Page 749 of Lessons in Cruelty

“You’re a fucking cunt, Rooke.” I whirl around, in his face again, but it’s different now. So different, he leans back like he’s expecting me to hit him. Probably because my hands are in fists.

I force them open, holding them up between us. They’re shaking, but there’s nothing I can do about that right now.

“You’re a manipulative, controlling cunt, and I hate you. I hate that you make me feel like this. I hate that I can’t stop thinking about you. I hate that I just let you⁠—“

“Then why did you?”

“Because I wanted it!” The admission tears out of me. “Because I’ve wanted it for weeks and I couldn’t—I didn’t know how to⁠—“

I break off, chest heaving.

Rooke rushes to me, hesitates, and envelops me in a hug so tight I can hardly breathe.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs.

“It’s not.”

“It is.” He strokes my hair with one hand, my back with the other, his words pouring over me. “You’re allowed to want this, Kai. You’re allowed to want me. It doesn’t make you weak. It doesn’t make you less of a man. It makes you human.”

I want to argue. To shove him away and storm out and pretend none of this ever happened.

Instead, I hug him back.

And then I kiss him.

It’s slow, and soft, and for some fucked up reason feels just as good as the mind-blowing orgasm he just gave me. Even though I can taste myself on his tongue. Even though I can feel his cock hardening against mine again.

His hands slide into my hair.

Mine find his waist and cling on fiercely, desperately.

When we break apart, we don’t step apart. We just stand there, tangled together in his destroyed office, breathing each other in.

Thud-thud—thud-thud

We shove away from each other, both of us turning to the door.

My eyes can’t go any wider.

Even Rooke looks flustered—lips parted, hair wild.

“Start cleaning up,” he mutters, grabbing my hoodie and shoving me toward the shattered glass by the wall. “There’s a dustpan in the bottom of the filing cabinet.”

“Wh—”

I cut off at his glare and lumber over to the cabinet, my legs feeling like fucking Jell-O.

He rips his jacket off the back of the chair and slips into it, buttoning up the front to hide his ripped-open shirt.

His voice is uncharacteristically unsteady when he says, “Come in.”

I freeze as I’m taking out the dustpan.

Jesus. He’s not actually gonna⁠—

“Afternoon, Professor Rooke,” a familiar voice says from the door. With my back turned, I don’t see who it is, but I sure as fuck recognize the voice. “Got a minute?”

Fuck.