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 mouthworks 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.
A surge of possessiveness, unexpected and unwelcome, rises in my chest. The image of Asher with someone else, doing what we just did, makes something twist painfully inside me.
"Right," I say, trying to keep my voice neutral despite the sudden hollowness in my chest. "Of course."
Asher studies me for a moment, his gaze penetrating, like he's trying to read my thoughts. Then he takes a step back, creating space between us that feels both necessary and wrong.
"I should go," he says, running a hand through his hair, trying to smooth it back into place where my fingers had mussed it. "Got that paper to finish."
