5. Ciaran

5

CIARAN

T he bell rang for sixth period when I knocked on Mr. Jones's door. The sign outside his office read Andrew T. Jones, Guidance Counselor .

"I don't like it when you ignore me, Ciaran," Mr. Jones said by way of greeting when I entered his office. His voice was hard, demanding, and it sent a shockwave of confusing pleasure to my dick. "Lock the door."

I did as he asked.

I was here in my free period, when students could go the library, one of the labs, or visit one-on-one with one of the counselors, just like he'd instructed me yesterday. I was wearing a loose T-shirt and baggy athletic shorts, for which I was profoundly grateful, otherwise Mr. Jones would have seen the evidence of my reaction.

Not that he didn't know. He'd made his intentions known last year and I'd been making small overtures letting him know that I was receptive, but nervous.

He addressed me as Mr. Galbraith in the presence of others.

When it was just the two of us, he called me Ciaran in a low, almost growling tone, as if he relished the taste of my name on his lips.

Keir-en , he'd enunciate in a way to convey the existence of a secret world inhabited only by the two of us.

"I didn't mean to ignore you, sir. With the AP exams and taking care of the deli, I've been busy."

I fidgeted with the straps of my backpack before I shoved my hands into the pockets of my shorts.

He sat behind his desk but leaned forward to inspect me from head to toe, an appreciative gleam in his eyes. The desk was piled high with books, student folders, stacks of college brochures, and a coffee cup. He closed his laptop and set it aside.

His office was in the back of the administrative offices. A large window with gauzy curtains faced the teachers' parking lot. Beneath it sat a leather couch big enough for two. The other wall contained a series of cabinets and a bookshelf chock full of books. Beside that stood a full-length mirror.

My reflection showed that my curly blond hair was mussed up and that my face was flushed with anticipation and nervousness. The closet in the corner of his office was cracked open. I spotted his athletic gear. He'd told me once that he'd played soccer in college, and because he was still in peak physical condition, he'd scrimmage alongside the students from time to time. I wasn't much of a runner or a soccer player, but I enjoyed swimming at school and the local YMCA.

At twenty-eight, he was one of the youngest counselors at the school, but he'd started working here three years ago and was assigned as my mentor when my mom informed the principal that it'd be helpful for me to have a positive male role model after Grandpa Tommy died.

In the intervening years, he'd been to our apartment a number of times and I'd been to his high-rise condo on West Flamingo Road, which was Mom-approved. He must come from money to be able to afford this, she'd conjectured when he'd invited us over for dinner.

"I accept your apology, Ciaran, but I thought we were friends," Mr. Jones remarked. His desk chair squeaked as he stood. He moved to the couch and patted the space next to him.

When we first met, I was a freshman, and he remarked about how his office was private, that the only room to share a wall with his office was a cleaning supply closet, that I shouldn't be afraid to discuss anything with him.

Nothing can be overheard , he'd explained at the time. He wore an unassuming smile. No one will hear your secrets but me.

"We are friends." My backpack slid to my feet at the floor as I sat beside him, sinking into the couch. I was keenly aware that he was now mere inches away. I knew what he was getting at. He insisted I use his first name when we were alone. I amended by saying, "Drew, we are friends."

His handsome face transformed into a smile, but part of me knew it was a facade. He was upset and my stomach roiled at the thought of disappointing him.

Drew's strong hand found my thigh and my cock swelled. My eyes fluttered and a hiss formed behind my lips. His chiseled, clean-shaven jaw begged to be licked.

In the full-length mirror, I watched as Drew leaned over and whispered, "I hear congratulations are in order."

"Um…"

How did he know about my mom's marriage? I know for a fact he wasn't within earshot when I told my friends yesterday. Drew's warm, masculine cologne clouded my senses as I felt his hot breath on my ear when he added, "I'm not happy that Theresa's taking you away from me."

Drew was always so careful to keep his touches, his words, those promising threats—or were they threatening promises?—at a minuscule distance. He'd make the first contact but it was always up to me to close the gap. I desperately wanted to touch him, to press my lips against his, and I'd been able to resist except that one time.

He knew his power over me but I felt drunk with desire.

Deep down I knew this was wrong. That we shouldn't be alone like this, behind a locked door, with a floor-length mirror placed where I could watch his hand inch closer and closer toward my rock-hard erection.

The very forbidden nature of it all was nearly impossible to resist.

"Sorry," I gasped out even though I wasn't sure what I was apologizing for. It wasn't like I could control my mom's actions. In the mirror, my expression was far away, dreamy.

I watched as his fingers slid up—or was it that my hips bucked?—and, through the fabric of my shorts, he lightly skimmed the sensitive underside of my pulsating cock. "I like it when you're contrite, Ciaran."

My eyes rolled into the back of my head. The blood coursing through my veins was on fire. Here he was, in his professional attire of a light blue buttoned-up shirt rolled up to his forearms, a charcoal pair of slacks that revealed slim hips and muscular legs, leaning over me. His weight was delicious; his muffled moans threw my heart into the stratosphere.

It was difficult to keep my hands to myself once I spotted the large bulge in his pants. It was thrilling to know I did that to him.

"So the beautiful Theresa Galbraith was tamed by the infamous Stefon Vaulteneau," Drew murmured in my ear.

His words took me out of my own head. "How did you find out?"

"Ciaran, Ciaran, Ciaran," he said in his soft, yet authoritative tone. He tskd . God, the way he said my name was like a verbal orgasm. My hips involuntarily thrust and his hand palmed me. Drew groaned huskily. I wanted to grind into it, into him, to breathe in his essence, the way his breath smelled like coffee and something else, something sweet, like brandy. "Your mom called the school this morning."

"Oh," I breathed out.

Through the fabric of my shorts, his hand circled my tent of an erection, firm and demanding. Lightheaded, I watched his slow, methodical strokes in the mirror.

The air was erotically charged once I realized he was watching me watch him. My head fell back against the couch and I felt the gentlest flutter of his wet lips on my exposed neck, as if he was struggling to hold himself back. Was it a game? Was it real? I could never tell, but in that moment I felt like I held all the power in the room.

"I'm hurt you didn't tell me yourself," he complained while speeding up his movements.

"I'm sorry, Drew," I moaned out. He rewarded me with a pleasurable squeeze.

I could lean into his lips. I could let him taste me, taste the salt on my skin, let him inhale me. All I had to do was say something. All I had to do was give him permission. That was his rule.

"Say it again," he demanded.

"I'm so sorry, Drew."

His hand sped up. Fuck, I was not going to last much longer. I wanted his mouth on me. I wanted skin to skin. I wanted him in me.

If only I knew how to breathe.

Conflicting emotions battled for space in my mind. Even I knew that ejaculating in my gym shorts would be a horrible idea, especially at school.

"How are you going to make it up to me?" he asked.

I took a deep breath, I tried to think about something else—the AP World History test—to withstand the primal urge of letting Drew have his way with me. It'd be okay, right? I was moving away next week. It'd be like a parting gift.

Drew, as if he were telepathic, seemed to understand my thoughts, because one second his hand was at my cock and the next he was guiding me onto his lap and tugging at the elastic band of my shorts.

His growl was deep and guttural at my neck, a vibrating sound I felt all the way to my bones.

"Good boy," he said, his tone triumphant as he ground his cock against my ass. His hardness was sizzling hot through the fabric and I absolutely about died thinking about how I was about to see Drew's cock in the flesh, something I'd fantasized about for months, maybe even years. However much I wanted that, alarm bells rang in my head and I started having second thoughts. "I promise to be gentle, Ciaran. It won't hurt too much," he panted, "but my God how I've longed to be balls deep inside you."

His hand snaked around my waist, sliding down my abdomen, under my shorts. I knew that if he touched me, skin on skin, I wouldn't be able to stop him.

My cock was about to spring free but at the last second, I shifted away from him.

"Drew, I'm…" I stalled, turning in his lap to face him. I let out an audible sigh, unsure of how to reject a man who'd done so much for me. It felt like I owed him this. His hands stilled and his eyes searched mine for meaning. I feared his wrath, his disappointment, to the same degree I coveted his praise and compliments. "This is not how I…"

Jesus, I didn't know what to say. I wanted him to fuck me. I wanted him to be my first. How messed up was that?

Drew's demeanor instantly changed. Sadness washed over his features and that killed me more than anything. I thought about taking it back, saying I was wrong, that I was confused, that I was sure now, but Drew pushed me aside, stood, and straightened his attire using the mirror as his guide. He was so fucking handsome it hurt.

It had to mean something that a twenty-eight-year-old Adonis wanted me . Was I being a complete moron for rejecting his advances when deep down I'd been dreaming about his hands on me ever since our first meeting?

Drew cleared his throat. "The Vaulteneaus are rich and powerful. You'll never want for anything ever again, Ciaran. When do you leave next week?" he asked in the same tone he used when he spoke to me with others present—distant, professional, as if I meant absolutely nothing.

As if I meant less than nothing.

Regret flooded my veins.

I wanted to turn back time, to claw back to five minutes ago when Drew was about to yank down my shorts, when his cock would have pressed against my entrance, where I ached to be filled.

Be strong, Ciaran, I told myself even though my eyes stung with unshed tears. You made the right decision.

He moved to his desk, hands in his pockets, looking like usual, like he was in full control of his faculties. It was amazing he could switch it off that quickly.

Me, well, I struggled to stand. I fixed my shorts. I smoothed down my hair. My erection was a thing of the past. Pain and guilt were like knives in my gut. In a few days, I'd never see Drew again, and regret wafted through me again.

"Next Saturday, though I'm not sure what time," I answered honestly. I picked up my backpack and slung it over my shoulders. I kept my eyes on the floor. "I've never traveled by private jet before."

For a delirious second, I wanted to laugh. I'd never uttered the words "traveled by private jet" before. I sensed that everything in my life was about to change, and maybe not for the better.

"It's not all it's cracked up to be," Drew said cryptically. "Safe travels, Mr. Galbraith."

I looked up. Mr. Galbraith? That stung.

"Drew, please," I started, thinking fast, wondering how I could repair what I'd fucked up. "We're still friends, right? Like, I can text you and stuff?"

I felt like a pathetic dog, begging and grasping at straws to maintain a connection with him.

"As a mentor, you must understand that my attention is reserved for my students." His eyes were cold, calculating. "After next week, you will no longer be my student. Now," he said as he cracked open his laptop, "if you don't mind, I have work to do."

I guess that was it. My eyes stung and my chest hurt. He wasn't just punishing me, he was shutting me out.

"Goodbye, Mr. Jones." I unlocked the door, expecting him to say more, to beg me not to go, to invite me to stay in contact, but he did none of those things as I slipped out of his office.

In my mind, I knew it was the right thing to do but it was incredibly difficult.