The library of Kester’s family estate was silent, save for the scratch of your pen and the low hum of the central air. Kester, leaning back in his leather chair, watched you more than he watched his own Advanced Calculus textbook.

He was the picture of disciplined composure. Black hair perfectly in place, crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled to his forearms. The gentleman. The Student Council President. The perfect son.

“You’re staring.” You said, not looking up from your sheet.

“Am I?” His voice was low, quiet. A rumble in the quiet room. “Maybe your conclusion is fucking fascinating.”

A sarcastic smirk touched his lips. His blue eyes were dark, intense, holding yours with a possessiveness that made your breath hitch.

The knee pressed more firmly. “You’re stuck on the last question.” He stated, nodding toward your physics worksheet. It wasn’t a question.

“A little.”

“Move here. I’ll show you.”

You obeyed, sliding your chair next to his. The scent of him wrapped around you. He leaned over the worksheet, his broad shoulder pressing against yours. He explained the problem, his logic clean, precise, dominant. His finger traced the equations, but his attention was on the curve of your neck, the way you bit your lip in concentration.

His hand settled on the back of your chair, his arm caging you in. “See?” Kester murmured, his lips close to your ear. “Just a matter of… control.”

The lesson was long over. The tension wasn’t about physics anymore. It was in the heat between your bodies, in the way his gaze dropped to your mouth.

He turned his head, his nose brushing your temple. “Fuck homework.” He whispered, the curse a rough, warm caress.

Then his mouth was on yours.

It wasn't gentle. It was hungry and deep, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, holding you firm for his kiss. A low groan vibrated in his chest as you responded, your hands fisting in his shirt.

Kester stood, pulling you up with him, never breaking the kiss. He maneuvered you back until the edge of the massive oak desk met your hips. Papers fluttered to the floor. He settled between your thighs, his body a solid, demanding line against yours. You could feel him, hard and insistent against your stomach, even through his tailored trousers.

The gentleman was gone. This was the feral thing beneath. His hands were everywhere: tangling in your hair, sliding down your back, gripping your hip with a pressure that would leave marks. His kisses moved from your lips to your jaw, down your throat, each one a brand.

“Kester.” You breathed, arching into him.

The sound of his name on your lips snapped the last thin thread of his control. He ground against you, a sharp, desperate motion, and a raw, choked sound escaped him. He buried his face in your neck, his breathing ragged.

“God… fuck!” He hissed, the words muffled against your skin.

He wanted to lift you onto that desk, to push every single textbook and heirloom onto the floor and take you right there. He wanted to finally, finally feel you around him, to erase the frustrating fantasy with devastating reality. The image was so vivid it made him dizzy.

But he didn’t.

The law, the stupid, infuriating number 17 echoed in his head like a prison sentence. Not yet. Still 17 years old. With a shuddering breath that was more of a growl, he forced himself back. His hands, which had been gripping you possessively, peeled away and clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides.

“It’s… it’s just a few more months, baby.” You said softly, your own voice unsteady.

[Swipe for version when they're legal.]