Tenure

47. James

47

James

I tuck the comforter in around her naked shoulders, brushing her wet hair off her cheek. I cracked a bottle of wine while she was in the shower, but she had crawled onto the bed and passed out before she’d even had a sip.

I climb into bed beside her and put on my reading glasses. I try to focus on my book, I really do, but my eyes keep wandering. She smells like my shampoo. Like my laundry detergent.

She smells like me.

I want her to smell like me forever. I want to cum all over her, have her wear it like perfume, ward off anyone who thinks they can touch her. Thinks they can touch what’s mine.

I flex my hand and wince; my knuckles are busted and swollen, and my bank account is about to take a serious hit for Gerald’s legal bill. I assaulted a student on campus; Gerald or no Gerald, I’m in deep shit.

She must really be something.

He has no idea.

I can’t recall ever caring this much about a woman. I can’t recall ever caring this much about anything except my research if I’m being honest. Would have been super great if I hadn’t fallen for an underage high school student, but hey—probability is a bitch.

We can spend time together and not have sex, James.

I want to. I want to spend time with her. And a lot of it. Which is in and of itself shocking; I can’t generally tolerate people for more than a few hours at a time. But Kiernan is as comfortable for me as quadratic equations. Except I don’t want to fuck a parabola.

I’ve had job offers outside of the university but have always enjoyed the freedom and lack of oversight of tenured academia. Once you get tenure, you’re untouchable. You can do whatever you want.

I pause.

. . . I’m untouchable.

We are untouchable.

Something that had been tightly coiled in my abdomen relaxes, and I let loose a deep breath. We are going to figure it out. We are going to make it work.

I put my book down and slide closer to her, touch her bare back, and run my fingers down her spine. She hums and shifts a little, hands unclenching and blindly reaching for me, her eyes still closed. I catch them and kiss each one of her knuckles, and she sighs happily, growing still again.

I stare at her hands, her slender fingers with her chipped navy-blue nail polish, and find myself running my thumb over her ring finger...

I blink, surprised as always when I’m around her. Why the fuck am I thinking about rings?

She’s seventeen.

She’s seventeen.

She’s seventeen.

A relationship is one thing, but marriage? She’s not going to want to marry me. I’m twice her age. The lustre will wear off, once school starts in earnest and she’s living in residence, being hit on every night by—

I can’t finish the thought. My hand throbs, and I realize I’m clenching my knuckles again, and try to relax my fist.

But what if she did want to marry me, someday? What if . . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

My cock stirs, as excited as I am at the prospect of a lifetime of falling asleep with this woman in my bed and waking up with her in it too.

The waking up is better, because as much as I love that she smells like me? There’s nothing on earth that gets me harder than my bed smelling like her.

I spend the rest of the evening Googling unique jewelers with Kiernan snoring softly into my chest.

My bank account is definitely going to take a serious hit.

Just one more thing to not give a fuck about.

I kiss her head and breathe her in.

I’ll cum on her later.