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“Okay, Seifer, I think you’re ready for tomorrow’s Ancient Civ final! Next, let’s switch to philosophy and do some studying for the exam on Friday.”
Seifer grumbles. “Q, I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to fail that class.”
Quistis’ eyes go wide. Her pen stills mid-scratch; a dot of ink blooms on the page.
“Don’t say that! I can help you! We can study for it together!”
He sighs, leaning back in his seat at her dining table. The chair creaks; his knees fall wide under the table, feet nudging hers. “I’m a lost cause, I’m afraid.”
“That’s not true. Come on, let’s give it a go and see how you feel.”
“Well. If you’re so determined to help me, I do think there may be one way.” Quistis’ instincts prickle all of a sudden. The corner of his mouth tilts; his thumb taps against his knee, a tell she knows too well. Almost too late she realizes Seifer is up to something.
“I’m pretty sure the only way I’ll ever pass is if you take your clothes off.” Quistis rolls her eyes so hard it almost hurts. She underlines a heading with unnecessary force.
“And how exactly do you figure that, Seifer?”
“Haven’t you seen the movies? You’re my sexy tutor and you help me study by stripping.”
He’s baiting her—of course he is—but the shiver isn’t from the trap.
“That sounds more like porn than ‘the movies.’” Quistis keeps writing, barely glancing up at him. Ink smudges the side of her hand; his gaze tracks it like he'd kiss it clean. An absurd thought, but for his eyes.
“I know it’ll work. What better motivation could I get than that.”
“And I know how this plays out. Pretty soon you’ll degenerate, and we won’t be able to do any homework at all without me taking my bra off.”
“Nah, babe, just the hard stuff. Stuff like ancient Rome is easy—that sort of thing I get. Being a gladiator, fighting for a cause. Hell yeah. It’s this boring ethics shit that I just glaze over on.”
“Then why did you sign up for the class, Seifer?”
“Because I have a major crush on one of my fellow students.” He reaches for her, pulling her to him, hands sliding up under her T-shirt. His palms are warm and a little rough; the heel of one hand finds the notch of her spine and holds.
“And you thought signing up for Intro to Western Philosophy would impress her?”
“Well I figured I’d seduce her.” His nose brushes the back of her neck, all the hairs there standing on end. His breath pools warm in the hollow beneath her ear; her shoulders hitch despite herself. “And she’d be my sexy tutor to get me through the semester.”
“And what does a sexy tutor entail?”
“Don’t worry, Q—you already got the sexy part and the brainy part down. All that’s left is to use your powers for good. For scholastic good.”
His fingers run up and down her back, finding muscles all along her spine to dig his strong fingers into. Knuckles graze the band of her bra and pause, respectful and maddening. She realizes belatedly that she should suppress her moans if she doesn’t want to play into his hands.
Well.
Not that she’s completely opposed to his plan.
He can be so persuasive when he wants to be. But she can’t give him the satisfaction so quickly.
Especially not if she wants him to keep persuading her.
“Scholastic good, you say.” Her voice drips with sarcasm, but her insides are already turning to mush at his touch.
“Just think how much I’ll learn if the reward is between your thighs.” Quistis feels the blood rushing to her face.
“Come on, Q. The fate of my collegiate career is in your hands.” He pulls her hands in between them and kisses both of her palms.
”And in your mouth.” He leans forward and places a slow, sensual kiss on her lips, pulling back far before she’s ready.“And in your panties.” His hands, still holding hers, drop lower between them, and in a moment of panicked embarrassment, she tugs them up and free, scoffing.
“Panties. I didn’t think I’d ever hear Seifer Almasy say the word panties.”
“I thought it sounded more chivalrous than your pussy—but have it your way, babe.” He is not derailed in the least, and brings his hands down to massage her thighs, his thumbs dipping dangerously low, trailing up toward her center and making her shiver. Tendons jump in his forearms and she stares, transfixed.
His voice isn’t helping either—low and sensual. “I figured this might be right up your alley, Q. Don’t you want all the power? Don’t you want the rapt attention of your student, melting in the palm of your hand?”
She can picture it now—it would be delicious to see him melt, just as he has her melting right now.
Quistis has never seen herself as some sort of sexual creature, something that tempts men and oozes sex appeal. She’s always felt like the dowdy bookworm. But Seifer sure sees her that way.
He would lick her from her toes to her ears if she let him.
He’s told her so himself.
And that man believes things and feels things with such conviction that she’s come to feel it, too.
So maybe she can harness a little of that bravado. She knows he’d like to see her try at least. And what is failure anyway, in front of her best friend?
“Maybe,” she says, cool. “If my student remembers to say please, and to address me properly.” She tips her chin; the teacher voice coming more naturally than she anticipated.
He leans into her now, nosing the collar of her shirt aside and setting his lips against her collarbone, teeth biting ever so gently.
“Ohh. See? You’d be so damn good at it.” His thumbs are tantalizingly steady as he strokes her through her leggings. Heat races across her entire body. Her toes curl, his breath hot against her throat.
“Please, Instructor,” he says, testing the shape of it. The way his voice drops makes her pulse skip.
“Well then, let’s set the ground rules.”
“Quistis Trepe’s version of foreplay, yes. Hit me, Q.” She blushes, a little shy about how well he knows her. She smooths her shirt, squares her shoulders, and makes herself look at his eyes—trying to ignore the feeling of those strong fingers on her center.
She tries to maintain her demeanor and authority as she says, “No touching unless I say. I’ll prepare the questions off the study guide. For every right answer, I remove a piece of clothing.”
The words ignite in him. She can feel it—how still he goes, how attentive. He’s not just playing; he’s into this. His thumbs cease their movements, and Seifer opts to spread her thighs wider, lifting her into his lap; she can feel his erection against her; the heat pooling in her is almost painful. The chair knocks the floor as he adjusts, a soft thud that sounds like promise.
He practically purrs against her when he says, “And what happens when your star pupil gets them all right and you’re completely naked?”
She runs a finger over his lips, down his chin, his neck, snagging it in the strings of his hoodie. She gives them a single tug; he goes a little glassy-eyed.
“After I’m sufficiently disrobed, then for every right answer you get a reward. But—” He growls at her words, gripping her ass, grinding her against him as his lips settle on her neck.
“You only get three wrong answers. Then the game is over.”
“What?” His head snaps up to meet her gaze.
“There must be stakes, Seifer. This is a study session, after all. What’s the point if there are no repercussions?” She reaches over and grabs the study guide, tapping it lightly against his chest, a metronome to her rules.
Heat sparks in his gaze and that sexy grin spreads across his face. For the millionth time she marvels at how thrilling it is that she’s the sole focus of his desire.
“Yes ma’am, Ms. Trepe.” He leans in to kiss her, and for a moment Quistis gives in to it, sags against him, buries herself in those strong arms and the way Seifer Almasy kisses with his entire self. Her fingers fist in his hoodie; he makes a sound that isn’t a word.
Never do anything important half-assed—that, she learned from him.
In which case, she really ought to cut this off.
Ruefully she pulls back, a ragged sound coming out of him at the break in contact.
“We’re wasting time now. You need to go study, because our pop quiz is tomorrow night.” He blinks at her, and she watches as her plan registers.
“Yeah, right after I finish this quiz right here.” He leans in again, but she puts her hand over his mouth, leaning away.
The way he feels pressed against her is heavenly, and her pulse throbs in her veins with want of him, but she resists. The thrill of anticipation rushes through her to take its place.
“Not so fast, Mr. Almasy. You’ll need all the prep time you can get. I will not be lenient on this. You have homework. And tomorrow is a very important night.”
Fully unveiled desire swims in his features, and she watches him lick his lower lip slowly. He bites it after, like he’s holding something back for her.
“I think I’ve unleashed a monster.” The heat in his voice holds such anticipation.
Quistis shivers.
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder, as they say.”
Seifer chuckles, lifting her firmly by the hips as he stands. She wraps her legs around his waist in reflex but pulls back to set her feet on the floor, reluctantly stepping away from his touch. Her heels touch the wood; they both sway a little before they separate.
“More like abstinence makes the dick grow harder.”
It’s her turn to laugh, breathily, their gazes locked on each other. Are they really going to do this? Is she really going to do this?
“You’ve got a deal, Q.”
He’s all action after that, gathering up his things, shoving them into his backpack. She picks up the study primer, holding it out to him. He takes it, but she doesn’t let go.
“That’s Instructor Trepe, Mr. Almasy. You’d do well to remember that.” The way he looks at her makes her feel a thousand feet tall—and like bursting into a thousand pieces at the same time.
He leans in close, over the papers pulled taut between them. She thinks he’s going to kiss her, and leans toward him, eyes fluttering shut of their own accord. But his cheek slides past hers instead, and as he nuzzles against her, he rumbles into her ear,
“You bet that sweet ass I will… Instructor.” Paper crinkles between them; his smile brushes her skin.
When he knocks on her door the next night, her heart is already pounding, want pooling in her gut.
She opens the door with a tad more confidence than she feels, and he’s immediately there smirking at her. That warm, adoring, insufferable smile like a permanent fixture on that handsome face.
She might nearly back out if she wasn’t already so turned on.
“Fuck, Q. You wore a skirt and stockings and everything.”
She narrows her eyes at him.
“That’s Instructor Trepe, Almasy.”
He schools his expression, but his eyes are alight. “Of course ma’am. I have a lot of respect for you and your… authority.”
She nods her head. “Good. Because I’m taking time out of my precious schedule to tutor you.”
“And I am a lucky boy.”
She huffs out a laugh despite herself. “Inside,” she says. “Shoes by the door. Backpack on the chair. Then sit. Hands visible.”
“With pleasure, Instructor.”
The uncharacteristic obedience shouldn’t thrill her so much. It does.
He sits at her kitchen table, posture straighter than she’s ever seen.
“Back straight,” she says as she sits too, almost teasing. He adjusts another inch, and she has the absurd thought that he’s taller like this—taller and waiting.
“Give it to me already, teach.”
She purses her lips. “We’re starting with the easy ones. Question one. What does the word “philosophy” literally mean?”
He grins, huge. “That’s easy. Love of wisdom.”
He’s right. A thrill rushes through her. They’re really doing this.
“Very good,” slips out before she can stop herself. The words warm as honey. He looks like he might preen. Oh, yes. He likes being praised.
You know that already, Quistis. She does, but… she’s never done it like this.
She holds his eyes and reaches down to remove her black heels. His gaze follows her, and he mutters, “Might be asking you to put those back on. Instructor.”
She shrugs at him. “Get a question right and I will.” He groans just slightly.
Question two and three come, and like a dutiful little student, he answers them perfectly, his eyes hungry as she unbuttons her blouse. Cool air kisses the damp hollow at her sternum; each button slips like a bead through cloth, slow enough that his breath hitches on the third. She pulls it down over her shoulders slowly.
Her hands slip under her skirt for the band of her stockings, easing one down her thigh. Black nylon whispers over skin.
“Don’t,” Seifer blurts, rough. His hand closes around her wrist before he seems to remember himself—he drops it at once.
Her brows lift. “What’s the magic word, Mr. Almasy?”
There’s a beat where he looks like he might bite back, but instead his voice drops, low and strained.
“Please. Leave them on.”
The heat of it goes through her like a spark. Slowly, she withdraws her hand. She reaches up, plucks the clip from her hair, and lets it tumble free over her shoulders. The golden length cascades down in waves, catching light as it spills over her bare skin.
His breath punches out, sharp and reverent, as though she’s just given him something rarer.
“Who is considered the father of Western philosophy?”
His pupils are already dilated when he says, “Socrates,” and Quistis is starting to feel like she’s overheating. She reaches for the zipper at the side of her skirt. He holds a hand out to stop her, not touching.
Then his voice comes low, rough. “Instructor. If I get another question right, can I take it off myself?” Goosebumps rise along her skin. She narrows her eyes.
“Who wrote The Republic?” He holds her gaze for a long time, and for a moment she thinks he doesn’t know the answer. Then: “Plato.”
It’s correct.
She stands up, and so does he. He comes toward her with one slow, purposeful stride. Then drops to his knees in front of her. Grips the side zipper and leans in, his mouth hot, his tongue tracing every inch of skin he bears as he pulls it down.
The skirt falls at her feet, and suddenly she’s there in just a lacy black bra, those stockings, and underwear. Panties. As Seifer had pointed out. Black lace, satin bows at each hip—the way he exhales—ragged—at the sight makes heat lick up her spine.
But her student is going astray, his mouth beginning to follow the line of the ribbon, his breath ragged against her pelvis.
She pushes against his head, and he leans back, easily. Looking up at her, mischievous.
“Sorry, Instructor.” He doesn’t look sorry. “Got carried away.” Even as he says it his hands are trailing up her legs, dragging goosebumps along their path.
With a boldness that surprises even her, she puts her foot against his chest and pushes him back. He falls onto his ass with a groan that does something to her.
“Get the next question right, and you can put my heels back on me.”
He does. Her blood races. She sits, her feet stretching out to where he kneels in front of her chair. He breathes against the inside of her ankle first before he slides the stilettos back on with care. The faint scrape of teeth against the nylon makes heat pool low and certain.
“Damn, Q—” He catches himself. “I knew you’d be good at this. Didn’t know… you’d be this good.”
She smiles, all teacher. “That’s ‘Instructor Trepe.’ And flattery won’t help you.”
“Yes, Instructor Trepe,” he says, voice rough. “What else do you want from me?”
He’s already answered a lot of her questions. And he’s still fully dressed. She rises to stand, and he follows eagerly.
“You won’t be needing all those clothes. So list the four cardinal virtues of classical philosophy.
He quirks his head at her.
“Courage.”
She slips two fingers under his belt, flicks the buckle, and draws the leather free in one smooth pull. The belt whispers through the loops. She folds it and snaps it together, before coiling it into a neat loop in her hand.
“Oh shit,” His eyes gone dark.
“Keep going, Mr. Almasy.”
“Right. Um. Justice.”
“Good.” Her tone is mild; her hands aren’t. She slides her fingers under the hem of his T-shirt and drags her nails across his abdomen, slow enough to draw out a shiver from him. She peels the shirt up, inch by inch.
He lifts his arms, obedient, and the cotton clears his head. When his face reappears, it has so much hunger in it she almost kisses him on the spot.
For a second she just looks—at the clean lines of his chest, the cut of muscle at his ribs. Those biceps of his… Athletic, carved, familiar—and it still hits like a first time. Her fingertips trace the hard planes of his stomach, skimming the path that disappears into his waistband; he twitches under the touch, throat working.
His gaze drops to her chest.
She notices. Lifts his chin lightly with the looped belt, drawing his gaze back to hers. “Eyes on your instructor.”
“Permission to touch your perfect fucking tits?” he asks, rough.
A shiver races through her. She could let him—she wants to—but instead the word comes sharp, deliberate.
“Denied. And I might deduct points for language, Mr. Almasy. Besides..." She runs the belt lightly down his neck, his chest, watches in satisfaction as his abs clench in response. "Right now you have a list to complete.”
A laugh, sharp and almost incredulous, bursts out of him. His chest hitches under the belt, his gaze never leaving hers as he answered—as if the irony itself delights him. “Temperance.”
Hyne help her, watching him obey for her lights a fuse low in her belly. If he’s going to be so well behaved, she’s going to make it worth it.
“Mmhmm.” She leans in and draws her tongue over his nipple slow and insolent, fingers finding the button of his fly. The zipper goes down a tooth at a time—deliberate—her knuckles grazing the hard line of him beneath. Heat flares through her at the way he jerks.
“Fuck. Q.”
She ghosts the belt to the inside of his thighs, nudging his stance wider. Then she sinks down to her knees, fabric scraping warm over his thighs as she pulls his pants down. At his ankles she taps once—left, then right—until he steps out for her. Drags her hands back up over the strong lines of his calves and thighs, fingers pressing into muscle.
Then, just once, she lowers her mouth to the jut of his hip, open and hot—teeth scraping lightly over bone before she sucks a mark there, lingering. His breath hitches ragged above her, the sound wrecked.
Only then does she lift her head, gaze steady, lips flushed. She looks up at him—his chest heaving, eyes rapt—and smiles.
“Keep going, young man.”
“Hyne-damn. Prudishness.”
She cocks her head at him. Disappointment rushes through her. It’s not that big of a deal, but she’d nearly forgotten about the three strike rule. And now they’re at one.
“That’s incorrect.” His eyes widen. “We were looking for ‘Prudence.’ I guess you’ll be keeping your boxers on for now.” She gives the belt a soft tap against his thigh—more sound than sting, before rising back up to stand in front of him, arms crossing over her chest.
“Wait—what?” She presses her lips flat to hide her amusement at how dazed and shocked he is.
“It’s alright,” she tosses the belt to the floor. “You have plenty more chances. Get this next one right, and you can pick me up and throw me onto the bed.”
“Then make it an easy one.” She narrows her eyes at him. Quickly, he adds, “please.”
A smile ghosts her lips. “Name two core ideals of the Enlightenment.”
He grunts. “You call that easy?”
“Foundational, Mr. Almasy.”
“Individual liberty—and skepticism of authority.”
It’s mostly correct.
She steps towards him, reaching to wrap her arms around his neck. “And reason, progress, and enlightenment itself, don’t forget.” His own are around her before she can finish speaking.
“I’ll show you enlightenment, Instructor.” It’s practically a growl as he’s hoisting her into his arms and making his way to the bedroom.
“Once you’re on that bed, I’m on you. So you’d better ask another one now.”
She laughs, almost giddy. “Who is known as the father of modern philosophy?”
“Descartes.”
And then she’s airborne. Landing with a bounce on her back on the mattress. He’s on top of her a second later, not even waiting to hear if he’s correct. He is.
His lips crash against hers, and she surges up into him. He’s practically panting against her, tongue in her mouth, hands on her skin. She moans against him, trying to recall herself.
Finally, she pushes him back, her desire to see this through is the only thing strong enough to stop her from caving.
He goes—reluctant. And then he’s kneeling above her, chest heaving slightly, eyes hooded. His entire being focused on her, waiting. The shiver that races up her spine nearly undoes her.
“Good boy,” slips out, unplanned.
He shudders, a visible ripple through his shoulders; the cocky grin drops out of him, eyes going wide and then dark. “Say it again,” he breathes—raw, no guard at all.
She gives it to him. Leans up, cups his face, thumb brushing his cheekbone. “You’re such a good boy.”
A guttural sound tears out of him; he nuzzles into her palm like he can’t help it, heat flushing up his throat.
Her voice slides back to steady, instructor-smooth, her thumb brushing the stubble on his cheek. “Explain the difference between utilitarianism and deontology… and I’ll let you take my panties off with your teeth.”
He groans, deep in his throat. She watches him swallow. “Utilitarianism judges actions by consequences—the greatest good for the greatest number of people—but deontology judges by principle. The idea that some things are always wrong.”
Silence hangs, charged. Then she exhales, a low hum of approval.
“Correct.”
She lies back on the bed, heart pounding. “No hands. Teeth only—untie them, and don’t ruin them.”
“Yes, Instructor.” He’s already lowering himself between her thighs.
He finds the left bow, catches it between his teeth and pulls the knot until it slips; the ribbon spills against her skin. Cool air ghosts her hip. He glances up, eyes dark, and moves to the right—another slow tug, the knot loosening under his mouth.
With both ties undone the lace slackens. He noses the loosened waistband, mouth catching the front edge and dragging it down, inch by careful inch, the ribbons trailing over her thighs. She lifts to help; the fabric yields and slides down. Seifer leans back now, the lace dangling from his teeth, eyes never leaving hers. He holds it there a beat, like an offering, then releases. The silk slips into his palm, and he flicks it aside with a careless snap, victory bright in his eyes.
“You’re a surprisingly good student,” she pants.
“Yeah, well. Turns out school can be… fun,” he rumbles, hungry and a little wrecked.
Before she knows she’s saying it: “If you answer this correctly, I’ll let you taste me.”
He goes still like his number’s been called, then moves—drops down without breaking eye contact, palms gliding up the backs of her thighs. He sets them wider with a reverent pressure and settles between them, shoulders braced under her knees like he means to stay there. When he speaks, his voice is focused, low.
“Ask me.”
She makes it a hard one. “What are the five branches of philosophy?”
He doesn’t even blink. “Metaphysics. Epistemology. Ethics. Logic…” He hesitates, straining; she can see him reach for it, jaw set, the muscle ticking in his cheek because this matters to him. Her heart pounds, hoping. “…damn… Rhetoric?”
Damn is right.
“Aesthetics. Not Rhetoric. That’s two wrong.”
A rough sound punches out of him, jaw tight. “Fuck.”
Her lips curve, she can’t help herself. “But since you were close, I’ll allow a short—”
He doesn’t wait for her to finish, he’s already lowering himself, hands anchoring at her hips as his mouth closes hot and urgent over her. The groan he lets out reverberates against her skin, rough and helpless, like it’s relief just to finally have her in reach.
Her head tips back, a startled sound catching in her throat. Her fists clutch at the bedcovers, not because he’s rough—but because he’s hungry. Every careful inch of obedience explodes into fervor, as if he means to devour the permission she’s given.
She manages one ragged gasp, trying to keep the upper hand, trying to say his name— “Eyes up, Mr. Almasy.”
And the look he gives her nearly shakes her apart. He drags the flat of his tongue, then narrows it; circles tighten from lazy to precise, a patient spiral that makes her calves quiver around his ribs. She knows by now he has no intention of stopping unless she forces him away.
Her thighs tighten around his shoulders, the heat of him making her pulse trip faster with every slow stroke of his tongue. She’s gasping now, teetering right on the edge—
“Seifer—” Her hand finds his hair, tangling hard. “Stop, stop—”
He pulls back, lips shining, breath ragged against her skin. He swears, and drops his forehead against her thigh in frustration.
“Seriously?”
She’s flushed, trying to come back to herself, shaking her head with a laugh that almost sounds like a moan.
“That was… excellent work,” she manages. “Don’t skip ahead next time.”
He’s wrecked and grinning; and Quistis notes how praise puts a tremor in him that sex alone doesn’t.
“You’re gonna kill me, Instructor.”
She rolls her eyes and tugs him up; he comes willingly, bracing over her with a low sound as her mouth finds his. The kiss is messy, greedy—a rush of teeth and tongue like she’s making up for pulling him away.
Then, she pushes him to the side, pressing him flat to the mattress as she climbs on top of him. His pleased laugh vibrates against her lips before it turns into a hum, his hands already sliding over her.
She trails kisses down his jaw, the line of his throat, the rise of his chest—slow, on purpose. His breathing goes uneven, half-lidded eyes tracking every inch of her descent.
Her voice is low against his skin, teasing but focused.
“Next question.” She kisses his ribs, drags her mouth across them. “Explain what happens in Plato’s Allegory of the Cave.”
He grunts. “Wh—are you serious right now?”
Her teeth scrape lightly across his abdomen, and the sound he makes is almost a plea.
“Dead serious. And you forgot to address me properly.”
He swallows, forces his attention back even as she keeps descending. Her hair brushes his stomach; the soft weight of her chest drifts over the tent of his boxers and he twitches against the fabric like his body answers before his mouth can.
“In—structor, then. It’s got prisoners. Chained up… all they can see are—” His sentence stutters out when she kisses just above the waistband. “—shadows on the wall.”
Her mouth grazes his hip, and he gasps, words tumbling faster.
“One of them gets free. Sees the fire. Then—Hyne—sees the real world outside.”
She lingers just above the band of his boxers, snapping it against his skin, and he bites his lower lip, pushing through.
“The sun. The truth. Knowledge. And he goes back, tries to tell the others. They don’t believe him. It’s all perception versus reality. More enlightenment bullshit.”
His hand twitches where it traces her face; he grins down, flushed and triumphant.
“Still think I don’t study?”
She laughs—thin and wrecked. “A little choppy, but correct.”
She hooks her fingers in his waistband, frees him, and takes him into her mouth—the weight of him hot and heavy on her tongue. She hollows her cheeks, one hand braced at the base of his cock.
The sound he makes is raw. His hips jerk, his chest heaves—for once he’s the one about to break. She revels in the way his head thumps back, throat bared, the rough curse that spills when she drags her tongue slow along the underside.
She always likes seeing him undone like this, loves how good she can make him feel. How his fingers thread adoringly through her hair as she makes him unspool with want, the hard heat of him on her tongue like a promise of things to come.
But this? This teasing? It’s addictive how good it feels to hold him on the edge.
To be so in control.
She releases him to look up. “Keep your eyes on me.”
He drags his gaze to hers, jaw clamped, pupils blown wide.
She slides down him in a deep glide, tongue pressing to the tender spot beneath the head. Again. Again. His hips jolt; a guttural sound rips free, raw and low. A bead of slick clings at the corner of her mouth—his thumb brushes it away, reverent, every line of him strung tight.
She sets a patient rhythm—down and hold, a slow pull back up, a deliberate swirl at the tip—keeping him right at the edge. His arms cord, thighs twitch, every sound harsher until the tension winds tight as his hands in her hair, his grip stopping her.
“Quistis—” Ragged, half-laugh. “Wait. Don’t. I don’t want to finish in your mouth.”
She slips off him, lips flushed. “No?”
He shakes his head hard, eyes burning dark and certain.
“No. I want to be inside you when I lose it.”
She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and crawls up over him. His gaze tracks her, hungry. The slide of black nylon brushes his ribs as she swings a leg across, stilettos digging lightly into the mattress for balance. She settles astride him, and the sound that tears from his throat when she presses down along him makes her shiver.
Her palms flatten on his chest, pinning him as she rolls her hips slow, deliberate, slick heat dragging over the length of him. His breath breaks.
“You want to be inside me?”
“Hyne, yes,” he grits, jaw tight, eyes locked on hers.
Her smile curves sharp, almost wicked.
“Then get the next question right, Mr. Almasy, and you get to pick how.”
He groans, already trembling under her. “Then hurry up and ask, teach.”
She lets the insolence go because he looks so pained as he says it, and her heart flutters. But that doesn’t mean she won’t make it a hard one. Quistis leans down, her lips brushing his ear. “Explain Kant’s Kingdom of Ends.”
He lets out a string of curses, head dropping back against the pillow, breath ragged as she grinds just enough to catch the crown of him and skim past again. “This is going to end me, Q.”
“Answer.”
He drags in air like he’s drowning, trying to focus while she keeps the slow, cruel roll that sends sparks up both their spines. Her want pools, heavy, patience fraying; she has to bite back the urge to say hurry.
“It’s—the idea that everyone has value.”
She rolls again—a little deeper, a little meaner. His teeth bare.
“—Hyne, you’re so wet, baby—”
He swallows hard, pushing through the shiver that runs under her hands. “And people—you don’t use them like tools. You treat them as ends in themselves.”
She stills, waiting, body just thrumming with want. Eyes glittering down at him.
His head falls back, eyes squeezed shut, words tumbling out in a rough rush.
“Universal law—same rules for all of us. That’s basically the answer.” He swears, strained. “You get me. Hell, just say it’s right.”
His answer hangs between them, his chest heaving beneath her palms. Seifer Almasy moaning that out to her—heavens help her—the irony burns almost deliciously.
“Such a clever student,” she murmurs. “How do you want me?”
The praise lands like a spark. His hands come to her hips, gripping hard, steadying her as though she might slip away. He meets her eyes, voice low, wrecked.
“Just like this, Instructor—stay right here and fucking ride me.”
Heat floods through her at the bluntness, the hunger in him. She swallows hard, shivering as he grinds her down against the thick line of him.
“Your choice,” she whispers, and her body’s already moving to give it.
“Damn right it is,” he mutters, but the grin breaks around the edges as a groan. His head tips forward when she sinks onto him at last, a guttural sound tearing out of him. His whole frame shudders, hands clamping at her hips like he needs the anchor.
She sinks down around him, the stretch a familiar sweetness that still makes her shiver. Pleasure blooms deep as he fills her, and it feels like release, like finally. His answering curse is raw, reverent, chest straining beneath her palms. His eyes squeeze shut a moment, as if just the feel of her around him is almost too much after waiting for this.
She tips down to him, exhaling against his mouth, and he rises up to meet her, lips searing against hers.
The cups of her bra drag lightly against his bare skin, the thin lacy fabric barring them from being completely flush.
He thrusts up into her, hard, voice rough with laughter and hunger both. “Real shame your tits aren’t out… Instructor.”
She hums, shrugging, and sits back up, moving over him now, slow and relentless. "A shame indeed, Mr. Almasy." He glares at the denial—but it’s swallowed almost immediately by the way she rocks into him, deliberate, every shift dragging another sound out of his chest.
She doesn’t even know why she withholds this from him, only that the pained look on his face elates her in a way she hadn’t expected. There’s no time to think on it, though—because the feel of him inside her overwhelms everything. His hands, his eyes raking over her, the naked desire written there. Sitting astride him like this is intoxicating. She could come from the sheer power of it alone.
Heady and already building, she sets a grind that skims his pelvis; the friction running from her clit to her spine, bright and inevitable. He lets out a breathy sound, fingers spreading at her hips, one hand sliding to grip her ass, guiding the tilt, his other hand bracing under her thigh and hiking it higher against his ribs, opening her just enough to turn every drive into a live wire.
“Seifer—” her voice fractures, nails digging into his chest.
He immediately looks up, eyes wild and obedient; she feels him flex inside her at the unspoken command.
She grits her teeth, determined, and forces the words out between gasps.
“Last question.”
He growls at the sound of it, eyes gone dark. “Give it to me.”
He snags both her hands and threads their fingers, pressing them to his chest as she rides, meeting every roll of her hips. The beat of his heart under her palms is wild.
“Name the philosopher—ah—who said ‘God is dead.’”
His eyes squeeze shut, head tipping back into the pillow. “Damn, uh—Hobbes?”
She stiffens above him, her face betraying it.
He catches it instantly. His grunt is half-snarl, half-laugh. “Goddamnit. That’s wrong, isn’t it?”
“Yes—” the word tears out of her, her body still moving helplessly against him.
He huffs a breathless laugh, tugs her down onto his chest, forehead pressed to hers. “Three strikes. Better tell me to stop.”
She clutches at his shoulders, voice cracking as she drives down harder on him.
“Mr. Almasy, if you stop right now I swear—”
His answering laugh breaks into a groan, undone. “Then tell me,” he pants, every thrust up into her a plea and a command all at once, “tell me I’m your favorite student.”
Her reply comes as a cry, raw and unguarded, more confession than compliance.
“Yes—Seifer—my favorite—”
The words unravel her, and the world narrows to the thick slide of him and the feel of his chest against hers; pleasure climbs her spine hand over hand and tips—white, weightless—bombing through her, blinding, shaking.
He surges up into her, unable to hold back when she’s gripping him so tight. He locks in deep, body shuddering, and she feels the heat of him spill, the pulse of it matching the flutter still taking her apart.
His head falls back, his teeth clenched against the flood of it, and the words tear out of him, helpless and wrecked.
“Fuck, I love you.”
Her sob is half-laugh, half-moan, her forehead crashing to his shoulder, both of them breaking together.
The aftershocks fade. Their hearts steady. The room slides back into focus. They stay there, catching their breath—the thin lace of her bra crushed between their chests.
His hands slide up to her sides; with a low sound he tips her upright just enough, palms firm at her ribs.
“C’mere.”
Both his hands sweep around her back, finding the band. For a beat he just holds her there, gaze burning up at her—then with a rough pull, he wrenches the clasps; the straps snap, cups go slack—he flings the ruined fabric blind.
Then he seizes her again, dragging her straight back down, bare chest to bare chest at last. Heat and skin, nothing between them now. Her gasp breaks into a laugh against his mouth as he kisses her, greedy and pleased.
“Detention for that, Mr. Almasy.”
“Worth it,” he says, utterly unrepentant, against her mouth. “Make it double.”
They exit the lecture hall into the buzz of post-exam relief. Quistis clutches the strap of her bag, glancing sideways at him.
“Well?” she asks, nervous, giddy. “How did it go?”
Seifer barks a laugh, running a hand through his hair. “I have never—ever—been so fucking horny in my whole life.”
Her cheeks go hot; she swats his arm, alarmed that other people may have heard. “So maybe not the most effective study method after all.”
He just grins, shameless. “Are you kidding? I don’t think I’ll ever forget those old philosopher dweebs for the rest of my life.”
They’re just spilling out onto the sidewalk when Zell jogs up alongside them, still buzzing from another exam. “Wow, really? Philosophy made that big an impression on you, Almasy?”
Seifer’s smirk is already loading something disastrous when Quistis’s elbow digs hard into his ribs.
“He’s just very ethical now,” she says smoothly, eyes ahead.
“Sure am,” Seifer drawls. “Got a real hard-on for the categorical imperative.”
“Gross, dude.” Zell makes a face, already jogging backward toward the gym. “Catch you lovebirds later!”
Seifer slides a step closer, his palm landing sharp on her ass. “Admit it, Q. Dropping a little Kant on you got you hot.”
She manages only half an eyeroll before he’s already tugging the strap off her shoulder and slinging her bag onto his own. They fall into step, her hand finding his.
“You know…” she mutters, almost grudging but smiling. “I don’t hate it.”
A week later, the grades come back. Quistis has her usual near-perfect mark. Seifer flips his over with exaggerated nonchalance. His expression gives her nothing, and for a horrible moment she's hanging suspended in anticipation and fear. Then he flashes it at her.
A–
She laughs—thrilled, relieved, a little turned on. He only smirks and tucks the paper away like a prize.
“Next time,” he says, “I’m aiming for problem student.”
Her brows climb. His smile is dangerous, already building a fire in her when he says, “Don’t worry Q, I’m still planning to serve that double detention you gave me," He leans a little closer, voice dropping just enough for her alone. "But don’t count on me being so obedient this time.”
Heat climbs her neck; she scoffs anyway, trying for prim even as her pulse jumps.
“As if I’d ever suffer a degenerate, Mr. Almasy.”