Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

MARSHALL

A screwdriver drills deep into my brain. At least, that's what it feels like when the blaring alarm goes off. My hand flies out, and I slap it down on top of the digital clock.

Blissful silence falls.

I rub my eyes, wincing when the dull ache behind my temple intensifies. What the fuck did I have to drink last night?

I pause as my fingers dig into my eyeballs. How the hell did I get home? I have no memory of leaving the bar.

Blowing out a breath, I drag my hand down my face. I'm in need of a shave, the stubble sharp against my palm.

How will I teach lessons today when I feel like I was hit by a truck last night? I haven't felt this bad in years. Not since I was a young man who hadn't yet learned to handle his alcohol.

I suddenly become aware of a presence beside me and lower my hand before slowly turning my head.

My eyes widen. What the fuck?

There are moments in life when the brain struggles to catch up. This is one of those times. I blink, but the vision stays the same. Karl's son, Cruz, is in my bed. Naked, by the looks of it.

He's asleep on his front with both arms tucked beneath the pillow, and the quilt pools around his lower waist. His lips are slightly parted, and his mussed-up, raven hair—courtesy of his Portuguese mother—flops over his eyes.

My heart has stopped beating. I'm sure of it. What the hell happened last night? Why is he in my bed? Fuck! Even though it's obvious why he's naked, my brain still takes its sweet time.

When it finally does, my eyes fly wide open as terror seizes my chest. This is bad.

This is really fucking bad.

I'm not even gay.

As if the pieces are only just falling into place, I slowly slide the quilt away, careful not to wake him. My softening cock greets me, the morning wood slowly going away now that I'm in full panic mode. What the hell did I do? Fuck my best friend's son? My student? I wouldn't do that… Would I? I'm not gay. What would possess me to fuck a man? Alcohol? Desperation? No way.

After scrubbing my face, I climb out of bed and turn to look at Cruz. This is bad, bad, bad. I could lose my job. My closest friend. I've already lost my damn wife.

I could lose everything.

My thoughts spiral out of control while I stare at a sleeping Cruz—the tattoos drawn on his olive skin, his even breaths.

I spin around and leave the room, zipping up my pants, only to draw to a halt outside in the hallway. My chest is covered in dried, flaky cum. If there was any doubt before, it's gone now. I've done the unspeakable.

Swallowing down another wave of nausea, I storm into the bathroom across the hall, intent on showering away my transgressions. I strip out of my clothes, turn the shower to the highest setting, and wait for the room to steam up. It doesn't take long.

I move through a shower, scrubbing my hair almost furiously with my peppermint shampoo. The scalding water turns my skin pink as I brace my palms on the tiles and stare at my fingers, slowly fisting a hand. The severity of the situation is fully sinking in. I've slept with my best friend's son. He's only twenty, not even old enough to be in that bar to begin with. I'm also his professor and superior.

Rearing back, I drive my knuckles into the wet tiles, and pain explodes, radiating up my arm. I clutch my throbbing hand, hissing through my teeth as the water overhead rinses away the blood.

I'm so confused.

Why did I do it? I'm not gay.

That one sentence plays on repeat in my head. I finish my shower, dressing in pants and a navy button-up—my usual work attire. Thankful that I keep my clothes in the spare bedroom so that I don't have to look at my wife's clothes in the wardrobe in our room. She was supposed to collect the last few items, but they're still there, filling me with a sense of failure.

Today, as I tighten my tie in front of the bathroom mirror, it feels strangely like I'm readying myself for battle. I don't know how to have this conversation with Cruz. He's not a one-night stand I'll never see again.

He still lives at home since it's only a short drive to the college. Even if I try to avoid him, I'll see him every week in class or at Karl's home.

I brace my hands on the sink, staring at my haunted face in the mirror. Dark circles rim my eyes. I look tired and drained. Gray hairs are interspersed throughout my stubble. I'm aging, which shows in my graying hair and the crow's feet around my eyes when I laugh.

"What the fuck did you do?" I ask my reflection.

Once I'm back in the kitchen, I whip up pancakes. The least I can do is make him something to eat. He's practically family, after all. I watched him grow up. I was there, waiting in the hospital with Karl when his wife was in labor.

As I pour the pancake mix into the pan, I remember cheering Cruz on when he first learned to ride his bike. His little face beamed with pride.

The first time he was suspended for fighting, I collected him from school because his father couldn't get out of work. Cruz soon grew into a guarded, complicated young man who hides his emotions behind smirks and a perfected stone mask.

Now, he's my student, and I shouldn't have taken advantage of him.

This is so fucked up.

"Something smells nice."

My shoulders stiffen.

His heavy footsteps sound behind me on the floor, followed by the scrape of a kitchen chair, and I plate the pancake while he audibly yawns.

"I'm starving."

Turning around, I'm assaulted by all six-foot-three of him, slouched bare-chested on the kitchen chair. Dressed in his jeans that sit low on his hips, he rests his elbow on the backrest. A dog tag hangs on a thin, silver chain halfway down his chest, his dark hair curling at his nape. There isn't an inch of fat on him, only corded muscle.

I place the plate down in front of him and then take a seat, observing him as he picks up the cutlery. He inherited his mom's complexion and big eyes, but he has his father's straight nose and sharp jawline. When he flicks his dark hair out of his eyes, I can see why the female student population drools over him. He's masculine, with an air of mystique and I guess I'm intrigued now that I've discovered another tidbit of information about him.

"You have a fake ID?"

He doesn't deny it as he stuffs his mouth with more pancakes before frowning in my direction. When he finishes chewing, he asks, "Are you not eating?"

I shake my head. "Not big on breakfast."

Even if I want to eat, I can't. My stomach spins like a tumble dryer.

"I'm not the only twenty-year-old with a fake ID." His deep voice thickens my throat.

Tapping a finger on the tablecloth, I flick my eyes to his face. "You're gay?"

The knife scrapes on the plate, the sound loud in the ensuing silence. He shrugs and stabs the pancake. "I don't define my sexuality. What about you, Professor Kirk?"

"Don't call me that. I'm Marshall to you."

Something stirs in me when he looks at me like he is now, with a hint of amusement twinkling in his brown eyes.

A smirk graces his lips, there and gone in a split second. "So, how about you? Are you bisexual? Gay?"

"Neither."

Shaking his head, he chuckles low in his chest. "It certainly looked that way last night."

My teeth grind together so hard that I worry they might pulverize. "Look, about last night?—"

His chair scrapes as he rises to his feet, silencing whatever excuse I was about to invent. One step is all it takes him to cross the small distance between us. His naked chest rises and falls like the waves of a calm ocean as he hovers over me. I'm old enough to be his father, but when he stares down at me like he wants to devour me, the dynamics shift and morph. He holds the power.

Last night was a mistake. I need to tell him to leave, but the words stay glued to my tongue, refusing to disturb the electric silence. My eyes fall down his chest to the tattoo on the inside of his arm.

A nightshade.

A poisonous plant. One taste could be deadly.

He fists his hand at his side, drawing my attention to the subtle movement, and I watch as he slowly uncurls his fingers, surrounded by blurred shadows. What's happening? Why am I caught in the eye of the storm, transfixed by the thick outline of his cock inside his jeans? It's trapped against his thigh, held hostage and begging for release.

"I'll see you in class, Professor Kirk."

My eyes snap up to his face just in time to catch him smirking as a muscle twitches in his cheek, accentuating his sharp jawline. He walks out, leaving me in the aftermath of whatever blend of fucked up that was.

Oxygen rushes back into my lungs, and I inhale greedily as I loosen my tie. I'm trembling. What's worse? I'm rock hard.

O utside, dark clouds roll in over the sky as thunder rumbles in the distance. Seated on the desk, I clear my throat. "Who here can tell me why the Revolution of 1917 succeeded?"

Melanie, an attractive young lady in the front row, eagerly waves her hand. I struggle to focus while she prattles off a response.

For the last hour, Cruz has balanced a pen between his long fingers, and the insistent tapping against the desk is all I can focus on. Well, that and his relaxed pose, with his elbow on the armrest and his chin resting on his palm. I'm acutely aware every time he shifts, however slightly.

When he tracks me with his dark eyes, I feel as if I'm being hunted.

I'm startled by the bell. Students rise from their seats and collect their bags.

"Thank you, Melanie. That's it for today. We'll pick up where we left off next time. Don't forget to read through the next two chapters, everyone," I call out. No one listens as half the class sidles through the doorway. I rise to my feet and collect my laptop off the desk. "Cruz, I need a word."

Placing my bag on the desk, I shove my laptop inside, sensing his approach from behind. His presence raises the hairs on the back of my neck, a sensation that isn't entirely unpleasant, but it's ultimately one I don't know how to handle. This is uncharted territory.

Shark-infested waters.

I need to put an end to it before we both drown.

"You wanted to see me, Professor Kirk?"

"Just Marshall." Grinding my teeth, I zip the bag. "What happened last night must never happen again," I say firmly and turn around.

Cruz smirks, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He has changed into black, shredded jeans and a white T-shirt that hangs loose on his frame, yet takes nothing away from his carved physique. If anything, it accentuates it, adding an air of revolt. Cruz is unrefined and feral.

My mouth goes dry. I've never been aware of a man before in this sense. When his smirk deepens along with the tense silence, I'm painfully aware of the muscles in his forearms. The veins that paint a roadmap beneath his olive skin. Even the smattering of dark hairs.

He shrugs, but there's nothing casual about it. "If that's what you want."

His collar teases his pronounced collarbones. My eyes trail up, past his neck and sharp jawline. Why am I checking him out? I must have hit my head last night. "You're young enough to be my son."

"I'm not your son," he says in a tone that drips with nefarious intent as he steps closer.

My heart jolts at that single step. There's nowhere to go. The desk behind me digs into the backs of my thighs.

"You're my best friend's son."

"You think I'll let that stop me from going after what I want?"

"I helped raise you."

"I'm all grown up now."

One more step.

Cedarwood and vanilla surround me, rich and heady. "I could lose my job."

"No one will find out."

He's not much shorter than me, matching me for height. His youth, on the other hand… He's yet to be jaded by life and there's a cockiness about him that renders me speechless.

"I'm not gay," I croak as he invades my space, standing toe-to-toe with me.

"So, if I touched you now…" He lets the unspoken words hover, his tongue darting out to drag over his bottom lip.

My heart threatens to beat out of my chest as he drops his eyes to my mouth. He knows exactly how to pull me under, and a featherlight touch to the side of my dick makes me choke on my breath.

"If I inch my fingers to the left?" he whispers, brushing up against me again, way too close for comfort. "Will I find your dick hard?" His teeth sink into his lip and he flicks his hair out of his eyes, locking his devious browns on mine. This is it. He's about to palm my cock and squeeze until my knees give out.

My dick twitches as I imagine kneeling before him while he grips my chin. I push him away and stumble to the side. "This isn't happening. I refuse to go there with you, Cruz. You need to find someone your own age, understood?"

When he fails to reply, tracking my jerky movements and visible distress, I lose my cool and shout, "UNDERSTOOD?"

His voice is unaffected and calm. "I understand you perfectly well, Professor Kirk."

Loosening my tie, I snatch my bag off the desk. Then, before he can lure me back to entangle myself in his web, I flee the room like my ass is on fire.

I can't escape those dark eyes or his cedarwood and vanilla scent fast enough.

I need fresh air, but it's the height of summer and muggy outside. There isn't even a cool breeze to clear my brain. Only warm, sticky heat.

Sensing eyes on me, I turn around outside the front doors to see Cruz leaning against the wall, watching me. Always fucking tracking me with his intense gaze.

A leggy woman drapes herself against his side and bats her wispy lashes, no doubt reeking of cheap perfume.

A taste of something foul lingers on my tongue.

I'm slowly descending into hell.

"Marshall?"

I break eye contact to find Monica, one of my colleagues, smiling at me. She shakes out her umbrella. "Are you coming for drinks after work tomorrow?"

It's only now that the sound of spattering rain filters through the drugged haze that clings to my consciousness. She touches my arm. "You should come."

Before I can respond, she flashes one final smile, then escapes inside, calling out, "See you tomorrow, Marshall."

I look back and smile politely. Monica has flirted with me for a while now, always catching me between classes to exchange a few words. My attention soon shifts past her to Cruz, who laughs at something the leggy woman says. His perfect teeth gleam, showcasing a hint of sharp fang and cinnamon gum between his molars.

The foul taste returns tenfold, sour and vile. I swing back around, the rain soaking through my shirt as I set off toward my car.