Tenure

6. Kiernan

6

Kiernan

What. The. Fuck.

My palm is on fucking fire but before I even have a chance to register it his hand is yanking my face to his and his tongue is down my throat.

His fingers hurt, his lips hot and angry and desperate, and I’m so completely and utterly flabbergasted that I don’t think to push him off. I just stand there dumbly, numb, confused as hell, as his fingers press harder into my skin.

He pulls back after a moment, the tips of our noses touching, his hazel eyes on fire.

“Kiss me back.”

It isn’t a question.

“No,” I grit out.

His free hand snaps out to the back of my head, gripping a fistful of my hair and yanking me backwards so I’m staring up at him. My pulse is erratic, my skin is buzzing, my heart is pounding out of my chest, but I can’t move, can’t form full thoughts . . .

He grips my chin tighter still, his thumb tracing my bottom lip before he pushes it into my mouth. My lips close around his thumb involuntarily and I suck, his eyes flaring in surprise.

Then I bite. Hard.

He yanks my head back more, his breathing ragged, expression dark.

“Fuck you, Kiernan,” he says, his voice devastatingly quiet. And then his mouth is on me again.

This time, something in my brain breaks, some kind of invisible dam bursting through my mind and my body, flooding me with a frantic, frenzied heat.

My hands grab his neck, gripping him on either side, digging my nails into his skin. He groans into my mouth, tongue sliding past my teeth, his fist tightening in my hair and his other hand—the one breaking my jaw—slides down to my throat.

I nip his tongue, and he squeezes my throat once in warning, before stepping into me and backing me up at breakneck speed. My ass hits the desk, and he keeps going, bending me backwards, his chest pressing into mine, his mouth wild.

“Get off me,” I manage to gasp out.

“No.”

“Get the fuck off me!”

His fingers flex around my throat, his grip tightening, and my pulse goes ballistic.

“Tell me your major,” he murmurs against my mouth. His left hand unravels from my hair and starts running down my shoulder, then my arm, then drops to my hip.

“I haven’t decided,” I gasp.

His fingers skim the top of my jeans.

“Tell me why you’re only enrolled in one math class.”

“Wanted to make sure I could handle it,” I hear myself saying, my brain in a fog.

He pops the button on my jeans and slowly lowers the zipper, the sound as loud in my ears as that slap.

“Why are you only enrolled part-time?”

“Because I’m still in high school.”

He freezes. Everything freezes. We’ve been frozen in time and neither of us can move. All we can do is stare.

And then he blinks, and I watch the horror bleed into his face as he yanks his hands off me and stumbles backwards a step.

Someone laughs outside the door and both our heads swing around comically fast. I stand up and reach for my open zipper, rushing to button my jeans back up as he discreetly adjusts his fly which is . . . very tight.

He looks a little flushed, but none the worse for wear if you don’t look close too closely at his crotch. I, on the other hand, am pretty sure I’m a hot mess.

“How’s my hair?” I whisper, frantically running my fingers through my dark waves.

He glances at me, his face cold and distant, and scowls.

“Here,” he says, reaching out and smoothing the locks quickly, efficiently. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, eyeing me and the door, that glacial expression he was wearing when I met him firmly back in place.

But then he brushes his fingertips across my cheek. So lightly I almost can’t feel it, heat stirring in his face before he drops his hand just as a couple of giggling girls come wandering back in.

He doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t have to. I scurry back to my seat and try to count my breaths, focusing on keeping them even.

“You okay?” Graham asks, handing me a coffee as he slides back in next to me.

I don’t answer him and pretend to look for a pen.

The Professor doesn’t look at me again for the rest of the class.