Maxwell texted me Saturday night.
Maxwell:
You’re still behind. Come to my place tomorrow. Just easier. Quiet. We’ll get more done.
No emojis. No explanation. Just that clipped, precise tone like he was sending a lab report. Like he hadn’t kissed me breathless days ago and vanished like he’d committed a crime.
I didn’t ask why we weren’t doing it at my place.
Didn’t ask why he ghosted me and came back acting like nothing happened.
Didn’t ask why my stomach flipped when his name lit up my screen.
Because I already knew.
And so did he.
-------
Maxwell’s apartment was exactly what I expected...organized, minimalist, masculine. Dark wood floors. Navy blue couch. A perfectly aligned row of academic books under the TV. A framed photo of a mountain peak, all grayscale and drama, hung above the desk like the most repressed man alive lived here. Which, let’s be honest, he kind of did.
But I wasn’t looking at the decor.
I was looking at him.
Barefoot by the kitchen counter. Black tee hugging his chest. Gray shorts riding low on his hips. His glasses were on, hair pushed back, and he looked like the kind of man who could ruin your life in under ten minutes and still mark your assignment the next day with a red pen and no smile.
“You’re early,” he said without looking up.
“You said three. It’s 3:01.”
He smirked...barely. The kind that wasn’t a smile so much as a reluctant muscle twitch. “Couch.”
I dropped my bag, kicked off my slides, and followed him into the living room.
The couch was leather. Small. The kind you don’t sit on unless you’re ready to share air and body heat.
Maxwell sat down first, spreading out his laptop and notebook like this was just another Saturday review session. I joined him, close but not touching. Our knees almost brushed.
“Let’s go over this rule again,” he said, flipping a page in the psych textbook.
I didn’t even pretend to look. My eyes were on the vein down his forearm, the way his fingers tapped the page, the stretch of fabric across his chest. His shorts rode up just enough for me to see the slope of his thigh.
He glanced up. “Evan.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re not listening.”
“I like your voice,” I said. “That counts.”
He exhaled like I was exhausting him, but he didn’t stop. “You said you wanted help.”
“I said that to see you.”
His jaw tightened. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m honest.”
He didn’t respond but his eyes flicked down. Just briefly. To where my tank top had ridden up, a sliver of skin exposed. He looked away too fast.
And that’s when I knew he wanted this just as bad.
“You kissed me,” I said quietly.
“I remember.”
“Then why’d you leave?”
He didn’t answer right away. His eyes drifted back to the page, but he wasn’t reading. He was just… avoiding.
“Max.”
Finally, he looked at me. There was something softer in his eyes now. Less cold. More tired.
“I was trying to do the right thing,” he said.
“And?”
“And it didn’t work.”
That was all I needed to hear.
I slid closer. Let my knee touch his. My hand found his thigh, fingers curling just slightly. He didn’t move. Didn’t stop me. Didn’t blink when I leaned in.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” I whispered.
Then I kissed him.
It wasn’t careful this time. It was hungry, hot, months of tension collapsing in one breathless second. His hand shot to my waist. I climbed into his lap like it was muscle memory, straddling him on the couch, his back hitting the cushions.
“Evan....”
“Don’t think,” I said.
His fingers slid under my shirt, slow and reverent, like he was still trying to be good. I lifted my arms. Let him take it off.
My chest was bare against his hands. His palms skimmed across my skin like he’d waited a hundred days for this. I felt his breath hitch. His eyes were on me like I was some unsolvable problem he’d finally given up resisting.
“You’re so...” he started, voice hoarse.
“What?” I asked.
His eyes met mine. “You’re trouble.”
“Then stop letting me in.”
He didn’t.
-----
We didn’t speak as we stumbled to his bedroom. Just hands and breath and friction. Clothes peeled off between kisses. My shorts. His shirt. His boxers.
By the time we hit the bed, we were bare. Skin to skin. Nothing between us.
Maxwell kissed like he lectured...slow, controlled, obsessive. Like he was making a point with every stroke of his tongue, every drag of his lips against mine. He kissed me like I was a subject he wanted to master.
And I let him.
His body was hard and warm above me. Chest pressing down. Muscles tense from restraint. The mattress dipped under his weight as he settled between my legs, kissing my throat, my collarbone, the center of my chest.
“You sure?” he murmured.
“Do I look unsure?”
He didn’t answer. Just kissed lower. My stomach, my hip, the inside of my thigh. I gasped. My back arched.
I texted my friend, fingers shaking:
Me: Staying over at a friend’s tonight. Don’t wait up.
No follow-up. No question. She knew.
Then I dropped the phone and grabbed his wrist, pulled him back up to kiss me again.
“Condom?” he asked, already breathless.
I reached into my bag. Handed him one. “Just in case you needed extra tutoring.”
He rolled it on slowly, carefully. His hands were steady, but his eyes weren’t. His glasses were still on. It made something in me ache.
When he finally pushed inside me...slow, deep, unbearably gentle, it felt like exhaling for the first time in weeks.
“Look at me,” he said.
I did. I couldn’t look anywhere else.
He was above me, arms braced, watching every reaction. Every breath. Every flicker of pain or pleasure across my face. He moved slow at first. Patient. Like he was memorizing how I fit around him.
I gripped the sheets. He leaned in. Kissed me again.
“You feel...” he whispered, then gave up on words and kissed me harder.
The pace picked up. His rhythm shifted. I wrapped my legs around his waist and moaned into his mouth. He swallowed it. Matched it.
It wasn’t just sex. It was something more. I could feel it in the way he touched me like he was trying not to ruin me, even as he fucked me into the mattress.
His glasses slipped down his nose. I pushed them up gently. He laughed under his breath, then cursed and buried his face in my neck.
“Fuck,” he groaned. “You’re driving me crazy.”
“Good.”
Later, we lay tangled on his bed. Sheets half-off. My head on his shoulder. Our legs intertwined.
His fingers moved lazily across my stomach. I listened to the way his breathing slowed, then synced with mine.
We didn’t say anything for a while.
It wasn’t awkward.
It was full.
The kind of quiet that doesn’t need words.
“You okay?” he asked eventually.
“Yeah.”
He turned his head, looked at me. His hair was a mess. Glasses off. Eyes bare. “I meant it,” he said. “That this can’t be just once.”
I stared at him for a second, then kissed his shoulder. “Good,” I whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
He exhaled like I’d just told him he could finally stop holding his breath.
-----
The next morning, he made coffee while I sat on a stool in his hoodie, watching him move around his kitchen like he hadn’t ruined me six hours ago.
“Stop staring,” he said.
“Can’t help it. You’re hot when you’re stressed and domestic.”
He rolled his eyes but didn’t hide the smirk.
We ate in quiet. Tired. Sore. Happy. Afterward, I stood at the door, bag over my shoulder. Hoodie still on. He stepped in front of me, holding the door half open, but not moving.
“You sure you want this?” he asked.
I nodded.
“It’s complicated.”
“I like complicated.”
He looked at me for a long time. Then he leaned in and kissed me. Slow. Like he didn’t want it to end.
When we pulled apart, he brushed my cheek. “Tomorrow?”
“I’ll bring my notes.”
He smiled. “Bring your brain.”
I grinned. “I’ll bring lube.”
He groaned and pushed me out the door.
Outside, the morning was bright. My body ached. My lips tingled. My chest felt… full.
It had never just been tutoring.
Not with him.
And it never would be again.
Not after this.
Not after us.
If you enjoyed this story, consider supporting the author on Patreon.
