Page 8 of The Good Student (Straight No More #2)

ASHER STUDIES ME for a long moment, as if gauging my sincerity. Then, without warning, he drops to his knees, the sound of denim hitting the worn carpet impossibly loud in the quiet space.

My brain short-circuits at the sight of Asher kneeling before me, looking up through dark lashes. The reality of what's about to happen hits me with full force. This is actually happening. In the library. Between Ancient Greek Poetry and Medieval French Literature.

A distant part of me, the part still clinging to normalcy, notes the absurdity of the situation. Twenty-four hours ago, I would have laughed at the suggestion that I'd be in this position. Now, I can barely breathe as Asher's hands move to my belt.

He works with methodical precision, unbuckling my belt with ease.

The sound of the leather sliding through the loops seems obscenely loud, each soft whisper of fabric against metal making me flinch and glance nervously down the aisle.

The button of my jeans comes next, then the zipper, its teeth separating with a sound that echoes among the silent stacks.

"Relax," Asher murmurs, his breath warm through the fabric of my boxers. "No one's coming."

"That's not—" I start, but my words die in my throat as Asher hooks his fingers into my waistband and pulls my boxers down, freeing my already hard cock. The admission of desire is right there, impossible to deny or explain away.

The cool air of the library hits me first, making me shiver. Then Asher's warm breath, ghosting over my sensitive skin. My hands scrabble for purchase against the bookshelf behind me, knocking several ancient tomes askew. The spines press into my back, hard edges against my shoulder blades.

Asher looks up at me, a small smile playing at his lips. "Try not to destroy the library's collection, okay? Some of these books are older than both of us combined."

Before I can respond, Asher leans forward and takes me into his mouth.

The sensation is overwhelming—wet heat enveloping me, Asher's tongue flat against the underside of my cock, the slight suction as he hollows his cheeks. My head falls back against the shelf with a thud, my eyes squeezing shut as pleasure courses through me like an electrical current.

It's different from being with a woman—not better or worse, just different. There's a confidence to Asher's movements, a knowledge of exactly what feels good because he knows what feels good to himself. No hesitation, no uncertainty, just pure, focused intent.

I force my eyes open, needing to see. The visual is almost as overwhelming as the physical sensation—Asher on his knees, lips stretched around me, eyes half-closed in concentration. It's filthy and beautiful all at once, and I can't look away.

His hands come up to grip my hips, fingers digging into the flesh just above my hipbones, holding me steady as he takes me deeper. The pressure is grounding, keeping me tethered to reality when I feel like I might float away on waves of pleasure.

A soft moan escapes me before I can stop it, the sound seeming to hang in the air around us. I clap a hand over my mouth, mortified, but Asher just makes an approving sound in the back of his throat. The vibration travels through my cock, sending sparks of pleasure up my spine.

My free hand moves of its own accord, reaching down to touch Asher's hair. It's softer than I expected, slipping through my fingers like silk. Asher makes another sound of approval when my fingers tangle in it, encouraging the touch.

"Fuck," I breathe, the word barely audible behind my palm.

Asher pulls back slightly, swirling his tongue around the head of my cock in a way that makes my knees weak. The sensation is almost too intense—a concentrated point of pleasure that borders on overwhelming. Then he takes me deep again, setting a rhythm that has me seeing stars.

The rational part of my brain—the part that's been screaming at me that this is wrong, that I shouldn't want this—grows quieter with each bob of Asher's head. How can something that feels this good be wrong? How can desire this pure be shameful?

Asher pulls off for a moment, his lips red and slightly swollen, a thin strand of saliva connecting them to my cock. The sight is obscene and intoxicating.

"You taste good," he murmurs, his voice rougher than before. "Better than I imagined."

The words send a fresh wave of heat through me. "You imagined this?"

His lips curve into a smile as he strokes me with his hand, keeping me hard. "More times than I should probably admit."

The confession, casual as it is, hits me like a physical blow. Asher has thought about this—about me—before last night. Has wanted me.

Before I can process this new information, Asher's mouth is on me again, this time with renewed enthusiasm.

His technique changes, becoming more varied—sometimes using just his lips on the head, sometimes taking me deep enough that I feel the back of his throat, sometimes using his hand in tandem with his mouth.

I lose track of time, lost in the sensations. The world narrows down to the space between the bookshelves, to the wet heat of Asher's mouth, to the growing tension in my lower abdomen.

A noise from somewhere in the stacks—a book falling, perhaps, or someone walking on another aisle—makes me tense. The reminder that we're in public, that we could be discovered at any moment, should be sobering. Instead, it adds an edge of danger that only heightens my arousal.

Asher seems to sense my distraction and doubles his efforts, taking me deeper than before. His throat relaxes around the head of my cock, and the sensation—tight, wet, perfect—pulls a strangled gasp from my lips.

"Asher," I warn, my voice strained. "If you keep that up, I'm going to—"

Instead of pulling away, Asher hums around me—an acknowledgment and encouragement all at once.

His movements become more focused, more deliberate, one hand moving to wrap around the base of my cock while his mouth works the rest. His other hand slides up under my shirt, fingers splayed across my abdomen, feeling the muscles tense as I approach my climax.

The dual sensations—Asher's mouth on my cock, his hand on my skin—push me to the edge. I try to hold back, to make this last, but it's too much, too good.

"I'm going to come," I gasp, a final warning.

His eyes flick up to meet mine, dark with desire, and the eye contact—intimate, challenging, accepting—is what finally pushes me over the edge.

I come with a muffled groan, my hand flying up to cover my mouth as pleasure crashes through me in waves. My hips buck involuntarily, but Asher's grip keeps me steady, taking everything I have to give.

He swallows around me, the muscles of his throat working visibly, and the sight alone nearly makes me come again. He keeps his mouth on me until the last pulse subsides, only pulling back when I'm trembling with oversensitivity.

As the haze of orgasm fades, reality comes crashing back. We're in the library. I just got a blowjob from another guy in the Ancient Literature section. My life has officially gone off the rails.

Yet, despite the circumstances, I don't feel the shame or regret I expected. Instead, there's a strange sense of clarity, like something that was out of focus has suddenly sharpened.

Asher sits back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips are swollen, his cheeks flushed, his eyes still dark with arousal. He looks debauched and beautiful, and I feel a surge of something that might be pride at being the cause.

"So," Asher says, his voice slightly hoarse, "was it real, or did you imagine how good it felt?"

The question brings me back to our earlier conversation, to the reason I brought him up here in the first place. I stare down at him, still trying to catch my breath, still trying to process what just happened.

"It was real," I admit. "Definitely real."

Asher nods, then rises to his feet in one fluid motion. The movement brings him close to me again, our chests nearly touching. I can smell myself on his breath, can see the slight shine on his lips. It should be off-putting, but instead, it sends a residual shiver of pleasure through me.

Asher adjusts himself in his jeans—he's clearly hard, the outline of his erection visible against the denim—and I suddenly realize what the expected next step is.

Panic flares in my chest, cutting through the post-orgasmic haze. Am I supposed to reciprocate? The thought of putting another man's dick in my mouth is... I'm not sure I'm ready for that. Last night was one thing—I didn't have to cross that particular line. But this...

Would it be so different from what I just experienced? Would it feel as natural, as right as everything else has felt with Asher?

I don't know, and the uncertainty terrifies me. I've already stepped so far outside my comfort zone, already questioned so much about myself. This feels like one step too far, too fast.

"I—" I start, fumbling to pull my pants up. My fingers feel clumsy, uncooperative. "I don't think I can—"

"Can what?" Asher asks, his expression unreadable.

"Return the favor," I manage, my cheeks burning with shame. The words sound selfish, cowardly to my own ears. "I'm not ready for that."

I expect anger, or at least disappointment. But Asher just shrugs, his expression neutral. "It's fine," he says. "I didn't do it expecting anything in return."

I blink, surprised by the easy acceptance. "But you're..." My eyes flick down to the obvious bulge in his jeans.

"I'll manage," Asher says with a small smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I can always find someone else to take care of it."

The words hit me like a bucket of cold water, dousing the warm glow of my orgasm. Of course he can find someone else. Probably has a whole roster of people willing to drop to their knees for him. The thought shouldn't bother me—it's not like we're dating or anything—but it does.