Denied

“You really thought I wouldn’t figure out how to make you fall apart before the first footnote?”

His voice. Low. Smooth. Like old whiskey. Each word a small stone dropped into the quiet of the locked study room. The sound cut through the air, far too loud in the stillness after ten PM, surrounded by towering shelves of books that knew too many secrets.

My breath hitched. My thesis - my goddamn thesis - was in his left hand, crisp paper crinkling softly as his thumb stroked the edge. His right hand, warm and knowing, was very much not on the thesis. Two fingers, deep inside me, moving with a slow, lazy rhythm that made my stomach clench.

Fully dressed, the rough denim of his jeans a stark contrast to the heat pooling between my legs.

Shit. How did this happen? One minute, we were spitting arguments across the debate table, the next… this. Him, always him. Perfect scores.

Perfect smirk. Perfect goddamn posture, even now, leaning over me where I was half-sprawled, half-shoved onto one of the plush, worn-out armchairs.

I squirmed. My hips gave a traitorous little jerk. Heat flooded my cheeks. He was watching me, his eyes - dark, so dark they looked black in the dim lamplight - missing nothing. His eyes… they always see too much.

His thumb. Oh god, his thumb. It found my clit, circling with a slowness that was pure evil. Slower. So much crueler than anything fast. A low whine tried to escape my throat. I bit my lip, hard.

“Stop trying to come,” he murmured, his voice a velvet rasp against my ear. He shifted, his weight pressing me further into the chair, his scent - clean soap and something sharper, just him - filling my head. “You haven’t earned it.”

A shudder went through me. "You absolute bastard," I ground out, the words tasting like ash.

My nails dug into the armrests of the chair. My whole body was tight, a wire pulled to breaking point. How his fingers feel inside me... so good, so deep... a constant, throbbing ache for more.

He smiled. That infuriating, perfect smirk. "Is that the sound you make when someone beats you for the first time?" he asked, his tone light, almost conversational. Like he was discussing the weather, not slowly unraveling me from the inside out. His voice... I hate his voice. I want to hear it whisper filth.

My body thrummed. Each beat of his fingers, each circle of his thumb, sent jolts straight to my core.

He knows. He knows exactly what he’s doing. This wasn't like debate. There were no rules here, no points to score. Just him, and me, and this awful, wonderful, burning need.

“Please,” I gasped, the word ripped from me, raw and desperate. “Just let me - ”

“No.”

The word was flat. Final. He pulled his hand back completely.

The sudden emptiness was a shock, cold and sharp. My hips gave a convulsive little lift, chasing something that wasn't there. A frustrated sound tore from my throat, low and animal. My thighs trembled, weak. I was panting, eyes stinging.

He watched. Just watched me shake. Watched my hips settle, still twitching. His expression was unreadable, but there was a gleam in his eyes, a satisfaction that made me want to scream. Look at him. So fucking calm. Big fucking biceps barely flexing as he holds my fucking life's work.

“You always want to finish first, don’t you?” he said, leaning in again. His breath, warm and tinged with mint, brushed my earlobe. My whole body tightened again. “But I told you - this isn’t a subject you’ll ever win.” His voice was calm as ever, the kind of calm that sets alarms off in your head.

That controlled precision he brought to everything.

I glared at him, eyes wild with frustration and a fury that was rapidly becoming something else, something hotter, darker. My carefully constructed arguments, my sharp comebacks - they were all gone. Shredded. He’d taken my words, my intellect, and twisted them into this… this wreckage.

He unzipped his pants. The sound was sharp, metallic, an exclamation point in the tense silence. My breath caught. Oh. Oh, no. Oh, yes.

“Get on your knees,” he said, his voice still even, but with an underlying thread of steel. No room for argument.

“Why?” The question was weak, pathetic, even to my own ears. A last gasp of defiance. My eyes flicked down. Oh god, he's... he's big. Bigger than I imagined. Always imagined.

He gave a short, harsh laugh. "You didn't want to listen when I was teaching with my hands. Maybe you'll focus better with my cock in your mouth."

My gaze snapped back to his. His eyes.

Unflinching. Demanding. This was him. Not the polished debater, but something rawer. More dangerous. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird. My insides were a mess of want and rage. The way he handles things… always so sure.

God, I hate him. I want him.

My legs felt like they were made of wet sand. Slowly, deliberately, I pushed myself off the armchair, the old springs groaning in protest. The floor felt cold against my shaking knees as I knelt on the worn, patterned rug. The smell of old paper and floor polish was suddenly sharper.

He stood before me, a dark shape against the single lamp illuminating the room. His jeans were open, his cock thick and heavy, already slick with precum. It pulsed, just once, in the dim light. My mouth went dry. So fucking big.

"Good girl," he said, his voice dropping to a rough purr that vibrated straight through me. His hand came up, tangling in my hair, not ungently, but firmly. He tugged my head back slightly, forcing me to look up at him. That smirk was back, but edged with something else now. Hunger.

He likes this. Seeing me like this. My rival. On her knees. A hot flush crept up my neck.

"Open wide, scholar," he murmured, his thumb brushing my lower lip. "Time for your practical exam."

My lips parted. He guided himself forward, his hand still firm in my hair. The first touch of his head against my tongue was… a shock. Hot. Silky smooth. He pushed, slowly, filling my mouth.

Thick. I gagged a little, eyes watering, but his hand held me steady. He tasted…musky. And underneath, a faint, clean scent.

"Mmm," he grunted, a low sound from deep in his chest, as I closed my lips around him. His fingers tightened in my hair, not painfully, but with an undeniable claim. His grunts... yes, like that.

I started to move, a tentative lick, a hesitant suckle. This was… new territory. Foreign. But some primal instinct took over. I let my tongue explore the texture, the shape of him. The slight throb. He was hard. So hard.

"That's it," he breathed out, his hips giving a small, involuntary thrust. "Use that clever mouth for something useful for once."

His words, always his words, cutting and arousing at the same time. I swallowed, trying to take more of him, my throat working. He pushed deeper, slowly, deliberately, until the back of my throat protested. His hand didn’t loosen. He liked the control. He lived for it.

My free hand crept up, almost without my say-so, and touched his thigh. The denim was rough under my palm, his muscles solid as rock beneath. I could feel the faint tremor running through him. He feels this too. Good.

"Don't stop," he commanded, his voice a little strained now. He began to move, short, controlled thrusts into my mouth. His other hand came down, his thumb pressing into the hollow of my cheek, anchoring me. Hands, mouth, the pressure, his smell, his sounds...

I was drowning in him. The taste, the feel, the sheer overwhelming presence of him. My mind, usually so quick, so full of rebuttals, was blissfully, terrifyingly blank. There was only this. His hardness in my mouth. His hand in my hair. His thighs caging me in.

Suddenly, there was a faint scrape, a distant clang from outside the study room door. Footsteps. My eyes shot wide open. Security? A cleaner? My heart leaped into my throat. I tried to pull back, a choked sound in my throat.

His hand tightened, yanking my head back harder, not letting me break contact. His eyes, blazing down at me, were wild, possessive. "Don't. Fucking. Stop." His voice was a low growl, hips still pushing, a slow, insistent rhythm. He didn't even glance at the door.

The footsteps faded. False alarm. But the adrenaline. Oh god. The risk. It spiked through me, sharp and intoxicating. My pussy throbbed, a dull ache that was almost painful with denied pleasure.

He pulled back slightly, just enough for me to gasp a breath. His eyes raked over my face, my flushed cheeks, my wide eyes.

"Scared?" he taunted, his lips curled. "Good. Fear makes you focus."

Then he was thrusting again, harder this time, as if punishing me for my moment of hesitation. My eyes watered, but I kept going, throat working, tongue swirling, desperate to... what? Please him?

Prove something? I didn't know anymore.

He pulled out, his length slick and gleaming. I coughed, gasping for air, head bowed. My jaw ached.

"Look at you," he said, his voice laced with something dark and satisfied. He cupped my chin, tilting my face up. "Mascara running. Spit on your chin. All that sharp intellect reduced to this." His thumb swiped at my chin, then he licked it. Fuck... what is he doing? "Tastes like victory."

I wanted to hit him. I wanted to scream. Instead, I just stared, panting.

This is what he does to me. He sees my intelligence, my drive, and all he wants is to… break it. Or use it.

"Still want to finish first?" he asked, a cruel twist to his lips.

My throat was too raw to answer. I just shook my head, a tiny, defeated movement.

He chuckled, a low, dark sound. "Good answer." He looked around the room, a predator surveying his domain. His eyes landed on a tall, narrow cabinet in the corner, one I’d never paid much attention to. Old oak, with a small brass handle.

"What’s in there, I wonder?" he mused, almost to himself.

He let go of my chin and walked over to it, his jeans still unzipped, his cock still hard. He pulled the cabinet open. Dust motes danced in the lamplight. He rummaged for a moment. What is he doing? This is… weird. Even for him.

He pulled something out. A metal box, old, grey. He set it on the large, heavy mahogany table in the center of the room and fiddled with a latch. It was an old slide projector. The kind with a carousel. Something professors probably hadn't used in twenty years.

"Ah," he said, a note of satisfaction in his voice. "Perfect."

He glanced back at me, still on my knees. "Stay there."

My legs were numb. My mind was reeling. A projector? What in the fresh hell?

He plugged it into a socket near the wall, then walked back to the armchair where my thesis still lay. He picked it up, flicking through the pages. He stopped, a faint smile playing on his lips. He then retrieved a small, transparent sheet and a marker from his own bag which he'd slung onto a nearby chair earlier. He quickly scribbled something on the sheet, his handwriting precise and angular even in haste.

He came back to the projector, slotted the transparency into a makeshift slide holder he’d created from two pieces of card, then clicked it on.

The fan whirred to life, a surprisingly loud hum in the otherwise quiet room. A bright square of light hit the blank wall opposite.

"Come here," he commanded, his voice cutting through the hum of the projector.

I got up, my knees stiff, legs shaky. "What are you doing?" I asked, my voice raspy.

"A visual aid," he said, that infuriating smirk back. "For your… re-education."

He took my arm, his grip strong, and pulled me to stand in front of the blank wall, right in the path of the light. The warmth of the bulb was on my back.

"Take off your shirt," he ordered, his voice low.

My breath hitched. "What?" He can't be serious.

"Your shirt. Now." His eyes were like chips of flint. No arguing with that tone.

My fingers fumbled with the buttons of my blouse. It felt like an eternity, each button a small surrender. The fabric fell away, cool air hitting my skin. I was just in my bra.

"And the bra," he said, his gaze dropping to my chest. Oh, you bastard. My nipples are hard as pebbles already, he knows it.

I unhooked it, letting it fall. The projector light was suddenly harsh, unforgiving on my bare skin. I felt exposed. Vulnerable in a way that was completely new. He stepped behind me, his body heat a scorching presence at my back.

"Now, look," he whispered, his breath hot on my neck, sending shivers down my spine despite the warmth of the lamp.

Projected onto the wall, and through the beam onto my skin, were words. Large, black, stark. A quote.

From my thesis.

Page 47. Paragraph two. A sentence I'd struggled with, one he'd torn apart in a tutorial last semester.

"The inherent fallacy of such deterministic models..." it read, spread across my stomach and breasts. My own words, staring back at me, branded on my skin by light and shadow.

My breath caught. This was… this was something else. Cruel, yes. Humiliating. But also… bizarrely, incredibly arousing. The cold, intellectual words made strange, obscene patterns on my heated skin.

"Remember this?" he murmured, his hands coming around my waist, pulling me back against his hard body. His erection pressed against my ass, through the thin fabric of my skirt. "You were so proud of this sentence. So… certain."

His fingers splayed across my stomach, tracing the illuminated letters of 'fallacy'. Chills ran over my skin.

"You made a rather… elementary error, didn't you?" His voice was soft, intimate, his lips brushing my ear.

"Shut up," I breathed, my eyes fixed on the wall, on my own skin turned into a canvas for my academic shame.

"Mmm," he hummed. One hand slid up, over the projected text, cupping my breast. His thumb found my nipple, already tight, and flicked it. A gasp tore from my lips. Ah... there. His hand on my breast... the words... fuck. "Right there," he said, "is 'deterministic'. Seems fitting, doesn't it? Your reaction to me. Quite deterministic."

He squeezed gently. The letters distorted, bent across the curve of my breast. He stopped his touch, then resumed, just a feather-light circle of his thumb. That stop… then start. God, it makes it so much harder. My hips moved, a tiny, desperate grind back against him.

"Oh, are we determining something now?" he asked, his voice thick with amusement and something darker. His other hand moved down, fingers tracing the line of my waistband. "Let's see how deterministic your body really is."

His fingers slipped under the elastic of my panties, finding my clit again, exposed and aching. This time, his touch was rougher, more demanding. He rubbed, hard, and the projected words swam before my eyes. Fuck. He's rubbing me against my own words.

“Read it for me,” he growled in my ear, his hips grinding against me, his cock a burning pressure.

“Read your failure.”

“No…” I moaned, my head falling back against his shoulder. The light was blinding, his touch relentless. The letters felt like they were burning into me. ‘Inherent’… ‘fallacy’… on my skin… his fingers…

“Read. It.” He bit my earlobe, not hard, but sharp enough to make me gasp. His fingers pinched my clit, a sudden, shocking burst of sensation. “Ah!”

"The... the in-herent..." I stammered, my voice shaking, barely a whisper. Each word I forced out seemed to fuel him. His fingers worked me faster, harder, circles becoming punishing strokes.

"'Fallacy'," he supplied, his voice rough. "The fallacy that you could ever beat me. That you could ever resist this."

His hips slammed against me. Once. Twice. Oh God, he's going to... inside me? No, not yet, please, not yet. But I want it.

He was pushing all my buttons, academic and physical. The sheer audacity of it. Using my own intellectual work as a backdrop for… this. It was outrageous. It was degrading. And some broken, shameful part of me was screaming for more.

This is what he does. He finds the thing you value, your strength, and he turns it into a weapon against you. His fucking mind… even his cruelty is smart.

He stopped his fingers. Just. Stopped. My body screamed in silent protest. I was so close. So agonizingly close. The words on my skin seemed to mock me.

“Not yet, scholar,” he whispered, his voice husky. “You still haven’t learned your lesson.” He pulled his hand away, leaving me trembling, aching, the ghost of the projected words and his touch searing my skin.

He reached behind me and switched off the projector. The room plunged back into a softer dimness, the single desk lamp painting long shadows. The sudden absence of the bright light and the words on my skin was like a physical blow.

I swayed, and his hands shot out to steady me.

"You're being rough," I whispered, my voice hoarse, turning slightly in his grip to face him. The accusation was weak, tinged with a plea.

He gripped my throat. Not choking, but firm, his thumb pressing just enough at the base. His eyes, even in the dimmer light, were burning into me. He didn’t move his hips, but the hardness of him was an undeniable statement against my belly.

"I'm being honest," he said, his voice a low, guttural rasp. "This. This is what you do to me."

His gaze was raw, obsessive. For a split second, the polished intellectual was gone, replaced by something primal, almost feral. It was terrifying. It was everything.

He feels it too. This… crazy thing between us. It’s not just me. The thought was a tiny spark of something like triumph in the midst of my unraveling.

He let go of my throat, his fingers leaving faint marks. He stepped back, creating a sliver of space between us, though the air still crackled. He slowly re-zipped his jeans. The sound was a decision. A comma, not a full stop.

"The library closes fully in fifteen minutes," he said, his voice regaining some of its usual cool composure, though an edge remained. "Security will do a final sweep."

I just stared at him, trying to get my breathing under control. My body was a riot of frustrated nerve endings. My mind was a blur. Fifteen minutes? And he's just... stopping? After that?

"You... you're not..." I couldn't finish. The question died on my lips. You're not going to let me...?

He raised an eyebrow. That infuriating, knowing look. "Let you what, precisely? Beg some more?" He picked up my discarded blouse from the floor and tossed it at me. "Get dressed. Unless you want to explain to campus security why you’re half -naked in a locked study room with your academic rival and a vintage projector."

The casual cruelty of it. To bring me so high, so close, and then just… cut it off. Again.

I fumbled with the blouse, my fingers still shaking. My skin felt hypersensitive where the light, the words, his hands had been.

As I buttoned my blouse, he watched me, leaning against the table. His eyes. Always watching. Judging.

"You know," he said, his voice thoughtful, as if he were dissecting a complex theorem. "There’s a particular frequency… an exact point where, if you push something just right, it vibrates harder, starts to shake itself apart from the inside. Some might call it resonance." He paused, a small, almost unnoticeable twitch at the corner of his mouth. "You're getting very close to yours."

He didn't just use 'resonance'. The fucker. And he explained it, like I was too dumb to get it, after… that. My cheeks burned. But it wasn't just anger. It was… something else. The way he looked at me, the way he talked about making things fall apart. It wasn’t just about an argument or a grade.

"One day," I said, my voice low and shaky, but with

a core of steel I didn’t know I still possessed, "I'm going to wipe that smirk off your face.

Permanently."

He chuckled, a soft, genuine sound this time, that somehow was more unsettling than his usual condescension. "Oh, I sincerely doubt that. But I admire your ambition." He pushed himself off the table. "I'll be looking forward to your next attempt."

He walked to the door, unlocked it, and paused with his hand on the handle. He looked back at me, my dishevelled state, the lingering scent of sex and old books in the air.

"Don't be late for Foucault on Monday," he said, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. "I'd hate for you to miss my presentation."

And then he was gone.

Leaving me in the quiet, lamplit room, aching, furious, and so incredibly, devastatingly, turned on. My body was a landscape of his touch, my mind a battlefield.

He will not win. He will not.

But as I sank back into the armchair, legs trembling too much to stand, my own thesis papers scattered at my feet, I wasn't so sure. He hadn't let me come. Not even close.

But he'd made me want it more than I'd ever wanted anything.

My fingers strayed down, tentative. Just to feel. The wetness was still there. A slick, hot reminder.

Fuck him.

I had to be ready for Foucault on Monday. I had to be brilliant.

But first… first, I needed to deal with this throbbing, undeniable ache he'd left behind. A very, very big ache.

Oh god. He was right. He knew exactly how to make me fall apart.