by Amy Bellows
He lets out a contented sigh. “Yes. I don’t want to be apart from you any longer. It was too painful.”
After all the sex and the courting, I think those words may be the most important thing Tatum’s ever said to me. He’s finally asking for what he wants. In the past our relationship has felt unbalanced, just like my mother and Abbie said it would be. Because we started out on uneven footing, I’ve been trying to give Tatum what he needed even though he refused to ask for it. But I think we’re past that now. Our inner alpha and omega taught us how to come together.
“We’ll need to deal with the flooding,” I remind him.
He chuckles. “Aw, fuck. I forgot about that. We’ll have to deal with your job situation too. If I need to support us at first, that’s fine. I’ll be done with school soon.”
“I have plenty of money saved up, and I own this house. We have some time before finances will become a problem.”
We go back and forth, laying out the obstacles that kept us apart before and talking about how we’re going to tackle them. Maybe to another couple, it wouldn’t be a romantic conversation. But going through the nuts and bolts of building a life together is better than any candlelit dinner I could have with Tatum right now. It’s a reminder that we’re actually going to do this—that we get to be together. There isn’t anything more romantic than that.
Even after my knot softens, we lie side by side on the bed and keep talking. We’re filthy, tired, and very soon we may be broke, but we’re together.
Somehow, nothing else seems to matter.
31
Tatum
We take it day by day. Our limbs are still aching from my heat when we begin cleaning up the damage from the flood with the help of Sharita’s friends from church. My bond bite hasn’t even healed when the board decides to allow Damien to continue teaching, due to our special circumstances. They even issue a formal note of support for our relationship to all of the students and employees of the university.
My mother and I move into Damien’s house slowly, but surely. The flood ruined almost everything, but some things survived. Like those damn coffee creamers.
And then there’s the SLASW. In the beginning, Damien tells me not to worry about it. He acts like it isn’t a big deal that Abbie hasn’t replied to his email explaining our Socios in Fatis connection.
That’s the biggest bullshit I’ve ever heard in my life.
One week into my pregnancy, I decide this rift has gone on long enough. First, I drop off my mother with Sharita. Despite my mother’s memory loss, the two of them have become friends. Sharita simply explains the situation very matter-of-factly, reciting my mother’s favorite Golden Girls episode and the fact that she hates “quality tea,” and my mother relaxes around her.
I don’t want to say they’re fated to be friends because that sounds cheesy, but I’m learning to stop questioning fate.
After my mother is safely in Sharita’s care, I drive Damien’s car to the old stucco building that houses the SLASW. Earlier, Damien left the house with Isaac Evans to record a YouTube video. He’s been working on the content for his own channel he plans to call “The Heat Professor.” Between that new project, his job at the university, and keeping me sated during my heat pregnancy, he’s been a very busy man.
The SLASW doesn’t have much security. Damien explained that they wanted anyone to be able to come in and get help, no matter who they were or what they looked like. So I’m able to open the glass doors and walk up the worn carpet steps to the second floor, where I find a harried blonde woman sitting at a desk piled with a mountain of paperwork.
When she sees me, she sits back in her chair and covers her bright red lips with her hand.
“Is he here?” she whispers.
I shake my head.
To make things clear, I wore a T-shirt with a loose neck, revealing the deep bond bite in my scent gland. Damien wasn’t subtle about his claim. For the rest of my life, people will know I’m taken.
I sit down on the couch in front of her desk. Someday I want to work in a place like this and help people like me, who need money to take care of their families, or people like Damien, who are simply interested in sex work. And it will be a lot easier if Abbie doesn’t hate me.
“He misses you,” I say. He loves being with me, but he’s been friends with Abbie for over a decade.
She looks up, the tears pooling in her eyes. “He misses the work.”
“That too.” I would be a fool to deny Damien loves to work. That’s just how he is.
“I could help, you know. As you may recall, you hired me to do an internship here.”
Abbie doesn’t say anything for a long time. But it isn’t the kind of silence that’s filled with anger or awkwardness. I can see the sob caught in her throat, and I know not to push.
Damien said she stripped through law school. He also mentioned she worked too much. I don’t think it occurred to him to ask why.
Maybe it should have.
“What I said to you was cruel,” she manages to get out, still holding back her tears.
“Yes, it was.”
I wait a little longer, allowing her to compose herself. That’s one thing people don’t understand about sex work. It takes a lot of emotional intelligence. Knowing exactly how and when to take off your clothes is just as important as how you look without them on. Being able to talk to a client in a way that makes them feel seen or heard goes a lot further than all the sex appeal in the world.
“In Damien’s email, he said you were Socios in Fatis,” she says, her voice more even now.
I nod.
“Well, that’s wonderful. I really am happy for you. I’m just…” She sighs and finally looks me in the eye. “I’m jealous.”
Again, I wait. In some ways, I understand why she didn’t open up for Damien. He’s so perfect with his doctorate, his happy family, and his enormous kindness. I know too well how scary being vulnerable in front of someone like that can be.
“I grew up in foster care. There’s never really been anyone that stuck around. And Damien was… well, you know how he is.”
I do. Abbie probably knows better than anyone else how wonderful my mate is.
“Look, I know this didn’t turn out the way any of us planned, but there’s a lot going on in my life right now,” I tell her. “I just bonded to my professor, I’m pregnant, and the media is starting to get wind of my story with Damien. I could really use a friend right now.”
It’s the truth. I’ve been needing a friend for a long time.
Abbie smiles. “I think I could manage that. I mean, I work a lot. I’m kind of a big deal.” She says the last part like it’s a joke, but I know it’s true. For a lot of her clients, her work is life-changing.
“That’s cool. I guess we’ll just have to hang out in your office and get stuff done.”
She stands, and her heels clack on the hard floor as she walks around the desk to give me a tight hug.
As I build a life with Damien, I want this as well. Friendship. Purpose. Familial love. I’m done settling for whatever I think I can get. I don’t want our kid to do that. I want them to take life by the reins and work for what they want, which means I’ll need to show them how.
She pulls away from me. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re perfect for him. That’s why I felt so threatened. I’m sorry.”
I don’t argue with her. I am perfect for Damien. We’re perfect for each other.
“Well, I have a few hours to kill. What can I help with?” I clap my hands and rub them together. “Looks like that paperwork is a little out of control.”
“Yes, it certainly is. Let me show you how to sort everything.”
With that, I roll up my sleeves and get to work.
32
Damien
I open the door to my office at Grayson University. Back when I first graduated with my doctorate, this office felt like a culmination of everything I ever wanted: a prestigious teaching position, val
idation of the work I felt passionate about, and an opportunity to prove myself.
It never occurred to me that this job wouldn’t make me happy.
In this small room lined with bookcases that are stuffed with information about a topic no one was teaching five years ago, I’ve written dozens of articles for academic journals and built a career for myself that countless adjunct professors would give their left arm for.
The only problem is I don’t think I want it.
I sit at the edge of my desk. What would it feel like to quit? The dean would be livid after he put his neck out to support my relationship with Tatum. My alpha mother would be disappointed that her son was nothing but a YouTuber and retired heat companion. Abbie might be annoyed that she couldn’t advertise me as a “tenured professor” when booking me for public speaking engagements. But how would I feel?
My phone chimes. I pull it out of my pocket. It’s a text from Tatum.
You still filming with Isaac? Need a ride home?
I almost tell him I’m going to walk home. My house is a thirty-minute stroll from the university.
But I have a better idea.
I’m in my office. Why don’t you stop by? If you wanted, you could earn some extra credit.
After everything that’s happened in the last month, messing around in my office is a terrible risk, but I have a really hard time caring. What’s the worst they can do? Fire me?
At least if I got fired, I wouldn’t have to explain to my alpha mother why I’m going to quit. I think that’s why I haven’t done it yet. I don’t want this job. Sure, I enjoy the respect being a tenured professor affords me, but now that I have Tatum in my life, the idea of giving up so many hours a week to look good seems silly. As long as I continue to wear suspenders, I don’t think Tatum will care if I quit teaching.
He’d be fine with roleplaying on the desk at home.
I get a text of three fire emojis from him. I can’t help but laugh. My shameless omega.
If I quit, I’d never have to see a freshman sleep through my lectures again. I’d never have to grade another paper by a student who doesn’t know the difference between their, they’re, and there. I’d never have to deal with overbearing parents who call me to ask why their child is failing my class, even though their “child” is twenty-three years old.
While I wait for Tatum, I imagine what my life would be like without this job. I could devote myself to my YouTube channel and my new relationship with Tatum. I could spend more time getting to know Gwen. And when our baby comes, I could be more present as a parent too. When I compare this job to everything else I’d rather be doing with my life, there’s no contest. I need to move on.
It only seems like a few minutes before there’s a knock at the door. It opens, and Tatum strolls inside, his eyes locking on mine.
He shuts the door and utters the one word that’s enough to make me hard.
“Professor.”
33
Tatum
Damien’s standing in his office like the last month’s been nothing but a dream. I have this sudden fear I’ve imagined it all. I reach up and touch my raw bond bite.
It’s still there. I’m still his.
Damien pushes off the desk and slides out a thick, heavy book from the lowest shelf of his bookcase. He places it in front of the door because there isn’t a lock.
I grin at him. Damien Ringdal can pretend to be all stately and posh, but deep down, he’s just as kinky as I am.
Which is pretty kinky, as it turns out. Let’s just say, the nipple clamps were rescued from the waste bin in the shed, and because I threw them in the garbage, they were still dry.
We had a lot of fun with them last night.
“Your most recent essay disappointed me, Tatum. Two days late and only three pages instead of the required five. Whatever am I going to do with you?”
This is new. We had sex on his desk during my heat, but for the most part, our sex has been straightforward, even with the extra toys we’ve experimented with. This feels like what I used to do with my clients on Thursday nights.
I give him my best pout and sink to my knees. “Maybe you could do something with me down here.”
Damien’s lips quirk up for a moment, but he forces himself to keep a straight face. Lifting his chin, he puts his hands on his hips, clearly trying to pull off a domineering demeanor. It’s kind of hot, but also a bit silly.
Like we’re playing.
I finger his belt. “Maybe I could take this off for you.” I keep my voice down because literally anyone could hear us or walk in.
“I’ll allow it.”
Slowly, I unfasten his belt. “And this?” I tug at the button of his slacks.
He shrugs his shoulders. “If you’re feeling eager.”
Cocky bastard.
I flick the button open and drag the zipper down, looking up at him the whole time. It’s my turn to be cocky as I lower his underwear to discover he is very happy to see me. I smile and grasp his shaft in my hand.
“We could make a trade.” I lick his cock from base to tip, taking his head in my mouth for a moment, then lifting off of it with a pop. “I’ll get you off? You let me pass?”
He grabs my hair and guides me to my feet, tugging at it hard enough that it hurts.
Over the last week, we’ve discovered we both like hair-pulling. A lot.
“I don’t want your mouth.” He releases my hair and grabs my ass, pulling me toward him. “I want this.”
I raise both of my eyebrows. He wants that here?
He’s kinkier than I thought.
“Hey, we don’t have to make love in my office if you don’t want to,” he whispers.
I place my fingers on his lips. “I think we’re ready for a safeword. Mine’s ‘itchy boy.’”
“My mother told you the poison ivy masturbation story, didn’t she?”
I wince. “Maybe?”
He closes his eyes and shakes his head. I think he underestimated how well I’d get along with his mother, and it turns out she has many, many embarrassing stories to tell about my dear alpha.
“Fine. Mine’s ‘sausage costume,’” he says.
Oh, fuck. When I was five years old, I had a fleeting passion for Vienna sausages and begged my mother dress up as one for Halloween. She let me.
It sounds like Sharita’s not the only one who’s been telling stories.
“It was a Vienna sausage,” I tell him.
He smirks. “Fine. ‘Vienna sausage costume.’”
I’m never going to live that down.
Quite suddenly, Damien tugs on the waistband of my pants and pushes me into his desk, cornering me in with his body. The heel of his hand grinds into my back, forcing my chest onto the wooden surface. He bends over and whispers, “Your ass for an A. Fair trade?”
Nodding helplessly, I let myself get caught up in the fantasy.
Damien wrenches my pants down. I’m sure he can see how wet I am for him—smell my slick.
“Maybe I’ll take you without prepping you. Make you burn,” he says in my ear. Which makes slick slide down my leg. “Fuck you so hard that when you sit in my class tomorrow morning, you’ll be able to feel it.”
Of course, the university didn’t allow me to stay in his class. But I still whimper. I can’t help myself.
Despite his warning, his finger ghosts along my entrance before sinking inside.
“Ohhhh.”
He shushes me. “You wouldn’t want anyone to find you here bent over my desk, would you? All wet and hard for me?”
Fuck if he doesn’t know how to talk dirty to me. Bonding to a man who worked as a heat companion for a decade has its advantages.
“Please.” His finger is still within me, and I need it to move.
“Please what?”
I try wiggling my ass for friction, but he grips my hips hard enough to leave a bruise. I hiss from the pain, but his fingers don’t relent.
Which is good. I don’t want them to
. I didn’t use my safeword.
“I want you to fuck me,” I whisper.
“Ah, but this isn’t about what you want, is it? You’re letting me have this ass for a grade.”
He eases out his finger and pushes two inside. I clench my jaw. The stretch burns, exactly like he promised, but I don’t want it to stop. This time, he doesn’t stay motionless inside me. The moment he’s knuckle-deep, he pulls out and drives in again.
I bring my fist up to my mouth and bite down hard.
“Look at how wet you are. Absolutely dripping for it.” His fingers slide out, and he teases my entrance with the head of his cock.
I thrust out my ass, shamelessly.
“You want my cock, don’t you?” His words are nothing but the quietest murmur, but my body is so attuned to him, he might as well be yelling. I let out a breath as he pushes inside of me—slowly, slowly, slowly. Never stopping until he’s in to the hilt.
He pauses. I know he can feel it too. The way we fit. It’s nice to revel in it for a moment.
Damien knows I like it rough. He normally gives it to me, but his strokes within me are slow today. Fucking me into the desk the way we both want him to would be too loud.
Anyone could walk in. There’s nothing but that heavy book to stop them.
He squeezes my ass cheeks with his hands as he rocks his hips, and then one of his fingers traces my skin just above my entrance.
Is he going to… but he wouldn’t…
“Remember. Your safeword is ‘itchy boy.’”
I almost giggle, then Damien slips his finger inside me next to his cock.
It’s too much. I don’t think I can take it.
“You said only your cock.”
He chuckles. “No. I said I wanted your ass. I didn’t tell you what I’d put in there.”
He starts moving his cock again, his finger still stuck inside me. The new angle makes his cock push into my prostate instead of rub against it, and I see stars. I fall apart underneath him, clamping down hard on both his cock and finger and coming all over the dark mahogany of his desk. Jerking inside me, he bites down hard onto my shoulder and moans, removing his finger just in time to make space for his knot.
