Blinking quickly, like she’s about to cry again.

He snaps his mouth shut. No. She’s not going to feel like that. Not because of him. “Olive—”

“What about what I want?” She leans forward, eyes blazing. Okay, she’s angry alright. Fiercely, beautifully so. “What about the fact that I want this?

Though maybe you don’t care, because you don’t want it, right? Maybe I’m just not attractive to you, and you don’t want to—”

He really is fucking exhausted. Or his control would be better than this: closing his finger around her wrist and pulling her hand down to his cock.

It’s hard, he’s hard, he’s hard all the time, and if she wants to lie to herself then so be it, but not on his damn watch.

“You have no fucking idea what I want,” he hisses.

Except that now she must. His jaw rolls. He holds her wide, shocked eyes, presses her even closer, shows her exactly what he wants, what she does, what he deals with, what it’s been like for the past three years, and—

Shit. Adam immediately lets go of her and looks away, but the damage is done, and this— this is why he shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near her. If he cannot be trusted not to spill the extent to which he’s gone for her, he needs to get the hell out of here. He even makes to stand, but stops the second she whispers,

“Well, then.”

He glances up. Olive’s expression has cleared. She looks calmer all of a sudden. Relieved. Determined. Like—and this makes absolutely no sense—

like the one thing she’s afraid of is not Adam himself, but the idea of him rejecting her.

She steps close. Closer still. Her smell is in his nostrils, her thighs press against the inside of his own, and this was heady and harrowing twenty

seconds ago, but it’s rapidly becoming unbearable. How beautiful she is—it confuses him. It’s a constant pressure that doesn’t let go, and Adam has to shut his eyes tight just to pretend that she’s not within reach. “This is not why I asked you to room with me.”

“I know.” She’s touching him, now. Of her own free will. Pushing hair away from his forehead. Her fingers are cool and soft and capable, the same fingers she does science with, and he wants to lean into her. “It’s also not why I accepted.” You don’t like being touched, dickhead, he reminds himself. You hate it, in fact. Remember who you were, back when your life wasn’t a montage of the times this girl touched you because she had to?

“When we started this, you said no sex,” he points out, in a half-hearted, last-ditch attempt at stopping this. Like he’d ever tell her no. The things he would do for her. The things he would do to her.

“I also said it was going to be an on-campus thing. And we just went out for dinner. So.” She shrugs her shoulders. The fabric of his shirt ripples against her breasts, and okay.

Okay.

He’s considering this. He cannot stop himself.

“I don’t . . .” He rubs his forehead. Don’t say it. It’ll mess you up. Basic self-preservation. Don’t do it. But he knows that if she asks, he’ll fuck her. Even just to take her mind away from what’s bothering her. He’ll hopefully make it good enough, and tomorrow she’ll act like nothing happened.

Adam’s life won’t ever be the same.

“I don’t have anything,” he says.

She stares at him for a long moment, uncomprehending. Then her cheeks redden. “Oh, I… It doesn’t matter. I’m on birth control.” She bites into her lip, and he feels it like a hand on his own body. “But we could also do . . .

other things.”

Other things.

Other things.

Ah, yes. Other things.

He lets his eyes roam her for a moment. As stupefied as he was by her waves and her makeup and that nearly-too-short dress, she’ll never be more lovely to him than with her face scrubbed pink, her hair messy and wild. Her body is lithe, graceful, strong, and he takes in the shapeless t-shirt, the slight swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips. All things he hasn’t allowed himself to look at for weeks—for years. It never mattered: they were always there, stuck in his brain. The curve of her lower back while she opened the seminar door with her shoulder. The line of her throat as she drank from a water bottle. A graceful stretch and a sliver of stomach skin.

He can think of other things to do with her. With every single part of her. So many indecent, beautiful, obscene things. What’s too much Olive? What can I ask you to do, how many times? You should be careful. Set boundaries. Tell me what you want.

“After.” Adam swallows. Takes a deep breath. Tells himself to wind down.

Nothing might happen. Maybe she wants to make out a little. Fool around.

Be held. It’s fine. “I need to know you won’t hate me for this, after. That if we go back and you change your mind—”

“I won’t. I . . .” She comes even closer. “I’ve never been surer of anything.

Except maybe cell theory.” She smiles. First tentative, then hopeful, then

bright, and then she leans over to kiss him again, and…

He never stood a chance. Never, and certainly not this time, when it’s so different from all the others. They’ve kissed before, sure, and… it’s been nice. Too nice, sometimes, but also interrupted. Frustrating. Unfinished.

Performative. Always the start of something, never the end. This time, though… This time there’s no one around, and after a moment of reluctance, Adam lets himself do what he wants.

He deepens the kiss. Brings Olive closer. Inhales the scent of her, familiar by now, soft skin and sugar and fake-dating Wednesdays. He’s wanted her for so long, this feels like something imagined, right out of a dream. He could start by devouring her. By going on his knees and burying his face in her sweet pussy. By taking off her top, memorizing every inch of her for after. He won’t rush her, though, so he makes himself get rid of his own shirt to feel more of her skin, and then stays put, sat on the side of the bed like a big, hulking animal trying to play nice. It doesn’t feel like this’ll be enough, not with the way she gasps every time his tongue brushes against hers, not when his palm is cupping her ass, but he can go slow. He can feel her nipples, pointy and hard against his chest, but he’ll be okay just sucking at a spot on her throat. He can let his hand slide up to rest on the soft underside of her breast, but he doesn’t need to see it. And he can…

Olive is saying something. And Adam’s brain is too dazed to parse language. “What?”

“You did it that night, too.” She’s smiling. All he wants to think about is making her come. Can he do it? It’s been a while. He wishes he had more practice. For her.

“I… what?”

“You touched me. Here.” Her hand covers his through the cotton, and he takes it as permission. He lifts her shirt slowly, giving her time to object, stopping the instant her breath catches, at the first sign of hesitation. Right under her tits, which almost has him groaning in desperation, but—no.

Patient. He can be fucking patient till she’s comfortable.

He waits, and meanwhile he presses his lips against her ribs. Bites softly.

Licks. She tastes sweet, and he wonders if she’d let him go down on her.

Seems like asking for too much, but maybe.

“Here?” he says. “Olive. Here?” The underside of her breast is right there, and she’s not answering him, just clutching him like she’ll fall if she doesn’t, and okay. Okay, yes: he wants to fuck her into the mattress. No point in pretending he doesn’t. “Pay attention, sweetheart.” The underside of her breast is right there, so he runs his tongue across, he sucks on it, and she whimpers. “Here?”

He doesn’t hear her answer. He’s a little distracted, because her shirt is finally coming off, and…