Tenure

8. Kiernan

8

Kiernan

By Wednesday’s tutorial slot, I’m a hot mess. I managed to avoid SJ on Monday evening and all day Tuesday, citing homework (valid) and finding my feet with my new schedule. But mainly, I’m pretty sure she’ll take one look at me and know, and I’m not ready to talk about it.

I have no fucking idea what happened. One second he was towering over me looking like he was going to boot me from his classroom. The next he was shoving his hand down my pants. I feel like I have emotional whiplash.

It would be nice if I could get my pussy to stop fucking dripping over him.

Two whole days I’ve been soaking through my panties, riding the seam of the crotch of my jeans in class. Twice I’ve had to excuse myself, pressed my cheek to the inside of the bathroom stall and slipped my fingers into my panties to find myself so wet it’s embarrassing. I came almost immediately, the sounds of girls chattering and hand dryers drowning out the sound of my panting and quiet moans.

The clock is ticking, and I’ve been standing around the corner from the tutorial room for twenty minutes. I’d honestly have skipped it, but I have two problems.

One: I actually need his help. I’m stuck on a problem for chapter ten. And while I could wait until we get to that part and ask him in class, it’s bugging me that I can’t solve it.

Two: I really want to see him again.

I block out all the thoughts that I could just send him an email, or ask Shannon, or do one of a thousand other things that would get me the answer I need. Instead I squeeze my thighs together under my skirt one last time, square my shoulders, and march down the hall with my head held high. But as I enter the room, I’m surprised to see it’s empty.

Except for him.

He glances up from his phone, his face unreadable, and just looks at me. I feel rooted to the spot, something terrifying and delicious squirming around in my abdomen, snaking its way downwards and between my legs, flooding my panties and flushing my cheeks.

“Where is everyone?” I ask. My voice is wobbly, weak, mortifying.

“Not here yet.”

I frown, annoyance flaring, and clearing my throat. “I can see that.”

He shrugs and looks back down at his phone. I don’t know why I was expecting a reaction, a conversation of some kind maybe, an acknowledgement, but I’m even more annoyed that I’m not getting one.

“I need your help,” I hear myself say.

He stiffens and looks up, expression still carefully neutral, but his eyes have sharpened, and I can feel the intensity he’s holding back. It’s pumping out of him, tension blossoming like a nuclear mushroom cloud, as we both just stare at each other.

“Show me, then,” he says. His voice sounds funny. Tight. Strained.

I clear my throat and walk over to his desk, standing beside him and dropping my notebook in front of him, and placing my phone down on the desk.

“You’re on chapter ten?” he murmurs. He is definitely tense.

“I can’t get this right . . .” I know I’m talking, know I’m pointing at numbers and saying words, but all I can hear is the roaring in my ears as the hair on the back of my neck stands up, goosebumps raising all over my skin, our bodies only a few inches apart. He shifts slowly, subtly, leaning forward to look at my book, his hand on the arm of his chair inching a little closer to my thigh.

His voice breaks through the screaming in my brain.

“Your scalars are wrong,” he says. “You’ve inverted the multiplication . . .”

But I don’t hear a word he says after that because he slides his chair over an inch, the knuckles on his hand grazing my exposed thigh.

My body short-circuits, adrenaline pouring out of my skin as fast as the wetness pouring out of my pussy. I don’t know if he’s still talking or if he’s stopped. All I can feel is the back of his knuckle on my leg.

I’m imagining this. This is nothing. It’s just a knuckle.

But then he lifts his fingers, palm still on the arm of the chair, and strokes.

I whimper and fall forward, catching myself on the desk, and I hear him suck in a breath as he wraps his hand fully around the back of my leg, fingers gently brushing my inner thigh, stroking so softly I shiver.

“Do you see what I’m saying?” he asks.

“. . . What?”

He pinches me and I jump, but he’s already soothing it, stroking it with his thumb, as his hand creeps higher, disappearing beneath the hem of my skirt.

“Here. Your multiplication is . . .”

I can’t hear him. Everything is buzzing as he slides higher and higher. My cheeks flame, my legs tremble, because he’s going to feel how soaked I am any minute . . .

Oh God. Fuck.

The side of his forefinger presses against the crotch of my panties, and I close my eyes, beet red, flooded with shame but also desperately wanting to grind against his hand.

FUCK.