EPISODE 5- Slower
The campus quad was a riot of forced enthusiasm. Colorful banners for the Philosophy Club and the Quidditch Team flapped in the breeze, and overly cheerful upperclassmen tried to shove flyers into my hands. I clutched my new course schedule like a shield.
"Come on, Layla, this is the best part!" Chloe chirped, practically vibrating beside me. She'd driven up for the day, instantly blending into the chaotic energy. "You have to find your people! What about the literary magazine? You love writing."
I glanced at the table, a bored sophomore scrolling on her phone behind it. "It looks… quiet."
"Quiet is your brand, babe," Mia chimed in, looping her arm through mine. She was the perfect counterbalance to Chloe's whirlwind—grounded, observant. "But maybe quiet isn't what you need this year." Her eyes flickered toward the louder end of the quad, where a bass line thumped from the Alpha Kappa Rho booth. "We could check out the party scene list."
My stomach did a familiar, treacherous flip. Party scene. It was just a phrase, but it carried the scent of cheap beer and the memory of a dark janitor's closet.
"Lab first," I said, my voice firmer than I felt. "I need to find the chemistry building. I have my first partner assignment today."
Chloe groaned. "Ugh, fine. But we're coming with you for moral support. And to vet this lab partner. If it's another Mark Evans-type, we're staging an intervention."
The chemistry building was a stark, modern contrast to the gothic stone of the older halls. Inside Lab 207, the air smelled sharp with acetone and anticipation. Students clustered around black-topped tables, peering at their schedules.
I found my name on the station list. Adams, Layla. Marshall, Ethan.
The world tilted. The noise of the room faded into a high-pitched hum. No. It's a common name. It has to be.
"Marshall?" Mia whispered, her eyes wide. "As in…"
I couldn't breathe. I just stared at the neat print.
Then I felt him. That shift in the air, that magnetic pull at the base of my spine. I didn't need to turn. I knew he was standing in the doorway.
"Go," I hissed at my friends. "I'll find you after."
Chloe looked from me to the doorway, her eyes comically wide. "Oh. Oh. Okay. We're going. Call me!" They melted into the crowd just as he approached the table.
He dropped his backpack on the floor with a soft thud. He wore dark jeans and a simple grey henley that clung to his shoulders. He looked like he'd just rolled out of bed and into a magazine shoot. His eyes, that impossible blue, swept over me with a cool, detached assessment that was somehow more intimate than the hunger in the closet.
"Adams," he said, his voice flat. A simple acknowledgment.
"Marshall," I managed, my throat tight.
The professor started droning about safety protocols and titration curves. Ethan pulled out a pristine notebook, his focus seemingly entirely on the lecture. He didn't look at me. He didn't speak. The inches between our lab stools felt like a canyon.
This is good, I told myself. Professional. Distant. Safe.
He reached for a beaker, his forearm brushing mine. A jolt, white-hot and immediate, shot straight to my core. I flinched. His hand stilled. For a fraction of a second, his eyes cut to me. I saw it then—the faint flicker in his detached mask. A spark of recognition. Of possession.
The professor announced our first exercise: a simple acid-base titration, partners working in sync to record precise measurements.
Ethan finally turned to face me fully. "You handle the burette," he instructed, his voice low. "I'll manage the flask and record. Steady hands are key."
It was just lab work. But his tone… it was the same tone he'd used in the dark. A command expecting compliance.
My fingers trembled as I adjusted the glass stopcock. The clear liquid dripped, a slow, maddening metronome. He stood close, too close, watching the flask, his body heat radiating against my side. I could smell his cologne, that expensive sandalwood, and underneath it, the clean, masculine scent of his skin.
"Slower," he murmured, his head bent near mine as he watched for the color change. His breath feathered against my ear. "It's too fast. You need to control the flow."
A flush spread over my chest. My knuckles were white on the glass. Every nerve ending was screaming, hyper-aware of him.
The solution in the flask turned a faint, lasting pink. "Stop," he said softly.
I jerked my hand back. He made a note in his book, his script sharp and precise. "Good."
That single word of praise, delivered in that rumble, did something dangerous to me. My caution frayed, replaced by a pulsing, aching need that had been simmering since graduation.
The lab hour crawled by. Every accidental touch was a lit match. Every time he leaned in to check a measurement, his shoulder pressing against mine, the fire spread. The rational part of my brain was drowning in a rising tide of pure sensation.
When the professor dismissed us, I scrambled to pack my bag, desperate for space, for air.
His hand closed over my wrist. Not harsh, but firm. Unbreakable. The touch burned through my sweater.
"Wait," he said.
I froze. The few remaining students filtered out, leaving us alone in the chemical-scented quiet.
He didn't let go. His thumb stroked the frantic pulse point on my wrist. "You've been trying to pretend it didn't happen." His gaze was locked on mine, stripping away every pretense. "That we didn't happen."
"I…" My voice was a thin breath. "This is a lab. We have to work together."
"We will," he said, a dark promise in the words. He stepped closer, backing me gently against the cold edge of the lab table. His body caged me in. "But this has nothing to do with chemistry."
His free hand came up, his fingers tracing the line of my jaw. I shuddered, my eyes fluttering closed for a second. I should push him away. I should run.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered, his lips a hair's breadth from mine, echoing his words from the closet. But this was different. Here, in the bright, sterile light, there was no darkness to hide in. This was a challenge in plain sight.
I couldn't say it. My body was screaming yes. My hips arched forward of their own volition, seeking contact. A low, approving sound vibrated in his chest.
His mouth crashed down on mine.
This kiss wasn't like the desperate, frantic ones before. It was deep, deliberate, and devastatingly thorough. A reclaiming. His tongue swept into my mouth, tasting me, claiming me, and I met him with a helpless moan, my hands fisting in the soft fabric of his henley. The rational world dissolved into a haze of sensation—the hard press of the table against my back, the demanding heat of his mouth, the intoxicating scent of him.
His hands slid down my sides, over my hips, and gripped the backs of my thighs. In one fluid, powerful motion, he lifted me and sat me on the black lab table, spreading my knees so he could stand between them. The cold surface seeped through my jeans, a shocking contrast to the feverish heat he was stoking inside me.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged, his eyes blazing down at me. "I've thought about this. About having you right here. Where anyone could walk in."
The danger of it, the sheer audacity, sent a fresh bolt of arousal straight to my core, which clenched around nothing, aching and empty. He saw it in my face. He knew.
His hands went to the button of my jeans. The metallic snick was obscenely loud in the empty room. "Do you want me to stop, Layla?"
I was panting, my whole body trembling with need. I looked into his stormy eyes, saw the barely-leashed control, the hunger that mirrored my own. My caution shattered.
"No."
A feral grin touched his lips. He shoved my jeans and panties down my thighs in one rough, urgent motion. The cool air kissed my exposed skin for a second before his warm, calloused palm pressed against my mound. I cried out, my head falling back.
"So wet already," he growled, his fingers sliding through my slickness, finding my swollen clit. He circled it once, twice, with a practiced, relentless pressure that had my hips bucking off the table. "Just from a few hours in a lab with me."
He pushed two fingers inside me, curling them, and stars exploded behind my eyelids. A ragged sob tore from my throat. He worked me with his fingers, his eyes watching every flicker of pleasure on my face, as he used his other hand to unfasten his own jeans.
The sight of him, freed, thick and straining, made my mouth water. He stepped closer, the rigid length of him pressing against my inner thigh. He replaced his fingers with the broad head of his cock, rubbing it through my drenched folds, coating himself in my arousal.
He locked his eyes with mine. His voice was guttural, raw with need. "Look at me. I want to see you when I take you here."
He pushed inside.
It was a slow, deliberate, stretching invasion that stole the breath from my lungs. I was so tight, so ready for him. He filled me completely, a perfect, shocking fit. A deep groan ripped from his chest as he seated himself to the hilt, our bodies joined on the lab table.
He held there, buried inside me, his body trembling with the effort. His gaze was fierce, possessive. "Mine," he breathed, the word a dark vow.
Then he began to move.
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