Chapter Text
The piece of paper Hannah had given me had listed the office as 308, which helpfully appeared not to exist. I stared exhaustedly at the blank wall space between 306 and 310. The offices were tucked away at the end of a maze of corridors that appeared not to have reached into this century and the miracles of air conditioning. My hypothesis was only confirmed by the presence of a flyer tacked to a notice board advertising a series of guest lectures by a Dr. Richard Greene, beginning October 1995. The layer of dust only added to the comedic neglect. I sighed, and checked my watch.
I’d been pushing it with office hours as was - and I was going to be too late if I carried on hunting through the corridors for the elusive 308, which appeared to counter the occupant’s preference for linear algebra. I swore under my breath, and swept my hair back off my forehead, rubbing at the headache that threatened just as the door to 306 clicked open.
I took a step back to allow the occupant out, but he seemed so shocked by someone standing outside his office that he dropped the folio he was holding, scattering notebooks over the floor.
“I’m sorry,” I said, dropping to the floor to help him gather them up. He accepted them sheepishly, tucking them into the messenger bag he had slung across his body.
“No - my fault. I wasn’t expecting to see someone here so late.” He looked curiously at me. “Were you looking for someone?”
“Yeah,” I sighed, dusting off my knees. “I was looking for Dr. Reid, but I couldn’t find his office.”
He seemed amused by this. “Which office were you looking for?”
“306,” I answered, holding up the scrap of paper Mel had scribbled on.
“There’s no room 306. Nobody knows why.” I glanced back down to the page, and cocked my head. The 6 could be an 8, and Mel’s handwriting was shocking.
“Do you know where he actually works?” I asked, tiredly. I needed this project over and done with. Mel’s wild goose chase wasn’t helpful when I had a term paper due tomorrow, a heap of laundry and a grocery shop to do.
“Well, yeah. Me.” He frowned, seeming to stumble on his words a little as he tried to correct them. “I mean - I am. I’m Dr. Reid.” I couldn’t help it. I looked him up and down. He wasn’t any older than me. This kid was a postdoctoral researcher?
I tried not to sound too rude in my surprise. “Oh - I wasn’t expecting…” It sounded rude. “You’re very young for a PhD.”
To my surprise, he didn’t seem offended. He almost preened under my surprise. “Two, actually. Chemistry and Mathematics.”
“Oh,” I replied, on slightly more steady footing. “They don’t seem to lend to each other.”
“They’re more aligned than most people realise. I’m working on my third in Engineering now.” There was an indifférent sense of pride in the way he spoke of his qualifications - as though they were toys to be collected rather than qualifications for a field. He was one of those sorts - a pure academic who sought degrees for their own sake, and who would never leave the cloistered tower of the university. It seemed such a bleak future for someone so young. “Why were you looking for me?”
I was startled back into the conversation. “I’m working on a project that my supervisor thinks you may be able to assist on. Game Theory, Econ.”
His eyes lit up, and I realised why Mel had sent me to him. “What’s the specialty?”
I pulled out my notebook, and held it out to him. “I’m trying to map a computational curve in Nash’s équilibra to apply it to modern card games. The analysis I’ve done so far is good, but Mel wanted it checked and she recommended you.”
I had apparently piqued his interest. He unlocked the door to his office again, his nose buried in my notebook as he flicked through at speed.
“Oh, I’ve written my notes…” I began, but he waved me into the sole visitor’s chair. I shifted a pile of papers onto the footlocker and sat down on the tired fabric as he continued to race through my notebook.
“Are you...reading?”
“Yes,” he replied, as if that didn’t ask more questions than it answered. He seemed to have the answer prepared before I could interject. “The conscious brain can process sixteen items of information a second, our unconscious mind can process eleven million.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Carl Jung would love you.”
He appeared too absorbed in my notebook to hear the joke. I found myself making a brief study of him - the soft brown hair clipped in a sharp style that seemed a few years out of date, the sensible, slightly dowdy clothes under the brown jacket. His clothes wouldn’t be out of place on a middle aged professor.
That’s mean, I chastised myself. You don’t exactly look a picture either.
I glanced back at Spencer, who had reached over for a book from the bookcase beside him without even looking up, identifying it by feel alone and flicking it open against my scrawlings.
I drew my knee up, crossing it over the other as I moved on from a study of the man to his stuffy office. It was shared with at least one other - I could see a desk pushed against the wall. His neighbour was messy where Spencer was pin neat, with papers stuck to the wall, up the bookshelf and over the unused computer monitor. I recognised the scrawlings as topographical analysis and shuddered.
“This is good,” Spencer said, with a note of surprise in his tone that I might have been offended by had I not known that he didn’t mean it. “I’ve annotated a couple of the more complex ones with a different formula to account for the shift in variables. If you leave your notebook with me, I’ll check over the other variations and come back to you with a workable application.”
I blinked at him, and he misread my shock as offense. “Sorry, was that not what you wanted?”
“No - yes, I… That’s very generous Dr. Reid. And a hell of a lot of work for someone who isn’t in my department.”
He waved me off. “I like game theory as a mathematical theorem. And your assessment of its applicable use in poker is...interesting.”
“Don’t use it to start sharking on the casinos,” I warned jokily. “They’re not fans.”
“I’m banned from most of the big Vegas ones,” he replied evenly. “So this is academic anyway.”
I saw an opening. “It doesn’t have to be,” I said, drawing out a pack of cards from my bag. “I could show you the applicable tenets of the theorem in one game.”
His eyes widened as he cleared his desk, placing my notebook carefully to one side as I began to lay out the cards for five draw. He quirked a smile, and I paused.
“Banned?” I queried.
“Mm,” he agreed, keeping his eyes on the cards. He certainly wasn’t new to this.
“Card counting or bending corners?” I asked, keeping my palms open so he could see the cards being dealt.
“Card counting. But they threw me out because I was only fifteen.” I couldn’t help but smile at that - this beanpole of a dorky academic sharking at cards, and the surprised smile he offered in return spread a warmth through me that had nothing to do with the warm evening.
“So, the optimal strategy…” I began.
*
He threw his last hand down in frustration, as I scooped yet another winning hand. I smiled at him as I pushed the cards towards him to deal. “I believe that last set was four for four. Feel free to concede any time, Doctor.”
He picked them up, but instead of shuffling them with the considerable finesse I’d been enraptured by earlier in the game, he flicked them absentmindedly from hand to hand.
“Why Economics? And why game theory in Economics in particular?” he asked.
“As opposed to what?” I asked. “I optioned Economics as my major, which means in order to stay remotely interested in the subject I need to do as little of it as practically possible,” I smiled. “How about you?”
He shifted uncomfortably. “I just get another degree if I’m interested in the subject enough.”
“An overachiever.” I diagnosed, sitting back in my seat. “Fortunately for you Dr. Reid, I am a dedicated middle-achiever.”
“Why is that fortunate for me?” he asked, confused.
I glanced out the window to where the campus had fallen dark during our rowdy game. “Because it’s late, and I need to be getting home, as opposed to continuing to kick your ass at a game you professed yourself to ‘never lose’ in.”
He smiled at that, and offered me my cards back. I waved him off. “Keep then to practice with. I want a proper game next time, against somebody who can beat me.”
“How far away do you live?” he asked, swinging his messenger bag back over his body.
“Inviting yourself back for a little follow though?” I teased. It was entirely the wrong thing to say. Dr. Reid flushed bright red and stammered out a “no, I-“ in protest.
“I’m sorry,” I apologised. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“I just meant...it’s dark and late, and I didn’t want you to not get home safely.”
“I know,” I said, trying to make my voice as reassuring as I could. “I made a stupid joke, and I made you uncomfortable. That wasn’t fair.”
“No, no,” he protested, “it was funny. I wasn’t expecting it, that’s all it was.”
“Dr. Reid,” I said, daring to place a hand on his arm. “You don’t have to apologise. You’ve done me a huge favour looking over my work, and then testing the applied theory out way into your own time. I shouldn’t have said that - I was enjoying myself and I made a thoughtless comment. You don’t have to apologise when someone makes you uncomfortable.”
He seemed stunned by the words, and I watched him open the door for me slightly warily. It took him a beat, and then he cleared his throat.
“I’d like to walk you home.” His words were careful, and I waited patiently for him to finish them, letting him speak without interruption which he seemed to find relieving. “It’s dark, and you’re on your own. And it’s statistically safer to travel in small groups during quiet periods and particularly after dark. And I don’t like the idea of you on your own.”
“Thank you,” I said softly, and let him lead me back down the maze of corridors to the exit.
“How long have you been a student?” I asked, trying to reinstate the light, easy conversation we’d shared while playing cards.
“Nine years,” he answered, and I blinked at him in surprise. “Undergraduate here, then my first PhD at MIT, then I came back here for the rest.”
“Massachusetts weather not balmy enough?” I teased. “Miss the bad pizza?”
“No,” he smiled, but he didn’t finish the sentence and I didn’t push him.
“How old are you anyway?” I asked once we were walking towards the main dorms.
“Twenty-one,” he answered, and I blinked up at him.
“Huh,” I said, and he frowned down at me in confusion. “We’re the same age,” I explained. “I feel so much younger than you.”
“I’ve had a viva twice over,” he joked. “Enough to age anyone ten years.”
I stopped by the entrance to my dorm, and turned to face him.
“Thank you for walking me back Dr. Reid. And for your help with the analysis - you have no idea how much help it’s going to be in getting this project done by the end of the semester.”
“Spencer,” he said, and I blinked up at him. “My name. Spencer.”
“Spencer,” I tested, and smiled at him. “Thanks.”
He waited until he saw me inside, and then turned up the collar of his coat, even though it was still warm out, and walked off towards the western end of campus. It was only as I saw him disappear out of the streetlamps that I realised that I hadn’t told him when I’d see him again.
*
When Wednesday rolled around, I ducked out of my Macroecon class slightly early, placing my hand on my forehead to feign a headache for the curious lecturer. I slipped out of the doors at the top of the lecture hall and jogged across the square to the Mathematics department. I had been in here once as a freshman and it took me a moment to reorient myself as I slipped in with the other students heading into the lecture theatre. I took a seat at the top of the hall, aiming for inconspicuity behind a tall boy in a Dabney sweater dozing off a heavy night as I took out my pen and a notepad. At eleven precisely, the door opened and Spencer stepped in, his hands holding a lever arch and a green notepad that even from all the way at the top of the hall I could see as mine. It stirred something in my stomach to see it - the evidence that he’d been thinking about me enough to carry around my notepad, working on my scrawled calculations in an attempt to right them into something workable.
When the lecture started, I found myself drifting on the sound of his voice. There was a confidence to his tone here - his expertise and the slight detachment from the passivity of the student body listening combined to provide the perfect environment for him to relax into a role that suited him. It was striking to watch - the shy young man who’d come alive during a riotous card game, to the kind boy who’d walked me all the way to my dorm, to this cool, confident teacher lecturing to a few hundred students with practiced ease.
My math was good enough to carry me through most of the lecture, and I even made a few notes of items that would have an application in Econ. His way of teaching was remarkably intuitive - this was decidedly not first year Math Basics and yet I had understood enough to be able to apply the technique even without any contextual knowledge of the theorem it was designed to prove.
When the lecture ended, I remained in my seat, watching a few students drift down to ask questions. He answered them, his hands animated as he shaped them to demonstrate some unheard question. Once the last student had turned to the door, he looked up and saw me walking down the steps towards him.
“Hi,” I said.
“Did you sit in on my class?” he asked, and I could see the hint of a smile he was struggling to hide.
“I did. You’re a good teacher,” I said, warmly.
He blushed slightly, tucking his hands into the pockets of his slacks before pulling one out so fast his keys caught in his sweater and dropped to the floor. He blushed harder as he bent to pick it up.
“I have your notebook,” he said, reaching across the projector to grab it. “I reworked a couple of variables so the data is more comparable, but the analysis is absolutely sound.”
I smiled widely at that. “You have no idea how relieving it will be to get this typed up and submitted. Thank you.”
“I liked reading it,” he said, shyly. “The psychology element you referred to was interesting. It’s not usually considered in mathematical analyses of poker too much. Too much of an unpredictable variable. Mathematicians prefer poker played by robots.”
“Lots of microeconomic theory is based in psychology.” I replied aimlessly, distracted by the sight of his hands flexing in his pockets, and his jaw tensing, as though there was something he wanted to ask. When nothing came out, I decided to be bold instead.
“Do you want to get a coffee?” I asked. “We could talk more about it.”
He glanced at the clock. “I have a class in an hour. Could we get a coffee afterwards?”
“Sure,” I said, a touch deflated. “I like to work out of the Java Hut on campus - come by whenever.”
I didn’t look back as I walked out of the lecture hall, but I could feel his eyes on my back every step of the way.
*
Two hours and fifteen minutes later, Spencer had showed up at the Java Hut, his eyes anxious as they scanned the quieting shop before settling on me, tapping away at my laptop on one of the high tables with a full pot of filter coffee set out for me. It was forty-five minutes to close, and Wendy seemed grateful for some custom. He ordered, and she waved him off, telling him she’d bring it over once the pot was done.
“Hi,” he said quietly as he took a seat. “Sorry I didn’t come earlier. I wanted to, but I didn’t want to cut you short to go teach.”
“That’s ok,” I said, closing the lid of my laptop and taking a sip of the now cooling coffee. “I liked watching you teach.” I watched him drop his head as the tips of his ear flushed pink. “Do you always do that?”
“Do what?”
“Look away when someone pays you a compliment.”
Wendy interrupted his answer as she brought over a fresh pot of coffee for him. I watched, amused as he poured out a cup, and then emptied half of the sugar cellar into it. I cocked an eyebrow and he shrugged.
“I’m not really used to it,” he answered, candidly.
“Well, you are. You’re an excellent teacher.” This time, he made the effort to keep my gaze as his lips fought off that shy smile of nerves.
“Why do you do Economics?” he asked, and I studied the abrupt change of subject with considerable intérêt as I answered.
“Versatile,” I answered. “I can study game theory for one semester, then move on to terrorist economies, then do post-Soviet macroeconomic theories of public policy. Never have to stand still, or do the same thing over and over.” I couldn’t resist the light jab. “All in one degree.”
He smiled at that, taking a sip from his sugar water and smiling at my nose wrinkled disgust. “And after?”
“No idea,” I said, with a degree of finality. “I don’t think past getting through my thesis right now.”
He asked what my thesis was about, and I regaled him with the story of drafting seven separate topics and being unable to choose. In return, he told me about his first undergraduate, where the professors stopped giving him homework because he’d do it, and the rest of the work assigned in the textbook over two days. He didn’t say how old he was, but the way he described himself… he sounded young, and part of my heart hurt for him. He told me about his first viva, when he’d attempted to shave for the first time despite having no discernible facial hair, and he’d ended up attending with a face dotted in bloody nicks. I returned the story with the time I’d burned my hair off in an attempt to get light highlights and natural curls before prom.
Being with him was easy, like relaxing into comfortable company. Our coffees sat forgotten on the table as we talked, and it was only when Wendy came over to take our crockery that we realised how late it was. We looked at one another, not quite ready to end whatever this was just yet. I’d invite him back to mine, but my roommate was preparing for a hallway party, and as much as he was the same age as us, I didn’t think Spencer would be keen for that.
He swallowed as I explained this. “We - we could go back to mine. It’s not far.”
“Sure,” I said softly, bumping my shoulder against his as we walked. Spencer lived slightly off campus in a tiny studio. The bed doubled as a couch and storage unit, facing an empty TV unit piled high with books. The kitchenette was facetiously clean - the only visible utensil being an old coffee maker.
“I only have Folgers,” he began, but I put us both out of our misery by pushing him against the wall and pressing my lips to his in a soft, explorative kiss. His hands came up to my back, resting awkwardly there as mine trailed up his chest to cup his neck gently, the other resting lightly against his chest. His returning kiss was hesitant, but I sensed the hesitation was from nerves rather than distaste for me. When I tried to pull back, he tightened his hands around my back, and I pulled him into a deeper kiss as I tugged him away from the wall. I took a few steps back, pulling him with me as I went, finding the edge of his bed with the back of my thighs and pulling him down on top of me as I fell back onto the bed. He landed on me with a slightly undignified ‘oof’ but I had rolled on top of him before he could react, leaving him resting on the bed as I sat up, straddling his hips and flipped my hair down over one shoulder to control the strands. His hand came up to my head, partially to cradle it, and partially to keep my hair out of our kiss. His hips bucked upwards involuntarily, and I moved mine purposefully, trying to elicit a moan out of him. His reaction instead was to freeze, his eyes flying open and pulling back and away from our kiss.
“Hey,” I said, “what happened?”
He looked up at me, and amidst the undeniable arousal, I saw nerves? Anxiety? Fear?
“You’ve not done this before.”
Spencer flushed, and shifted backwards, drawing his limbs away from me. It wasn’t easy, the bed was a barely a twin, and my limbs were draped over his, entwining us and trapping Spencer beneath me with no escape.
He didn’t need to voice an answer - his movement told me everything I needed to know. His eyes dropped as I drew my hand under his chin.
“Hey,” I murmured. “Look at me.” He appeared to be struggling, and then finally relented into the pressure I was applying against his chin.
“I know. It’s weird,” he replied, his voice strained.
“It’s not weird, Spencer,” I chastised.
“Yes it is,” he protested, pushing my hand from his chin and trying to shrug me off of him. I saw it before he could, the instinctive desire to curl in on himself, to shy away from touch, to retreat into the shell he had built for himself. It broke my heart, and enraged me in equal measure. No shell is built without pain. My gentle, kind Spencer deserved better than that.
I caught his wrist as it fell away from my hand, gripping it tightly and watching the shock spread across his face.
“Don’t disagree with me. This isn’t a class discussion.” His eyes were wide, and I watched as he took a careful, ragged breath - waiting for my next movement. I obliged, bringing up my other hand from his waist to his shoulder and pushing him back against the bed. “It isn’t weird, Spencer,” I continued, enunciating my distaste for the word and sentiment behind it. “Your whole life has been on fast forward. You’ve skipped so many grades that you missed out on the social life of being a student. You were what, fourteen when you started college?”
“Twelve,” he breathed.
“Twelve.” I felt a surge of anger in my stomach. Weird. Like he was ever given a chance to be normal. “You’ve spent your whole life in fast forward, Doctor. All the time that I had to explore growing up, you were going too fast to be given that chance. You had a doctorate by the time I finished high school.”
He stopped fighting my gaze, and stared placidly up at me. “I wasn’t going to say no,” he murmured. “You tell a kid that he can go to college, get away from…” he broke off, and dropped his eyes to his hands, his thumbnail digging into the pad of his hand as if trying to stave off a painful memory, or perhaps the wetness pooling on his lashes. I softened my voice, and brought my hand around his chin to cup it.
“Spencer.” He didn’t look up, and I called him again, more insistently. His look was pure reluctance as he met my eyes.
“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered. “I’ve never…”
I shushed him softly, a comforting reassurance more than a censorship of his words. “Right now,” I said, “You and I are the same age. I’ve had more experience because I’ve been around kids our own age all of my life. That’s all it is. You’re not weird, and I couldn’t give less of a damn if you’ve never been with anyone before.” I moved to straddle his hips again, pressing my clothed core against the gentle swell of his groin. “I can teach you how to do that. Everything else is just detail.”
I watched steadily as Spencer’s hips bucked against me, and brought my hands down to his stomach, playing with the hem of his t-shirt.
“Can I take this off?” He nodded, almost frantic as he reached down to pull it off before I could, and I hid the soft smile as I reached down to help him untangle an uncoordinated elbow before tossing the fabric onto the floor. Once his chest was exposed, I pressed my palms against the smooth skin, rewarded with an audible hitch in his breathing as I smoothed them down his torso in a comforting action, and then dropped them to catch his wrists, bringing his hands up to rest on my hips. I felt them dig into the flesh as I pulled my own tank over my head, leaving me in the cotton bra I’d tossed on earlier.
“Do you want to take it off?” His fingers traced up my back to the hook, as though afraid if he let go I would disappear. He fumbled for a second, and then the clips loosened, and I slipped the straps down my arms and tossed it after our shirts.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, and I deflected.
“You haven’t seen the rest of me yet.”
“Can we… can we just…” he stumbled, and I placed a soothing hand on his arm.
“We do this at your pace. Do you want to touch me?”
“Yes,” he gasped, but I heard the uncertainty and cocked my head, waiting for him to continue. “I just don’t know...I’ve not…”
In lieu of a reply, I caught hold of the hand resting back on my hip, and drew it over my now bare stomach, dragging the fingertips gently over it and back again, a tiny, rhythmic motion that was more soothing than necessarily arousing. When I released his hand, he continued, brushing the fingers over the warmth of my abdomen as I mimicked the motion on his arm.
“It’s the build up,” I murmured. “Touch me gently, it doesn’t matter where. Make me focus on what your hand is doing.” His touch became more purposeful, and more confident, and I wanted to smack my hand against my forehead.
I should have realised he’d respond to being taught, rather than directionless exploration. He was a learner, not a winger. That was on me.
“Stroke over my ribs,” I murmured, and shivered as he did so. I chanced a look, and the look of hesitant delight in Spencer’s eyes at my reaction was enough to spread a warmth through me that had nothing to do with the heat of the room. He experimented with the pattern, up and down, tracing each rib, using the beds of his nails against the skin, and I couldn’t stop the gasp as he found the spot just beneath my breast.
“Good?” he breathed, and I nodded as his thumb tentatively edged around the curve of my nipple.
“If it’s not good, I’ll move your hand, or say no,” I murmured, and he seemed to relax, letting his eyes cast over my body instead of fixed on my face in anxious expectation.
“Can you kiss me again?” he whispered. He didn’t need to ask twice. I leaned down, cupping his chin in my hands and pressed a scorching kiss against him. This was far from the gentle exchange from earlier - this was pure, burning lust, and I swallowed the groan he let out with pleasure. I leaned my weight into the kiss, dragging my fingertips up through his hair and grazing them along his scalp. His left hand was still diligently cupping my breast - boldly stroking over the tip with more confidence now, eliciting a pleased moan from me. His other hand traced up my torso, over my ribs and up to cup my jaw, pulling me deeper into the kiss. I broke it first, grinding down against him in a thoroughly unfair advantage play. He looked dazedly at me, and then brushed his thumb over his lips, hesitant.
I sat up on my haunches. “Ask your question.”
He hesitated, and I shifted against him again, teasing a groan out of him. “It’s not, I just…”
I leaned forward, relieving the weight I’d been resting gently against his groin. His hips thrust up behind me into the air, grinding up against nothing. “Ask your question Spencer. No fillers, no dancing around the point.” His eyes widened, and I saw the hazy arousal build within them as his torso relaxed.
“I want to touch you,” he tried, but I lifted my eyebrows expectantly and he rephrased. “Can I touch you?”
“Where do you want to touch me?”
He swallowed, and I relished in his innocence for a moment. “Everywhere,” he breathed. His eyes flickered up to mine, and I indulged him.
“Lie me back, and take my pants off.” He fumbled one his eagerness to obey, but calmed under a brief raised eyebrow from me. His hands were gentle as they cradled my back, lowering me to the bed with such hesitant tenderness, I might have melted.
“I won’t break,” I whispered, as his hands dropped to the button of my jeans. I helped him, lifting my hips so he could slide my jeans and underwear down my thighs. I had to bury the snort into a settled sigh as I watched his eyes take me, all of me, in.
“Spencer,” I reminded him. He shook his head as if dazed, and then looked up at me.
“I don’t know how, how do you li…I mean I know...” he was clearly struggling, but I let him run on, watching his cheeks flush. “I know what to do, in theory. I’ve just…”
“Ask your question,” I reminded him, in the same even tone as before. His shoulders relaxed, the soft objective tone reminding him that there was no room for shame in this bed, only growth.
“I want to touch you. Show me how.” It wasn’t a question, and I reached up to cup his cheek.
“You’ll want to be comfortable,” I said softly, watching him adjust his legs until he was curled against my side. I stretched up to kiss his jaw, and then guided his hand onto my core. The sensation of his fingers moving across me so tentatively was enough to make me shiver as he grazed over the soft skin. I let out a little hiss, and his eyes flickered to mine. “I’m good,” I whispered. “Touch me.”
His fingers dipped between my spread thighs, and I could practically see the man mapping the anatomy in his head. On anyone else, it would have been a turn off. On Spencer, it was endearing.
He swallowed hard as I hissed again as those soft fingers grazed over the hood of my clit. “Yes,” I hissed. Everything seemed so much more alive in this bed, every sensation heightened. “Gently,” I cautioned, as his pressure increased. I applied the lightest guiding pressure on his hand, fighting to keep still as his fingers dipped down, gathering a little wetness and then trailed back up to my clit. I nodded encouragingly as his fingers began tracing a rhythmic circle, pressing lightly at first and then building pressure. My head tipped back, and my mouth opened as I relaxed into the movement. Emboldened, Spencer dropped his mouth to my breast, teasing the nipple softly, and mumbling encouragement as my hips started to move against his hand - chasing the friction as the knot in the base of my stomach began to curl softly.
“Spencer…” I breathed, and he lifted his head as my hips began to move more frenetically. “Just keep…” I couldn’t finish my sentence, but he seemed to understand the sentiment, keeping the pace and pressure I’d set with soft determination. I could feel his own arousal pressing insistently against my thigh, and the hitch in his breathing against my neck. “Please.” I managed - as though he wouldn’t. He mumbled my name brokenly against my neck as his fingers worked insistently, building and building until I was there - the knot snapping taut and every muscle contracting impossibly tight and then relaxing in a single smooth movement, the tension releasing through my core as the edges of my vision greyed out with the gasping little breaths I took to come down.
He slowed his hand, keeping it against me until I clasped his wrist to hold it still as I turned my head to press my lips against his forehead, feeling his unsteady exhalations against the column of my throat.
“You weren’t kidding when you said that you learned fast,” I managed, and felt his lips quirk into a hesitant smile. I tried to regulate my own breathing as I gently shifted on shaky limbs to sit up. Spencer’s eyes followed me, heavy with arousal but widening with trepidation as I dropped my hands to his pants. I hesitated, trying to read his expression as we each waited for the other.
“We don’t have to,” I murmured, tracing he tips of my index fingers over his abdomen soothingly. “But I’d like to.”
He offered a hesitant nod, but I dropped my hands, and reached up to place them on his shoulder, lifting his chin on a crooked forefinger. “Hey. What’s going on in there?”
“I want to,” he managed at last, and I saw the embarrassed honesty in his eyes as they met mine. “I just don’t wanna...you know.” I raised my eyebrows, prompting an elaboration. “Go too early.”
“Well, you probably will,” I replied, shifting my weight on steadier legs to wrap my arms around his shoulders. “Men are faster than women anyway, and we’ve been building up for a while. Controlling orgasms comes with practice. You’ve already gotten me off, which is more consideration than some have - Spencer,” I said, as his eyes dropped at my words. “It’s all good. It all feels good.”
He looked at me, and leaned in for a kiss that I gladly reciprocated - keeping it soft and intimate as his hands traced up my bare back and through the tangles in my hair. I let him guide the pace, sensing the kiss was more for soothing his nerves than anything else. He broke it only to kiss down my neck as he reached down to unbutton his pants. I dropped my hands to help, and he hissed at the contact, and then widened his mouth in an aroused groan as he pushed both pants and boxers down and kicked them onto the floor. As he dealt with his socks, I reached over to my purse, resting where I’d left it on the nightstand, and pulled out a condom from the zippered pocket.
“Do you want me to put it on?” I said quietly, but he shook his head, taking the package from me and sliding it on with impressive finesse. I cocked an eyebrow, and it seemed to break the nervousness radiating off of him.
“The things that I could practice, I did,” he smiled, and I reached up to cup a hand on his chin, even as the other reached up a hand to swipe a pillow from the top of his bed. His eyes followed in confusion as I lifted my hips and positioned it under my ass.
“Easier angle,” I explained. “And more comfortable than a spring digging into you.” The hesitation was back in his eyes, and I reached for the hand on my knee. “Hey. Come down here.”
He went willingly, settling into the cradle of my hips and into the arms I had opened for him as his lips sought out the reassurance of another kiss. When he broke it, he rested his forehead against mine as his hips slipped forward of their own accord, and I reached down to guide him into me.
The groan that left him was the single most erotic thing I had ever heard. I relaxed for him, trying to remain as still as I could as he slid slowly in. I hadn’t given much thought to his size amidst the concern of reassurance, but it was noticeable as I shifted my hips to adjust to it. I couldn’t help the contraction in my stomach muscles as he grazed a particularly tender spot, and he gripped the sheets beside my head.
When I felt his pelvis settle against me, I chanced a minute movement in my core muscles, and relished in the soft groan as he adjusted to the sensation.
“You okay?” I whispered, reaching up to push his hair off his forehead.
“Yeah,” he managed, lifting up slightly until he was balanced on his hands, his weight settling forward and onto me. “What does it feel like?”
I almost laughed, Spencer Reid, the perpetual scientist. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”
“I don’t know that I can manage words right now,” he confessed, huffing out a shaky laugh.
“It feels good. It’s a pressure more than a pointed sensation,” I elaborated, watching as his body relaxed at the sound of my words. “A sense of being full.”
He chanced a shallow thrust, and the sensation increased as he shuddered a breath out above me. I let out a soft groan as I flexed my core around him, clenching just slightly enough to give him a change in the resistance.
“Fuu-“ he began, swallowing the rest of it. I reached up to press my hand lightly against my clit, making the same soft circular movements as he had.
“The rhythm is the important part,” I whispered, my voice thicker with arousal. His head dropped to watch my hand between our stomachs, feeling the reciprocal pressure against his groin by my knuckles as the pads of my fingers worked against my clit. “It feels good when you’re in a steady rhythm - fast or slow.”
“Is this good?” Spencer murmured, his voice cracking slightly under the strain of trying to control it, his eyes back on my face. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”
“So good,” I gasped, chancing a faster speed against my clit as my abdomen began to flex under the stimulation. “Need you.” I’d meant generally, but Spencer’s eyes flashed with purpose as he sat up, catching one of my legs and draping it over his upper arm as his other hand dropped back to my clit. “Shit,” I managed, as his fingers found my rhythm. My core clenched down on him as his fingers pulsed, and it sent his eyes rolling back. He choked out my name, and his hips lost the steadiness of his rhythm.
I pushed his hand off my clit, and tugged gently on his arm, letting him lean into my stretched leg as I flexed my hips up to meet his - encouraging him with soft words and increasing the squeezes through my core. He obliged, tilting his head back in an open groan as his hips thrust faster, harder into me.
“Yes,” I whispered, “yes, yes Spe...more. Please more.”
I could feel the dedication in his thrusts, trying to keep the even rhythm I’d encouraged, but I reached my hands down to his hips, pulling them faster against me.
“Come for me.” I whispered, and watched the strain in his face even as his eyes were barely open. “I want to see you.”
His mouth opened in a rictus of a groan, the cords in his neck flexing as he thrust once more and then buried his hips against mine as I felt him jerk inside me, spilling into the condom and burying his face into the side of my neck and groaning into the damp tendrils of my baby hairs. He tried to hold himself up, but I knocked his arm and pulled him down onto me. He was heavy, but his weight was comforting, and the exertion of his breaths against my breast was strangely soothing as I drifted, carding my fingers absently through his hair.
I’d never heard Spencer so quiet, and it occurred to me that he was probably thinking the same thing.
“Are you okay?” I asked, shifting against him. He was still inside me, a fact that neither of us seemed bothered by. It was comforting, to be completely surrounded by Spencer Reid.
“I’m floating,” he mumbled into my chest, and I couldn’t help the snort of delighted laughter. He turned his head to place a kiss against my breastbone, a familiar, comfortable action as he propped his chin up to face me. Conscious that it wasn’t a particularly attractive angle, I turned my head away. It proved to be entirely the wrong thing to do. Spencer sat up, misreading my vanity as rejection, slipping out of me too quickly as he did so and I couldn’t help the wince.
“Sorry,” he stuttered, pulling the condom off and tossing it into the bin while scrabbling on the floor for his underwear with the other hand, pulling them up over his ass before I could stop him. “I should go…”
“Spencer,” I said, pushing myself upright and laying a soft hand on his arm. “This is your room.”
“It’s fine, I’ll go to the library - I need to work on…”
“Spencer.” My tone brooked no argument. “Sit back down.”
He dropped, as though his bones were made of lead, sinking into the thin mattress with his shoulders slumped. “Look at me,” I said, curling against his shoulder. He did so, and I saw the sadness in his face - the natural expectation of rejection and my heart broke. “Talk to me.”
“What is there to say?” His voice sounded so hollow.
“Everything. Tell me how you’re feeling.”
“I don’t know how I’m feeling,” he replied honestly. “I hurt you, and…”
“You didn’t hurt me,” I interjected. “It’s sensitive when you pull out, that’s all. Same as it is for you.”
“I don’t know how to do any of this. Not sex, not everything that comes after…” he trailed off, noticing my involuntary shiver as the sweat began to cool on my skin and the breeze lifted from the window. He reached down and pulled the comforter up over my shoulders. I pulled my knees up to rest on his thigh, and pulled his arm onto my lap, opening his palm to me and tracing a soothing pattern along the soft skin of his wrist. It was grounding, for him and for me.
When I felt him relax beside me, I opened an arm and let him fall against my shoulder, resting his head against mine. “How are you feeling now?”
“Tired,” he admitted.
“Can I sleep here?” I asked, surprising myself. I didn’t sleep with boys. I got what I needed and left. But with Spencer - I just wanted to stay close to him for as long as I could.
He sounded shocked as he blurted “do you want to?” without thinking.
I sensed that he needed honesty rather than deflecting humour, so I plumped for a simple “yes.” His eyes looked so hopeful at the idea that I couldn’t help the uncharacteristically self-conscious smile.
He slid back, tucking his legs into the comforter and tucking himself into the corner of the bed, leaving a solid two thirds for me.
“I’m just going to go clean up,” I said, waving my hand in the general direction of the bathroom. Spencer blanched.
“I’m supposed to…” he began, and I melted. But right now, I just wanted to pee.
“Hey,” I said, pressing a kiss to his protesting lips. “There is no ‘supposed to’ in this bed. It’s you, and me, and we decide what we do. Next time, yes. This time, I’m okay. I’ll be right back.”
When I clicked off the bathroom light and slipped back into Spencer’s room, he was curled up on his side, his arm outstretched over the waiting space for me to slip in beside him. Even in sleep, he was making room for me. I hesitated, fidgeting with the seam of the underwear I’d just pulled back on. Could I crawl into bed with him? Could I put aside all my carefully constructed rules, tear down those walls just enough to sleep soundly in Spencer’s arms for one night?
I picked up my shirt and skirt from the floor, and threw them on. I didn’t bother with my bra, sliding it into my purse instead and slipped the chain over my shoulder, holding it taut so it wouldn’t jangle. I chanced one look back - and realised my mistake.
It wasn’t my walls that needed to come down. Spencer didn’t need any part of me, he just needed someone. I could be that someone, for tonight. I set my purse back onto the dresser and unzipped my skirt again.
It felt strange, climbing into bed with him. He sighed in his sleep as the mattress dipped under my weight, sliding me against his body. I tucked myself into his side, curling into the arm he’d left outstretched for me and took a deep breath, inhaling the soft scent of laundry detergent and fading aftershave, pitted against the primal cousins of sex and sweat. Oddly, it relaxed me, and I felt myself drift as I settled into the sheets, just as Spencer’s other arm wrapped around my waist.
“I’m glad you didn’t go,” he mumbled.
“I didn’t realise you were awake,” I said quietly. “I don’t usually...stay.”
“But you stayed with me,” he said, and my heart broke for the note of pride in his voice. I wasn’t going to break his.
“Go to sleep, Spencer.”
He pressed a sleepy kiss into my hair, and I felt his breathing even out against my back.
I had done a terrible thing.
*