him to pull the shirt over my head.

The cool air of the room raises goosebumps on my skin, or maybe it's the way Asher looks at me, gaze appreciative as it travels over my chest. "You work out," he observes, his fingers tracing the definition of my pectoral muscles.

"Swimming," I explain, my voice slightly hoarse. "Three times a week."

"It shows," he mutters, his hands moving down to my waist. "These next?"

I nod, my mouth too dry for words. Asher's fingers make quick work of my belt and the button of my jeans, but he pauses at the zipper, looking up at me as if asking for final permission.

"Yes," I say, answering the unspoken question.