Page 68 of The Equation of Us
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 hislegs, 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.
