Once a Nerd Ch. 06

"Of course I'm gonna play in college, it's the only way I'll get into one." I snort. "Never see him again? Says who, you? Sammy? He'd probably like to think so. But, between you and me," I smile, and even I know it's a twisted, little thing. "He's going out of state to get his PhD. So, that's where I'll play. He doesn't know that yet, so keep it to yourself."

Did I snoop through his shit while he slept? Yeah. Does he have the most predictable password known to man on his laptop? Yeah. If you're judging me, I don't give a single shit. Just stack it up on top of the pile with the rest of my sins and dubious choices.

"You're...you're serious..."

"Mm, very." I straighten up, giving her some room to breathe. "Since I've gone to all this trouble, let's make a few things clear. I don't give a shit what you do, who you fuck, but Sam is not your goddamn friend. Beyond what's necessary between coworkers, don't look at him, don't talk to him, don't even breathe his fucking air. The only exception is an apology for all the stress you've put him through. Got it?"

She doesn't say anything. She's still huddled against the wall, watching me like I'm a venomous snake within striking distance.

"I'm sorry, was I mumbling? I asked...if you fuckin' got it."

She jumps at the hard, sharp angle of my tone. "I-I got it."

"Great. I'm sure this goes without saying, but stay off my dick. Don't call on me in class, don't talk to me in the halls, and don't show your fuckin' face at my practices. I want a wide berth, got it?"

"...got it."

"Great, great. Just so we're completely, crystal clear..." I look her square in the eyes, flattening the emotion from my face. "...if you make any more trouble for me, we just might make those National headlines."

I leave that up to her imagination. Murder, sex scandal, either way. Well, she looks sufficiently threatened to me. I roll my shoulders back, swing my head in a little stretch, and return to the counter. I tip the Miller over my face, letting the entirety of its contents drain down my throat, before replacing it on the counter. The empty aluminum smacks loudly against the laminate, and Jamie jumps at the weaponized sound.

"Thanks for the beer, Ms. Rosenthal."

--

It's been a long week.

Perhaps, the longest and most exhausting week of my entire life, and no, I won't cop to exaggeration. Dean talks a big game, always. He's got a lot of confidence, and I don't think it'd be right to call it baseless, but...he really does strut around like nothing and no one is a challenge. It's reassuring, I guess. He claimed he'd fix this thing with Jamie, and he asked me to ignore his antics in the coming week. He also claimed he wouldn't sleep with her, but...

Well, I suppose that's why he asked me to look away. If I didn't know any better, I'd presume that's exactly what he's trying to do: fuck her. I'm still not totally convinced that isn't what he's after. You would never, ever watch their interactions and peg them as student and teacher. It's the most in-your-face, vomit-inducing, cringe worthy display of flirting I've had the dissatisfaction of witnessing [even if I didn't like him], and by God, is the power of heteronormativity is a force not to be fucked with.

Because Dean is Dean and Jamie is a young, attractive woman, despite their behavior being on full display for students and faculty alike, no one says a word. Jamie isn't dragged into the Principal's office and chastised, nor is she shunned by her fellow educators. Some of the older women on staff do gossip about it, but they're sweet as pie to her face. There are no warnings, write-ups, or threat of losing her job. I won't lie, it really shakes me to my core. It makes me question my own morals, as well as everyone else's sanity.

If Dean was half as brazen with me, and I with him, I'd have been doing the walk of shame, toting a little file box with all my belongings under my arm, after the first week. But, because Jamie's hot and has a vagina, all's right with the world. It's as nature intended, and who can get in the way of nature? Certainly not the administration at this school.

My only silver lining during this time is, whether or not Dean was full of shit, Jamie should be satisfied enough to keep her silence. She's gotten exactly what she wanted, so I can only pray to God she doesn't take any accusations to the school's upper echelon or spread a rumor about me. I just sort of have to sit on my hands and wait. My only indication that Dean does, in fact, have some sort of plan, is the way he looks at me during my class.

He looks just like a dog who'd been caught in the wreckage of an upturned trash can: horribly guilty, pitiful, looking me up and down for signs that some affection still exists in my heart. It's...sweet, comforting, if I'm honest. It makes me feel like I should be patient and give him the benefit of the doubt. So, come Wednesday morning of the following week, imagine my surprise when Jamie appears in my doorway. She's barely said a word to me since our outing, and her's isn't exactly a face I'm happy to see. The smug, satisfied aura that's been wrapped about her like a gold-spun shawl is gone. She isn't her usual, high-maintenance self.

Her eyes are downcast, weighted with the baggage of a sleepless night, and her hair is in the process of drying naturally from a last-minute shower. No makeup, and an outfit much less flattering than usual. She's wearing crocs, for God's sake. She clears her throat. "Mr. Powell, could I...have a quick word?"

I mean, how could I turn her down? Did her cat die last night? I'm not heartless.

"Uh, yeah, sure."

She approaches my desk, but stops short, keeping a respectful distance of three feet. She clasps her hands in front of her navel, grinding the bones in her wrist together. "In regards to what we discussed last week, I...just wanted to apologize. It seems like I was mistaken, and you...won't have to worry about any unfounded accusations from me. That's all, have a great rest of your day."

She rushes the last bit out in one breath, then leaves without awaiting a reply from me. I blink at the empty space she stood in, and my brain races to catch up to her words. What...the fuck?

What did Dean do to that poor woman?

For some reason, I'm stuck on the cat thing, and I picture him murdering the little creature and leaving it in on her doorstep with a crayon-scribbled note: "UR NEXT"

I can't swallow the laugh down, and it's...the first time I've laughed like this in almost three weeks. It feels good. I have no idea what he actually did, but I feel confident in assuming he didn't sleep with her. That's not the reaction of someone who's coming down off a night of intense, fulfilling sex. If he didn't sleep with Jamie, I suppose it's safe to say...he's not slept with anyone but me, right? Jamie's a gorgeous woman, and it wouldn't make sense for him to shoot her down, but continue sleeping around with others.

The implications of that are staggering. His tirade from last week, in the middle of my kitchen-breakdown, is something I've tried very, very hard to ignore: "...there's no 'until graduation' or 'until summer' in my mind, there's no finish line."

Oh.

Oh, no.

Does he...actually want to...date?

Oh my fucking God.

How do I handle this? I told him I liked him! I do like him! Oh, shit, shit, fuck.

He's going to be so, so cocky about this whole thing, too. He cleaned it up just like he said he would. As the day wore on, that flirtatious behavior with Ms. Rosenthal was nowhere to be seen. They act as if the other doesn't exist, and while Jamie shuffles about like a shell of herself, like she's had the worst night of her life, Dean is practically glowing. He's radiant, as if reborn in a deity's image. True to what I'd imagined, Dean is the first one to saunter into my room after the bell signaling lunch's end. He's wearing those ridiculously tiny, loose athletic shorts and a billowy tank with arm-holes that descend to his hips. I've unofficially dubbed it his 'slut' fit.

God, is it effective. He's such a massive, well-proportioned guy--no muscle looks like it's received any less attention than another, and they all play a grand part in every movement he makes. His calves and thighs flex with each step, carved out from beach-warmed sunstone. He grins at me with rows of neat, pearly teeth, deliberately lifting his shirt over his stomach to 'scratch' it [sure, buddy]. His abs are so goddamn tight and defined, they might as well be named a geographical landmark: the Rocky Mountains, the Appalachian Mountains, the Sierra Nevada, and Dean's insane abs. My mouth dries up as I trace that particular vein, the one that travels his stomach and dips beneath the waistband of his shorts.

His hair has grown a bit since the start of the semester, and it's like liquid sunshine rolling across his head. He generally keeps it swept back from his face, but a few strands stubbornly lick around his temples. Those eyes, like a lagoon, and they're shining with his usual brand of self-assuredness.

He's so stupidly good looking, and it's so unfair. I can't teach my class with a fucking erection.

"Hey, Mr. Powell!" He sings, and instead of crowding around my desk like I expect him to, he drops into his own desk. "Get any good news this morning?"

I roll my eyes, but it's impossible to keep the little smile from spreading across my face. He grins even bigger, brighter, at the sight of it. He's so, so smug, and already half-hard, Jesus Christ.

"As a matter of fact, I did."

He leans forward, dropping his forearms across his desk. After a quick glance at the door, he asks in a low, gritty voice: "So, can I come over tonight?"

I cut my own cursory glance at the door. "Six."

"Fuck yeah."

I'll do you the courtesy of a fast forward, because as curious as I am about what exactly happened between Dean and Jamie, it seems we're both more pent up than I realized. I'm sticking with the dog analogy, because he attacks me like an excited labrador as soon as he's through the front door. Like I'm his beloved owner that dropped him off at doggy daycare for a week. It's...incredibly flattering, and again, a huge turn on.

I'm standing in front of the stove, eyeballing my kettle because I know it'll start screeching and hissing steam any second. He calls my name when he comes in, and I call back: "Kitchen!"

I hear him coming around, but damnit, I know this kettle is on the verge--

"Gah, holy shit!"

He scoops me up, and I have to snap my arms and legs around him like a koala clinging to a tree. He peppers my face and throat with kisses, and the dog analogy is feeling more and more accurate. "Oh my fucking God, I missed you so much." He groans, and the raw emotion in it takes my breath away. He says it like he's been deprived of oxygen, and I'm his first breath of fresh air before suffocation gets him. I bury my face in the junction of his neck and shoulder, because it's on fire.

"We...saw each other every day!"

"It's not the same!"

I know he's walking somewhere, but my stomach suddenly drops out as he flops onto the couch. "Sammy, come on, let me kiss you." He urges.

I pull my face back, but it's too difficult to meet his eyes. Blood is pounding through my face and my heart is ramming splinters out of my ribs. I'm anticipating this kiss in the same way I'd anticipate an orgasm, my entire fucking body is thrumming with excitement. My toes are practically curling over it, a simple kiss. He leans up and sucks my bottom lip between his teeth, and I couldn't even begin to describe the sound that escapes me. It's nothing dignified, but Dean groans like it's the hottest thing he's ever heard in his life.

Then, his tongue is in my mouth, tasting everything he's missed in the past seven days. It's breathless, sloppy, and desperate. His hands are everywhere at first, so I'm not sure at what point he decides to refocus all of that attention on my ass. He's squeezing hard, almost to a point of pain, before digging against my hole through the seam of my shirts. I spasm into his chest, breaking the kiss to hitch a gasp.

"Wait, wait, nngh--!"

"Did you stretch yourself, or did you want me to do it?" He seems way too eager at the prospect. "Fuck, feels wet. You did it already?"

"Hah, God, yes, I-I did it...alread-y! Hngh!"

"Havin' too much fun by yourself, Sammy, should'a let me do it for you."

"I just...wanted to--to be ready, fuck, Dean!"

He's wasted no time in slipping beneath my shorts, sinking his middle and ring finger into me. The butt of his palm is flush against the swell of my ass, and I literally can't stop myself from sitting back into it. His arm is a tight band around my waist, and he brings the hem of my T-shirt to my mouth. "Bite it for me, baby."

I take the material between my teeth, and he sets to work replacing imprints of his own in the places they've healed. His fingers curl just right, because I swear he's got a map of my body at this point, and I choke a noise into the cotton in my mouth. "Hah, that's it, fuck, fuck, I missed you so much, Sammy--"

He's about to make me cum in my goddamn shorts, like I'm fifteen. With how thin the material of his own shorts are, his cock is a hot, hard imprint between my thighs.

"D-Dean, don't! I don't...wanna cum yet, wait!"

"'s okay, baby, you're gonna cum lots of times." He murmurs against my throat, raking his teeth up and down my jugular. I can tell it's killing him not to bite down, leave a mark there too. His voice, in moments like this, shoots a physical thrill up my spine, into my scalp. It's low, dark, and full of gravel. He has me pinned so tightly to his chest, bumping his hips up to grind into the warmth between my legs, and working his wrist in something like a fast, hard circular motion that puts constant pressure on that buzzing knot of nerves.

I'm losing my fucking mind, and it's barely been fifteen minutes since he got here. It could've been hours, but the little clock on my end table laughs at me: 6:15pm. Moments later, it's official, he's actually trying to kill me. He fishes our cocks out of the front of our shorts, gripping them together in the broad expanse of his hand. He really is bigger than me in every capacity, and fuck, why is that so hot?

"Sammy, your hands, grab 'em--"

I do, and I have to use both hands. The dual sensation of us slipping through the channel of my hands, his length rubbing against mine, is way, way too much in combination with his fingers [three now, Christ] working my ass open. I can feel the strong bass of his pulse in at least ten places. As intense as it is, as good as I feel, I want more. I don't feel full enough, I need more of him. I want that gouging pressure in my stomach, I want his cock punching so deep through me, it'll come up through my throat. I've never wanted anyone as badly as I want him, and while that should terrify me, there's no capacity for such a feeling right now.

"Dean, please, it's...it's enough--! Nngh, fuck me, please!"

"You're gonna cum like this first, then I'll fuck you." He mutters, serious as a heart attack. He's a man on a mission, and I hate him for it, just a little. The pressure is mounting though, because he's goddamn good at it. I can barely keep half a mind on my hands wrapping our dicks, but if I'm going down, so is he. I drop my head and spit on our conjoined erections, then tighten my grip and set the sliding, twisting motion of a professional. Dean hisses through his teeth.

"Holy shit, Sammy, fuck--nngh! That's...fuck, that's so hot, you're--"

When I cum, more than seeing stars, I can almost taste them. I scream through my teeth, dropping my hips back into Dean's hand with uncontrollable, jerky movements. I know I've probably cut the circulation off to Dean's fingers, but it's what he asked for. I'm strangling the life out of our cocks at this point, but I can barely feel it. My body's like static. Dean's head thunks back against the cushion, his body tightening up and hips lifting of their own accord. Our combined orgasm hits hard enough to spray us up to the jawline, no man goes unscathed.

"I missed you..." He whispers, kissing me again, softly this time.

Instead of saying something snarky, like 'you said that already' or 'I can tell', I decide to just be honest:

"I missed you, too."