Page 62 of Teacher of the Year

“Do you need the bathroom?” Olan asks.

I brush my teeth and splash some cold water on my face, freshening up and also reminding myself I’m not dreaming. I change into a plain orange T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms. Back in the room, I’m greeted by Olan. He’s only wearing gray sweatpants shorts, the hem struggling against his thick thighs. Can we please thank the universe for giving us gray sweatpants? There should be a holiday celebrating gray sweatpants season. I would gladly fall on my knees and pray to gray sweatpants.

I want to run over and caress his bare chest. To touch every part of him, with my hands and mouth, but he stands, just staring at me, and I want to honor his pace.

“Hello,” he says.

“Hey. Um, if that’s your idea of pajamas, I am so on board,” I say, feeling slightly overdressed.

That chest. Yikes. I’m not typically into muscles, but right now, with them in the room, in front of me, for me, my hands want to live on his warm, firm pecs forever. Olan places his hands on my hips and draws me to him, and we fit like two puzzle pieces coming together as his mouth finds mine. We stand there, hands frozen as our lips dance.

He pulls back just enough to mutter, “Can I?”

His fingers lightly tug at the waist of my pants, and once again, the asking sends me over. I press my mouth to his as my answer, and he pulls them down. Unable to contain or hide how aroused I am, my dick pops up like bread from a toaster and smacks Olan’s leg. A short chuckle escapes from him, and we both laugh without taking our mouths off each other. Standing here, kissing Olan Stone, tasting the sweetness of his skin, the light smell of the ocean mixing with the musty house, his hands on me, all of me, as we make these noises into each other’s mouths, I’m overtaken by the closeness, something more than a friendship, more than dating, more than sex, and so much more than I anticipated.

He starts to lift the bottom of my shirt. He wants it off. But by reflex, my hands rush to stop him.

“What’s wrong?”

He’s never seen me without a shirt. No pants, in darkness, the focus solely on my cock, but not completely naked. The thing is, Olan Stone could be on the cover of a men’s fitness magazine. He may be nerdy and not entirely aware of the level of his hotness, but what will he think about me without any clothes on? I don’t work out. I eat what I want, and the good Lord blessed me with relatively good genes. I’ve never been ashamed of my body, but with him, I suddenly feel painfully average.

“Look at you,” I say, waving a hand over his torso.

“What about me?” He genuinely doesn’t understand.

“You’re. This.” Both hands gesture to his body.

“And you’re adorable. Let me. Please.” His hands tug at the hem of my shirt.

I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and relent.

Olan lifts my T-shirt off and tosses it to the ground. He runs his hands over my chest, my skin burning under his touch. Pausing to press his thumbs along my clavicle, his fingers finally travel up my neck to my mouth. His right hand strokes my face, and desperate to taste him, I turn, pop his thumb into my mouth, and begin sucking it gently.

“Marvin. You are so fucking hot.”

Not adorable. Hot. I can’t remember the last time someone called me hot. Has anyone ever? The way he’s looking at me, his thumb in my mouth, I might actually consider believing him. And because I know everything we’ve done so far is new for Olan, I ask him, “What do you want?”

“You.”

“Yeah, I kinda got that. But what do you want… to do?”

“Oh.”

He lets a breath out through his nose and dips his head, and I swear, Olan Stone makes that sweet bashful face that alerts me he’s blushing. Heat radiates from his cheeks, and desire grows in my center. I want to move closer and bite his lower lip just hard enough to make him wince.

He snakes a hand around my waist to my back, lowers it, and pats my backside two times.

“May I?”

“Such a gentleman.”

He wants to fuck me. My body shudders, thinking about having him inside me. It’s been, well, since Adam, but one thing I know, there’s a direct correlation between how turned on I am and how amazing it feels. Right now, my dick aches, a predictor of potential bliss. Taking Olan’s hand, I guide him to the chair in the corner of the room. I move my backpack to the floor, right next to the thick wooden leg of the seat. My hands slide between his gray cotton shorts and warm skin and push them to the ground until he steps out of them. His cock, thick and rigid, clearly ready.

I press Olan’s chest, urging him to sit and the contrast between the chair’s creamy corduroy fabric and his onyx skin reveals even more of his beauty. Like a tourist in a new country, I want to pause, grab my phone, and take pictures to capture the moment. Naked and gorgeous. I want to remember him this way. He tilts his head up to me from his seated position and smiles. The biggest, widest smile, with so many teeth shining at me, and my body relaxes in a way I can’t remember ever happening. I’m calm, tranquil, ready.

Unzipping the outer pocket of my backpack, I grab a small bottle of lube and a condom I smartly packed and present them to him for inspection.

“Oh, were you expecting something to happen?” he asks.

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