Layover at Midnight

Holly Norton

The worst thing to plan for, if you’re a flight attendant, are holidays.

Especially New Year’s.

Christmas? I can usually wrangle a few days off, hop a flight to Utah, let my Nana pinch my cheeks like I’m still ten years old and haven’t mastered basic skincare. She makes a mean peppermint fudge and insists on wrapping everything in snowman paper—even socks.

There’s something grounding about knowing the mashed potatoes will always be a little lumpy and my cousins will still argue about the same board game rules.

But New Year’s? That one’s the wildcard.

Most people spend weeks planning the perfect night—sequined dresses, overpriced champagne, someone to kiss at midnight. Me? I’m usually somewhere above the clouds or dragging my suitcase through a terminal in a city I didn’t even know I’d be in two days ago.

I’ve rung in the New Year in Tokyo, Minneapolis, Dallas, even a layover hotel in Newark where the only “celebration” was a vending machine that still had eggnog-flavored granola bars.

It’s not that I don’t like New Year’s. I just never know where I’ll be. And most of my friends? They’re scattered across time zones, clinking glasses in places I can’t get to because I’m working. Or sleeping off a red-eye. Or stranded in a hotel with one of those tiny shampoo bottles and a half-watched Hallmark movie playing in the background.

Like this New Year’s.

I landed in New York, which—let’s be honest—isn’t the worst place to be stranded. If you’re going to be disoriented and vaguely exhausted while hauling a wheeled suitcase through cold wind tunnels disguised as sidewalks, it might as well be Manhattan.

There’s the ball drop, of course, and people spilling out of bars in glitter and heels they’ll regret by 1 a.m. The energy buzzes even if you’re too tired to match it. And this time around, the company actually put me in a decent hotel—which in flight crew terms means it had more than two pillows and didn’t smell like reheated chicken pot pie.

It’s called The Frenchman. I know. Sounds like a rom-com setup already.

It had this old-school charm—marble floors, velvet curtains, that slightly judgmental bellhop energy. Very “we were fabulous in the ’60s and haven’t aged a day.” I half expected to see Audrey Hepburn in the elevator.

Anyway, I go to check in, and the receptionist—a chipper woman with red lipstick too perfect for someone working a double shift—smiles at me and says, “Oh, and just so you know, there’ll be a New Year’s Eve party in the ballroom tonight. All guests are welcome.”

I blinked at her like she’d just invited me to a secret society. A party? In the hotel? With people who weren’t in uniform or watching gate numbers tick by on a screen?

“Fancy dress encouraged,” she added, and I nodded politely while mentally reviewing the contents of my suitcase—three blouses, one broken heel, and a half-eaten protein bar.

Still, there was something about the way she said it. Like maybe, just maybe, I shouldn’t spend another New Year’s watching midnight fireworks on my phone while eating takeout lo mein in bed. Maybe I could shower. Put on lipstick. Wear the dress I packed “just in case” and never had a reason to pull out.

I mean… it’s not like I had anywhere else to be.

I get ready in the hotel room, pulling out my trusty black dress—the one I keep rolled in the bottom of my suitcase like a secret weapon. It’s nothing fancy, just one of those magic dresses that somehow survives wrinkles, bad lighting, and questionable wine spills. I steam it in the bathroom while the shower fogs up the mirror like some dramatic movie montage.

Quick rinse, fast makeup routine—mascara, lipstick, a little blush so I don’t look like I just spent six hours in a pressurized cabin (even though I did).

And would you believe it—I find a pair of heels shoved in the bottom of my luggage, still wrapped in a drawstring bag I forgot I even packed. Thin black straps, absolutely no arch support, the kind of shoe that looks amazing and feels like betrayal. No way I could wear them for a shift, but for a ballroom party? Sure. For a couple hours. Maybe. If I don’t have to walk more than twelve feet.

I check the time: 23:12.

Okay. That gives me… a couple drinks, whatever they’re serving on crackers, maybe some awkward small talk with a finance guy from Jersey, and then I’ll catch the fireworks from a window somewhere. Call it an experience. Something to journal about next time I’m stuck on a tarmac for three hours.

I sigh.

That sounds so sad.

I mean, it’s not tragic-tragic—I’m not crying into a pint of ice cream while watching couples kiss on TV. But still. I’m in a beautiful hotel, on New Year’s Eve, alone in a dress that deserves better lighting than this bedside lamp.

And for a moment, I wonder if I should just stay in. Kick off the heels, order room service, find a movie I’ve seen a hundred times and fall asleep with my makeup still on.

But then again, I already did the hard part. I showed up. I’m dressed. And who knows? Maybe there’s something waiting for me in that ballroom that’s better than bad canapés and free champagne.

Maybe.

I grab my clutch, take a deep breath, and step into the hallway.

I get into the ballroom, and immediately I’m greeted by… strangers. A bunch of them, scattered in little clusters, talking, moping, or pretending to be fascinated by the wallpaper. The music drifting out of the speakers is some weird shuffle of 90’s slow ballads—Celine Dion, a touch of Boyz II Men—like someone found an old CD labeled Romantic Mix and just hit play.

Champagne flutes are being passed around by waiters who look vaguely embarrassed to be here, and I snag one before I even make it three feet inside. It’s not exactly fancy. More like a hotel trying very hard to be festive but coming up just short. If I squint, it could pass for a high school prom. A sad one.

There are trays of hors d’oeuvres circulating, so I grab something sitting on a cracker, pop it into my mouth without thinking—huge mistake. I don’t even know what it was supposed to be. Anchovy paste? Regret? I immediately chase it with champagne like I’ve just swallowed poison, which honestly feels accurate.

The more I look around, the stranger it feels. There’s a certain type of person dominating the crowd—men in tweed jackets that smell like leather armchairs, women in glasses perched at the end of their noses, people who use the word “discourse” unironically. My kind of people, if my kind of people wore cardigans and debated Chaucer at cocktail hour.

And then I see it.

A banner, crookedly taped near the DJ booth, letters slightly peeling like they’ve been used three years running:

“New Year’s Celebration — The Hunter College Docent Body Welcomes 2025.”

Oh. Okay. That explains a lot.

This isn’t just a sad prom party. This is a college faculty New Year’s party. Suddenly, the tweed army makes perfect sense. And suddenly, I am very aware that I am the youngest, glossiest, most not a professor person in this entire room.

I swirl my champagne glass, trying to blend in, but it feels like I’ve accidentally walked into a club meeting for Intellectuals Anonymous. One wrong move and someone’s going to ask me about postmodernism.

I hover by the edge of the room, pretending to be utterly fascinated by the floral centerpiece in front of me. It’s one of those sad hotel arrangements—white lilies and too much baby’s breath stuffed into a crystal vase that thinks it’s fancier than it is. I sip my champagne like it’s the only lifeline I’ve got and silently thank the universe for bubbly beverages in social emergencies.

I have never felt more out of place in my life. And that’s saying something, because I once spent a layover Christmas eating vending machine Doritos in a Dallas airport lounge while a stranger sang “Silent Night” off-key into their phone.

But then again, it’s just a party. A sad one. Nobody here cares what I’m doing, and I can always sneak out in ten minutes and claim jet lag.

So, I wander until I find a massive window, a glass pane that frames Manhattan like a snow globe. Out there, the city is throwing the real party—lights blinking, taxis honking, everything shimmering and blurred like a living postcard. I stand there, sipping, letting the view do its thing.

And then—

“Excuse me—” a voice says, low but warm. “You’re not from the college, are you?”

I snap my head around, nearly sloshing champagne on myself, and there he is: a tall man, standing just close enough that it feels intentional, but not close enough to be presumptuous. Green eyes, sharp even behind thick black-rimmed glasses. Dark hair, a little too long, like he forgot to get it cut before the semester started. Tweed jacket (of course), dark jeans, a champagne glass balanced in his hand like he’s half in, half out of this whole event.

He looks like he belongs here—because of course he does.

“Uh, no,” I say, blinking at him. “I’m a hotel guest.”

One corner of his mouth twitches, the closest thing to a smile I’ve seen all night.

“I thought so,” he replies. “You don’t have the… faculty look.”

“Oh?” I raise an eyebrow. “What does that look like?”

He glances back toward the ballroom, where two men are currently arguing over something that sounds suspiciously like Milton.

“Mostly tweed. And scowling.”

I laugh before I can stop myself, the sound too loud in my own ears, champagne fizzing in my chest like it wants to help.

“What do I look like then?” I ask, raising my glass and taking a slow sip, half-daring him.

He studies me for a moment, adjusting his glasses in a way that feels less like habit and more like buying time. His eyes linger, sharp but not unkind.

“Like a sonnet trying to pretend it’s just a grocery list,” he says finally.

I blink at him, thrown. “That’s… oddly poetic.”

His mouth twitches. “I teach literature. Occupational hazard.”

“Ah,” I nod, like this explains everything—the tweed, the green eyes, the way he just casually compares strangers to Shakespearean verse. “That would make sense. So this sad little prom is your scene?”

He tilts his head, considering. “Scene is a strong word. Let’s call it… professional obligation.”

“Professional obligation?” I repeat. “So you’d rather be anywhere but here?”

His smile grows just a little. “That depends. Until two minutes ago, yes.”

The line lands like a soft dart, not too sharp but aimed just enough to make me smile despite myself.

“Smooth,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “Do you hand that one out to all the sonnets disguised as grocery lists?”

He chuckles—low, quick, genuine. “No. Just this one. She looked like she needed saving from canapés.”

I hold up my empty hand. “Too late. I already ate one. It was… horrifying.”

“Ah.” He raises his own glass in mock sympathy. “You’ve been initiated.”

I laugh again, softer this time, the sound blending with the faint strains of yet another tragic 90’s ballad playing from the DJ’s corner.

“So,” I say, tipping my glass toward him. “If you’re not here willingly, and I’m not here willingly… that makes us, what, accidental allies?”

He clinks his glass against mine. “Co-conspirators, at least,” he says, then offers his hand. “I’m Brian, by the way.”

The gesture feels very… professor-like. Formal, deliberate, the kind of thing men in old novels do when meeting someone in drawing rooms. And somehow, that’s weirdly charming.

“Holly,” I say, sliding my hand into his. His hand is big, warm, fingers a bit too long and skinny, like someone who’s spent more time holding a pen than a dumbbell.

His grip lingers for a beat longer than necessary before he lets go, and I can’t quite tell if he meant it or if professors just shake hands that way.

“So, Holly,” he says, sipping his champagne. “What brings you to The Frenchman on the least French night of the year?”

“Work,” I answer. “I’m a flight attendant. Got off a shift, landed here, hotel gave me a room… and then an accidental invitation to a sad prom.”

His mouth curves, but not into a laugh exactly. More like he’s filing the information away in some mental cabinet for later use. “A flight attendant,” he repeats, slowly. “Sounds very… adventurous.”

I smile, swirling the champagne in my glass. “It can be. Sometimes. Or you can get stranded in terminals eating sad panettone out of a plastic wrapper while someone snores across from you.”

That gets a real laugh out of him, soft and surprised, like he wasn’t expecting me to be funny. “The glamorous life,” he says, deadpan.

“Oh, so glamorous,” I agree. “People think it’s cocktails in Paris, sunsets in Santorini. Really, it’s jet lag, dry skin, and an intimate relationship with whatever sandwich options Newark Airport has to offer.”

His eyes crinkle behind his glasses. “I can imagine. Though… it still sounds more exciting than my life.”

I look around at the sagging banner, the tweed jackets, the sad buffet table. “Are you saying you’re not living the life you dreamed among your peers, professor?” I shoot, emphasizing the word peers just to see if he notices.

He grins, catching it. “Touché. But no, not exactly. I guess I romanticized what it would be like.”

“Oh?” I tilt my head, curious.

“I thought it’d be passionate discussions about Dickens over coffee, fiery debates about literature until the sun came up…” He shrugs, taking a sip of champagne. “But mostly, it’s students forgetting their homework, plagiarism so obvious it’s practically performance art, and professors quietly competing for tenure like it’s a blood sport.”

I laugh, the sound spilling out of me before I can stop it. “That’s tragic. You wanted Dead Poets Society and got… what? The Office: Faculty Edition?”

His grin widens, and there’s a glimmer in his eyes now, like he’s enjoying the back-and-forth as much as I am. “Something like that. Less poetry, more departmental budget meetings.”

“Scintillating,” I tease, leaning a little closer. “Tell me, do you at least get to dramatically stand on desks and inspire people with Whitman?”

“Not unless I want to get fired,” he deadpans. Then, softer: “But sometimes… when the class is quiet and actually listening, it comes close.”

That catches me off guard. The sincerity beneath the sarcasm. For just a second, the noise of the room fades, and all I see is him—this man who looks like he belongs to tweed and commas, but clearly still believes in something bigger, even if he hides it under dry humor.

I sip my champagne, trying to cover the smile tugging at me. “Well,” I say, “at least you’ve still got the romantic soul part down. Even if your colleagues are stuck arguing about Milton in the corner.”

He chuckles under his breath. “And you? Still romantic about flying? Or has reality killed the dream there, too?”

“Most of the time we’re stressed,” I admit, swirling the champagne in my glass. “De-escalating arguments, smiling while people shout about how greedy the company is with seat space…” I pause, giving him a pointed look. “Which, for the record, they’re not wrong about.”

That earns me a smile, the kind that lingers in his eyes.

“But,” I go on, softer now, “there are still places that feel… magical.”

His brow arches. “Magical?”

I nod, shifting my gaze back to the window. Manhattan sparkles below us, like it’s in on the conversation. “Yeah. Like, sometimes you’re flying overnight and everyone else is asleep, and the cabin is so still you can hear your own breath. You look out the window and it’s just… stars. An ocean of them, stretching forever. You forget you’re even working. You forget the crying babies and the soda carts and the fact that your feet hurt. For a minute, you’re just… there. Between the world below and the sky above.”

When I glance back at him, he’s not smiling. He’s watching me, really watching me, the way someone reads a favorite line of poetry twice just to let it sink in.

“Magical,” he repeats quietly, as if testing the word for himself. His gaze lingers a second longer, then he adds, almost like he doesn’t mean to say it out loud: “Like maybe finding someone beautiful and funny before the ball drops…”

The words hang between us, delicate and a little dangerous, like champagne bubbles about to burst.

That catches me off guard. Suddenly I’m aware of the warmth in the room, the soft pull of his voice, the fact that the champagne has gone straight to my head—or maybe it’s just him. He didn’t mean to say it, not really. It slipped out, unpolished and honest, which somehow makes it even more disarming.

I tilt my head, pretending to study him with mock suspicion. “Is that your line to get me to kiss you at midnight?” I ask, sipping my champagne slowly, giving him time to squirm.

And oh, he does. He actually blushes—pink creeping across his pale skin as he adjusts his glasses, avoiding my eyes like they’re too bright to look at directly. “Maybe…” he admits, quiet but with the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth.

I can’t help it—I laugh, soft and surprised, warmth curling in my chest. “You really are a professor, aren’t you? Too honest for your own good.”

He shrugs, helpless, finally meeting my eyes again. “I don’t get out much.”

“Clearly.” I lean closer, playful now. “For the record, you’re supposed to pretend it’s all part of your mysterious charm. Not confess you’re bad at lines.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” he says, and his grin this time is sheepish, self-aware, and just a little bit hopeful.

And I don’t know if it’s the music or the champagne or the fact that Manhattan is glittering behind us like it’s rooting for this exact moment, but I find myself thinking maybe—just maybe—I wouldn’t mind being kissed at midnight after all.

The air between us feels charged now, delicate and fizzing like the champagne in my glass. He shifts his weight, clearly about to say something else when the music cuts out and the DJ’s voice booms over the speakers.

“Alright everyone—ten minutes to midnight!”

A murmur ripples through the room, people shuffling closer to the center, couples pairing off, laughter rising. I glance at Brian, who’s still standing there with that half-smile, as if he’s caught somewhere between amusement and terror.

I arch a brow. “So. Do professors usually kiss strangers at faculty mixers, or am I about to make history here?”

He chuckles, low and quiet, rubbing the back of his neck. “Definitely history.”

“Good to know.” I try to sound breezy, but my heart is suddenly doing laps in my chest.

We drift toward the big window again, the city outside exploding with anticipation—Times Square glowing in the distance, taxis darting through the streets like fireflies. Around us, voices start counting down.

“Ten… nine…”

I set my empty glass aside, nerves buzzing. He does the same, adjusting his glasses with one hand like he needs something to do.

“Eight… seven…”

He glances at me, green eyes searching, and for a moment the crowd fades, the music fades, even the glittering city outside. It’s just him. Just us.

“Six… five…”

My breath catches. “You’re really going to do it, aren’t you?” I whisper, half-teasing, half-hoping.

“Four… three…”

He leans in slightly, smile tugging at his lips. “Only if you let me.”

“Two… one—”

And then his mouth is on mine.

It’s not dramatic or practiced—it’s hesitant at first, warm and a little uncertain, like he’s surprised I haven’t pulled away. But then I kiss him back, and something clicks, easy and undeniable, like we’ve stumbled into the right place without meaning to.

The room erupts in cheers, champagne corks popping, “Happy New Year!” echoing all around us, but none of it matters. For a heartbeat—or maybe several—it’s just us at the window, kissing while the city bursts into light below.

When we finally pull apart, breathless and blinking, he adjusts his glasses again—the move so automatic it’s almost comical now, like his nervous tell.

“Happy New Year, professor,” I say, my voice softer than I meant, teasing but warm.

And just like that, his face flushes again, color rising in his cheeks. For a man who can probably quote Milton without notes, he seems utterly defenseless against one simple word. Professor.

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head a little. “Happy New Year, Holly.”

Something about the way he says my name—careful, deliberate, like he’s trying it out for the first time and wants to get it right—sends a flutter through me.

Around us, the ballroom has erupted into chaos—people clinking glasses, hugging, shouting across the room as if midnight itself demands maximum volume. The banner over the DJ is half falling down, someone’s already spilled champagne on the parquet floor, and the music has jumped to an overzealous rendition of “Auld Lang Syne.”

But somehow, in the middle of all that, it feels quiet. Just the two of us, standing by the window with Manhattan glowing below, like the city staged this whole scene just to frame it around us.

He slips his hand into mine, fingers long and warm, and I—against all my better judgment—let him. The ballroom is blaring celebration songs now, laughter and clinking glasses all around, but none of it seems to register. It’s all a blur, background noise compared to the way he’s looking at me.

He steps closer, and instinctively I take one back—until the cool glass of the window meets my spine. My breath hitches, not out of fear, but from how startlingly close he is now, his presence filling the narrow space between us.

“You feel like an adventure, Miss Flight Attendant,” he says, voice low, threaded with something I can’t quite name—half poetry, half confession.

I arch a brow, lips curving, refusing to let the moment swallow me whole without a little fight. “One that leads to my room?” I ask, soft, bold, testing him.

For a split second, he actually looks startled—professor caught off guard by the student’s unexpected answer. His blush creeps up again, but this time he doesn’t retreat behind his glasses. Instead, he lets the moment breathe, green eyes flicking over my face like he’s trying to memorize every line, every shift of expression.

“Maybe,” he murmurs finally, his voice steadier than I expect. “If it leads me there.”

I smile, the kind of smile I usually reserve for moments when I’ve won something without meaning to. Because underneath the tweed and the blushes, when he actually decides to be bold, he’s far too smooth for his own good.

“Come on, professor,” I murmur, my lips brushing dangerously close to his again, teasing him with the promise. “A night of adventure before your semester starts.”

For a beat, he just looks at me, as if weighing the risk, the logic, the consequences—classic professor mode. And then something shifts in his eyes, a flicker of decision, of letting go.

His hand tightens gently around mine. “I don’t usually make reckless choices,” he admits, a faint smile ghosting across his mouth.

“Well,” I whisper, leaning in close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath, “lucky for you, I do.”

That earns me another one of those surprised, helpless laughs, and then he closes the tiny space left between us, kissing me again—less hesitant this time, more certain.

The party roars behind us, the city flashes with fireworks, but it all feels far away. Right here, pressed against the window with his lips on mine, the only thing that matters is this strange, unexpected adventure we’ve just stumbled into together.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead still resting lightly against mine, he whispers, “Alright. Adventure it is.”

And I don’t know what makes my heart flutter more—the words themselves, or the fact that he says them like he actually means it.

The music behind us has shifted into something upbeat, the kind of forced cheer that belongs to hotel DJs and desperate parties, but it’s just noise now. All I feel is the warmth of his hand in mine, steady and certain.

I glance at the half-empty ballroom—people laughing too loudly, hugging too tightly, clinking glasses like they’re trying to squeeze meaning out of midnight. Then I glance back at him. And I know.

I squeeze his hand gently. “Come on, professor,” I murmur, playful but sure.

He studies me for half a heartbeat, as if giving himself one last out. Then he nods, that quiet resolve settling into his face. “Lead the way, Miss Flight Attendant.”

And so I do.

We slip through the clusters of faculty members who barely notice us—two strangers weaving out of their sad little celebration. Past the buffet table, past the janky banner, past the DJ who looks like he gave up on life somewhere around song three.

The hallway is quieter, the carpet muffling our steps, the world shrinking down to just us. He doesn’t let go of my hand, and I don’t make him.

The elevator ride is slow, humming softly as it climbs. For a moment we just stand there, side by side, hands linked, the air thick with everything unspoken. Then he glances at me, that same half-smile tugging at his mouth, and I feel my lips curve in answer.

When the elevator slide open, I tug him gently, leading him down the hall toward my room. My heels click against the carpet, his tweed sleeve brushing my arm. The keycard trembles just slightly in my fingers—not nerves exactly, more like anticipation, sharp and sweet.

The lock beeps. The door swings open.

The room swallows us.

Soft click of the door shutting behind, a hush so thick it settles on my shoulders like velvet. The hallway’s distant noise fades into muffled nothing, replaced by the gentle hum of the heater, the quiet breath of the city beyond the curtains. The room’s lighting is dim, golden, more forgiving than the ballroom’s overheads, and for the first time tonight, I feel like I’m not on display. Just here. Just me. Just him.

Brian steps in behind me, slower now. That cautious professor energy is still there—he doesn’t pounce, doesn’t assume. His eyes sweep the room like he’s cataloguing its features: the soft bedspread, the single armchair in the corner, the mirror above the dresser, the view peeking through the window where the blinds haven’t been drawn all the way.

His hand is still in mine. That small, warm tether.

“You okay?” he asks, voice quiet, almost shy.

I nod once, then turn to face him fully. “You?”

He breathes a laugh through his nose. “I’m… wildly out of my element.”

“You hide it well,” I murmur, stepping closer, fingers loosening around his only so I can slide them up his chest, over that damn tweed jacket that somehow makes him look even more out of place in this dim, private glow.

“I’m guessing you’ve done this before,” he says, not accusing, just observant, the way he probably talks about character arcs in his lectures.

But I shake my head. “Not like this.”

And I mean it. Not this quiet tension, not this slow-burn curiosity threading into something warmer, something heavier. It’s not the thrill of hotel bar hookups or the reckless anonymity of one-night stands in cities I can barely name. This feels... not bigger, exactly, but quieter. More present.

I slide his glasses gently off his face, fold them, and set them on the dresser behind me. His eyes blink, adjusting to the shift, and suddenly he looks younger. Less guarded.

“Hi,” I say again, barely above a whisper.

He exhales like he’s been holding it for the last twenty minutes, and then his hands are on my waist, tentative at first, then a little more sure. “Hi.”

We move at the same time—like magnets finding their place. His mouth meets mine again, warmer now, less hesitant. The kiss deepens gradually, his hand pressing lightly into the small of my back as mine curl around the lapels of his jacket. It’s not rushed, not ravenous—just full. Steady. Hungry in that slow, simmering way that builds heat without demanding it all at once.

The jacket slides off his shoulders with a gentle tug, weighty fabric falling in a soft thump against the carpet. Underneath, he’s wearing a simple white shirt, sleeves rolled at the forearms, the top button undone like he got halfway undressed and forgot what he was doing.

I brush my fingertips over the space just beneath his collarbone. He shivers. “Sensitive?” I ask, amused.

“Terminally,” he admits, voice low and a little hoarse now.

I smile. “I’ll remember that.”

I guide him backwards toward the bed, kissing him again before pushing lightly at his chest until he sits. The mattress creaks under him, and I follow, straddling his lap without hesitation. His hands hover—waist, hips, thighs—like he wants to touch everywhere and isn’t sure if he’s allowed.

So I lean in, brushing my lips to his ear. “Touch me, professor.”

A low groan vibrates through his chest. “Jesus…”

His hands grip tighter, fingers finding purchase on the curve of my hips as I roll them once against him. The friction draws a gasp from both of us. I can feel him hard already, straining beneath the denim, and something tightens deliciously low in my belly.

I kiss him again, slower this time, tongue brushing his, lips moving with more purpose. He responds beautifully—messy now, eager, the practiced patience fraying at the edges. One of his hands drifts up, sliding along my spine, fingers splayed. The other rests firm on my thigh, thumb grazing upward.

“You’re…” He exhales hard. “God.”

“You’re allowed to touch,” I remind him, voice low and teasing as I guide his hands to my waist again. “I won’t grade you on it.”

His laugh is more like a groan. “You’re going to kill me.”

I grind against him, hips slow and deliberate, feeling the heat bloom between us. “No, professor, I’m going to give you an adventure.”

His hands start moving again—bolder this time. One slides up, fingers curling around my breast through the thin fabric of my dress, thumb brushing lightly until I arch into him with a breathy gasp. The other roams lower, gripping my ass, tugging me tighter against him. I feel the rough drag of denim, the firm length of him beneath.

I lean in again, kissing the hinge of his jaw, down his neck, slow and savoring, teeth scraping lightly at his collarbone. He moans—nnngh—and that sound alone could make me wet.

“Shirt off,” I whisper, tugging at the buttons, and he obeys, fumbling just slightly, breath ragged. When it’s gone, I run my palms over his chest, down to the soft trail of hair leading below the waistband of his jeans.

Then I reach for the buckle.

His breath hitches. “Holly…”

“You can stop me if you want,” I murmur, already tugging the leather free, button popping open, zipper sliding down.

“I really don’t want.”

He lifts his hips, helping me slide jeans and boxers down in one awkward, graceless motion. His cock springs free—thick, flushed, already slick at the tip. My mouth actually waters, and from the way he groans when I wrap my fingers around him, I know he feels it.

I stroke him once, slow. He grips the edge of the bed hard enough that his knuckles go white.

“You okay?” I tease, lips grazing his ear again.

“You are unbelivable,” he rasps.

I shift, guiding him back, and slide down off his lap. He watches, panting, as I kneel between his legs, one hand still wrapped around him. I meet his eyes as I lean in and lick—just once, slow and flat from base to tip.

His head drops back with a sharp gasp. “Fuck—”

I take him into my mouth inch by inch, feeling him throb against my tongue. He’s warm, heavy, and the quiet, breathless noises he makes when I hollow my cheeks and suck harder? Heavenly.

“Sh-shit, Holly,” he pants, fingers gripping the bedsheets like they might save him.

I bob my head slowly, swirling my tongue around him, taking my time, letting the weight and heat of it rest against my tongue as if savoring something rare. My hands grip his thighs, steadying myself, feeling the tension coil under his skin. He’s trying so hard to keep it together—fingers fisting the sheets, breath stuttering, every quiet sound he makes going straight to my core.

“If you don’t stop, I’m gonna…” he rasps, voice cracking, like he’s already halfway there.

I pull back with a soft pop, lips glossy, grinning up at him. “Then maybe don’t stop me.”

He stares, dazed—green eyes wide and glassy, his whole expression caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. It’s so damn endearing, the way he looks at me like he still can’t quite believe this is real. Like he’s halfway convinced I’m going to vanish in a puff of glitter and hotel soap samples.

I lean in again, slower now, tongue teasing, lips wrapping around him with just enough pressure to make his jaw tighten. He lets out a sound that’s not even a word, more like a nnngh, head tipping back against the headboard.

He’s so easy to unravel—every little sigh, every flex of his fingers in the sheets. And the best part? He’s so earnest about it. Not cocky, not smug—just stunned, like he accidentally stumbled into a dream where someone like me wants to take their time wrecking him.

I slide my hand up his torso, slow and lazy, then reach for his hand and guide it gently to my hair. “Come on, professor,” I murmur, brushing my cheek along his thigh before glancing up at him. “Live a little. I promise I won’t deduct points.”

He exhales something that sounds suspiciously like a whimper.

His fingers thread through my hair, hesitant at first, then a little firmer when I dip down again, taking him deep enough that his hips twitch. The grip in my hair tightens—just enough to make my heart flutter—and I hum around him, letting the vibrations work their way through.

“F-fuck,” he breathes, voice low.

And yeah—that’s more like it.

I hum again, slow and deep, just to feel the way his thighs tense under my palms. His hand’s still in my hair, fingers tightening like he’s afraid to pull, but can’t help himself. That sweet hesitation—it kills me. Like he wants it so badly but still doesn’t trust the universe not to snatch it away.

So I give him a little more.

I flatten my tongue, take him deeper, suck with a slow pull that makes his hips jerk. He gasps—shaky, unguarded—one hand gripping the bedsheet now, the other tangled in my hair like a lifeline.

“Mmm—shit, Holly, I—” His voice cracks again, barely holding it together.

I ease off just a little, let him slip from my mouth with a wet slide, then drag my tongue up the underside, licking him like I’m tasting something expensive. I glance up, hair mussed, mouth slick, smiling as innocently as I can manage. “Still doing okay?”

He looks wrecked.

His chest is rising and falling like he just ran a sprint, eyes blown wide and dark with heat, lips parted like he’s trying to remember how breathing works.

“You’re…” He swallows hard. “You are dangerous.”

I grin, planting a kiss just below his hip bone. “Well, you did say you wanted adventure.”

He actually laughs—ragged, breathless—and that sound lights me up all over. I love that I can pull that out of him. The professor with the poetry eyes and cautious hands, undone and breathless because I decided to make him my favorite subject.

I go down on him again, slow at first, then deeper, faster—finding a rhythm that makes his thighs quake beneath me. He’s panting now, mouth slack, hand still gripping my hair but not guiding anymore—just holding, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Every time he moans—uhn, fuck, ohgod—I sink a little deeper, swirl a little slower, drive him closer to that edge he keeps trying not to fall off.

But I want him to fall. I want to watch him come undone in my mouth, hear the way his voice breaks when he gives in.

I suck harder, angle my head just right, and suddenly he’s shaking.

“Holly—Holly, I—oh fuck—I’m—”

He tries to warn me, sweet thing that he is, but I don’t stop. I look right into his eyes, lips sealed tight around him, and give him a nod he barely registers before he breaks.

His whole body tenses, jerking beneath me as he lets out a low, raspy groan—Hhhhnnggh—fuck—and I feel him spill against my tongue, hot and pulsing. He grips my hair like it’s the only thing tethering him to Earth, eyes clenched shut, chest heaving.

I take it all, slow and steady, licking him clean until he twitches from the sensitivity.

Then I pull off, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, and crawl back up onto the bed like I’m returning from a leisurely stroll.

He’s splayed out like a man who’s just had his soul politely removed and handed back to him on a linen napkin. Hair sticking up in earnest little spikes, blinking at the ceiling like he’s trying to remember how gravity works. His chest is still rising fast—thin, pale, the kind of chest that says I read instead of jog and has probably never met a dumbbell in its life. He’s soft in all the ways that make you want to curl up on him, not climb.

I kiss the edge of his hipbone, slow and deliberate, and he twitches like I’ve hit some secret off-switch in his nervous system.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, one arm flopping uselessly across his forehead like a swooning Victorian heroine.

I smile against his skin. “You okay there, Professor?”

“Define okay,” he mumbles, eyes fluttering closed again. “I think I saw God. And I’m pretty sure she was kneeling between my legs.”

That earns a quiet laugh from me as I shift up the bed, crawling slowly, deliberately, my knees brushing along the sheets. I take my time reaching for the hem of my dress—just a fingertip hook, nothing too showy—and start pulling it up, inch by inch. The fabric slides over my thighs, over my hips, riding higher until the curve of my waist is exposed, the shimmer of my bra catching the low light.

I peel it over my head and let it fall off the side of the bed with a lazy flick, like I’m shedding the last layer of “guest” and settling fully into “something else entirely.”

His eyes finally open again, and when he sees me—just in my bra and panties, knees on either side of his legs, hair a little wild, flushed from effort and mischief—he groans and drags his hand down his face like he physically can’t handle the sight.

“This has gotta be a dream…” he mumbles, and it’s so dazed, so utterly defeated in the best way, that I can’t help but grin.

I tilt my head, reaching back to unhook my bra one-handed because yes, I can, and let the straps slip down my arms like a curtain falling before act two. “Then you’re about to have one of those dreams that ends up in the ‘do not discuss in polite company’ file.”

He makes that sound again—half-laugh, half-pained whimper—like he’s caught between reverence and helplessness. He tries to rise, probably out of some old-school instinct to be chivalrous or take the lead or make a formal speech thanking the gods of hotel error that put me in his ballroom tonight.

But I press him right back down, flat palm against his chest, and smile sweetly. “Uh uh. No moving. Dream girls don’t like being rushed.”

“Oh God…” he groans, eyes squeezed shut like he’s begging for mercy from someone who definitely isn’t going to grant it. But he’s grinning now, all teeth and disbelief, hair still a mess, eyes glassy with endorphins and awe. It’s the kind of grin that says he doesn’t know what he did to deserve this, but he’s not about to question it in case I disappear in a puff of logic.

His eyes are glued to me now, lips parted like he forgot how talking works. His hands float upward like they’re not entirely under his control, and I settle on top of him, hips sliding down slowly, deliberately, my panties the only thing between his cock and the heat building between my legs.

I rock once. Just a little. A teasing nudge.

His breath catches. His hands land on my waist first—tentative, reverent—then slide up to cup my breasts like he’s still not sure he’s allowed but wants to be.

He palms me gently, thumbs brushing across nipples gone tight from anticipation, and I watch the way he studies the weight of me in his hands like he’s doing some very serious academic research. Which, considering his background, might actually be true.

“You’re staring,” I murmur, rolling my hips just slightly again, letting the friction wake him up against my panties. I can feel him stiffening beneath me, twitch by twitch.

“You’re incredible,” he says, voice cracking a little. “I mean—I’m trying to be poetic but I think my brain melted twenty minutes ago.”

I laugh, soft and wicked. “Don’t worry, Professor. I’ll handle the metaphors tonight.”

He groans again, one hand drifting down to cup the curve of my ass, squeezing gently like he’s trying to memorize the shape, the give, the warmth.

He’s trembling a little—not from nerves, but from effort. Like he’s trying so hard to stay in control, to be good for me, to do this right.

I lean down, brushing my nose along his jaw, my lips feather-light at his ear. “You gonna let me ride you this time?” I whisper, voice low and sweet. “Or do I have to grade you on enthusiasm first?”

His hips twitch helplessly beneath me. “Jesus Christ, Holly…”

“You say that a lot,” I tease, nipping at the skin below his ear. “Are you religious, or just overwhelmed?”

“Both,” he gasps. “Definitely both.”

I smile against his skin, rocking again, slower now, watching the way his cock rises under the lace of my panties, hardening inch by inch like it’s waking up from a nap and immediately clocking into overtime.

“You’ve got the softest hands,” I whisper, guiding one of them back to my breast, pressing it there. “But you can squeeze a little harder, you know. I won’t shatter.”

His breath comes faster, more shallow, as he obeys—fingers firm now, thumbs flicking over me with growing confidence, like he’s learning my body by braille and loving every second of it.

“You’re not real,” he mutters, almost to himself.

I grin, dragging my hips forward once more, the motion slow and full, letting my heat slide over him with just enough friction to make him throb through the fabric. “I’m very real,” I purr. “And I’m not going anywhere until I feel you inside me.”

He just lets out a strangled, grateful sound and pulls me closer, like I’m both the dream and the anchor.

And god, the way he looks up at me—hands on my body, eyes glazed, lips parted—it’s like he thinks I’m some rare constellation he finally caught in the right corner of the sky.

I rock again, slower this time, hips gliding forward with just enough pressure to make him twitch underneath me—and yeah, he’s definitely waking up. Fast. His cock, half-hard a moment ago, is now pressing up against the damp heat of my panties like it remembered what heaven felt like and wants a second go.

“Oh,” I murmur, dragging a fingernail lazily down his chest, watching him squirm beneath it. “There you are.”

He tries to respond—some dazed comeback, maybe a joke, maybe a prayer—but I cut him off with my mouth before he gets the chance. I kiss him deep and slow, like I’m pouring something warm into him one breath at a time. His lips part easily, eager and messy, and I swallow the soft, broken sound he makes as I roll my hips again, grinding down just enough to make his whole body jolt.

His arms come up around me, pulling me in with this quiet urgency that catches me off guard—not greedy, not possessive, just... close. Like he’s trying to make sure I don’t slip away. And it’s sweet, the way he holds me—like someone who’s just been gifted something fragile and isn’t quite sure how to keep it safe.

My breasts press against his chest, bare skin to bare skin, and I feel the way he shudders at the contact, his breath hitching in a way that says holy shit more eloquently than words ever could.

One of his hands slides down, slow and deliberate, fingers trailing along my spine before cupping the curve of my ass. He squeezes, just a little, testing the give, and I smile into the kiss, letting my teeth graze his bottom lip in approval.

“There we go,” I murmur when I pull back, barely an inch from his mouth. “Getting bolder. I like it.”

“I’m trying,” he breathes, voice rough. “You’re—distracting.”

“I better be,” I say, rolling my hips again, firmer now, dragging my soaked panties over the length of him. He’s fully hard again, no hesitation, and the way he groans into my neck when I grind down a little harder—ughhnn—is like music.

He palms my ass with both hands now, guiding the movement without taking control, like he’s just along for the ride and fully devoted to the cause.

“You keep doing that,” he says, voice hoarse and muffled against my collarbone, “and I’m gonna embarrass myself.”

“Then you better focus,” I purr, lips brushing his ear. “Because I haven’t even taken my panties off yet.”

His entire body jerks beneath me.

“Oh my God…”

I laugh, soft and wicked, nuzzling into the crook of his neck like this is all just casual pillow talk. “I warned you,” I whisper, rocking again, dragging his cock against the soaked lace, both of us feeling the heat and ache of it. “Dream girls don’t play fair.”

And the way he gasps my name? Reverent, like a man watching his GPA drop and not giving a single damn about it?

Yeah. He’s not dreaming. But I’ll let him keep thinking he is.

I start to shift back, hips lifting just slightly as I slide down his body, and his hands instinctively clutch at me—one on my waist, the other brushing my thigh like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go.

“Easy,” I murmur, kissing the center of his chest before slipping out of his reach. “I’m not going far.”

He makes a low, pitiful noise in the back of his throat, the sound of a man already missing something that hasn’t left yet.

I rise slowly to my feet beside the bed, standing tall and unhurried in nothing but those very last bits of lace—my panties clinging damp between my thighs, practically translucent at this point. His eyes are locked on me like I’m the final exam and he forgot to study but really wants to pass.

I hook my thumbs into the waistband, just above my hips, pausing a moment—letting the tension simmer. Then I start sliding them down. Not fast, not teasing exactly, but with a practiced sort of elegance—one hip, then the other, a slow curve of motion that makes the thin fabric stretch tight before it surrenders.

He lets out a ragged breath.

And then I bend.

I bend all the way over, giving him the full view—ass arched high, back curved, my bare pussy on full display between parted thighs, lips flushed and slick and swollen from all the grinding. I step out of the panties with the kind of balance you only get from years of doing this dance in too-small airplane bathrooms. Then I stay there a moment longer than necessary, pretending to pick up the panties, just so he has time to really take it in.

Behind me, the bed creaks—probably from him trying not to self-destruct.

“Definitely a dream…” he croaks, voice strangled, like he’s just seen the face of God and it was me, bending over with lace in hand.

I toss the panties over my shoulder without looking. No clue where they land. Probably on his face. “You say that every five minutes,” I tease, glancing back at him over my shoulder. “At some point, you’re gonna have to accept this is actually happening.”

He’s staring. Absolutely fucked out. One hand in his hair like he’s trying to recalibrate his entire belief system.

“You expect me to believe you’re real after that?” he asks, still blinking like I’ve broken some sacred law of physics, gesturing vaguely toward my ass as I climb back onto the bed. “That’s not fair. There are rules in dreams.”

I laugh as I swing one leg over and settle on him again, bare and warm and so very not a hallucination. “Yeah?” I purr, rocking my hips slowly, dragging my slick pussy over the length of his cock. “What kind of dream rules are we talking about?”

“I don’t know,” he breathes, eyes now locked between my thighs like they’re broadcasting the meaning of life. “Definitely doesn’t involve a gorgeous blonde flight attendant grinding on me.”

I raise a brow, smiling like I’ve just caught him in a logic trap. “Really? No sexy strangers on hotel beds?” I lean in, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Sounds like this must be real, then.”

He shudders like I short-circuited him from the inside out.

I roll my hips again—just once, slow, letting him feel the heat and slick and promise of it all. Then I murmur, voice soft and low: “In any of these dream rules of yours… do you happen to keep a condomin your wallet like a very responsible academic?”

His eyes snap up to mine, wide and helpless. Deer-in-the-headlights doesn’t even begin to cover it. “Shit. I didn’t—I wasn’t expecting—”

His hands twitch on my hips, as if he’s about to try and fix the situation with sheer willpower.

I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “Calm down, professor,” I say, brushing my fingers through his hair, smoothing the panic from his forehead like he’s said the wrong answer in class and I’m grading with mercy. “I’m pretty sure this very classy hotel has us covered.”

He blinks. “It does?”

“Mhmm.” I slide off him, deliberately slow, hand dragging down his stomach like I’m tracing a line back to sanity—if he still has any left. “I saw one in the nightstand earlier. Right next to a Gideon Bible and a sewing kit.”

He exhales like I’ve just absolved all his sins and extended spring break by two weeks. “Thank God,” he mutters.

“Pretty sure he’s in the drawer too,” I say with a grin, tossing a wink over my shoulder as I sashay toward the nightstand, hips swaying with purpose.

I bend at the waist—dramatically, of course—giving him another unholy eyeful as I fish through the drawer. The sound of foil crinkling is followed by a soft, triumphant “Aha,” as I pull out the condom and let the drawer close with a little click.

He’s watching me with the reverence of a man seeing fire stolen from Olympus.

I pad back over, slow and barefoot, condom in hand like I just plucked it from a treasure chest. His eyes flick from my face to the foil to my breasts and back again, like he can’t decide where to settle—poor thing’s probably buffering.

I crawl onto the bed and kneel beside him, holding the little packet between two fingers. “Want me to put it on you?” I ask, all innocent mischief.

He swallows visibly, lips parting, trying and failing to come up with words that aren’t just noises. “Y-yeah,” he manages. “Yes. Definitely. Please.”

I give him a look. “So polite.”

“You make it hard to misbehave,” he groans.

“Mm. I’m sure I can fix that,” I say, tearing open the wrapper with a practiced flick of my nails.

He watches, transfixed, as I take him in hand—already hard again, flushed and ready, twitching a little when I stroke him once, slow and deliberate, just to feel him jump in my palm. His hips buck slightly, breath catching.

“Still dreaming?” I ask, smiling up at him as I pinch the tip of the condom and start rolling it down over his length, taking my time, smoothing it down inch by inch like I’m wrapping something very delicate and very lucky.

He stares at me like I’ve just rewritten the definition of pleasure.

“If this is a dream,” he pants, “I hope I never wake up.”

“Mm,” I murmur, giving him one last slow stroke once the condom’s snug. “Careful what you wish for, Professor.”

Then I climb back over him, straddling his hips again with a wicked little smile, and lean down, lips grazing his as I whisper:

“Because I’m about to make it a very vivid one,” I whisper against his lips, and then I shift my hips and start to sink down onto him.

Slow. Very slow.

He lets out this strangled breath right against my mouth—part pant, part prayer. His hands tighten at my waist, not pushing or guiding, just anchoring, like if he doesn’t hold on, he might actually lift off the bed and ascend.

I close my eyes for a second as I lower myself further, biting my lip when I feel the stretch start. “Jesus, Brian…” I murmur, half-laughing as I bury my fingers in his hair, twisting gently. “You didn’t mention you were smuggling a wand of academic destruction.”

He huffs a laugh that turns into a groan halfway through. “That’s—definitely not on my CV.”

“Well, maybe it should be,” I breathe, because God, he’s long. Not the kind that’s intimidating at first glance, but the kind that just keeps… going. Like every time I think I’ve taken all of him, there’s somehow still more to go.

“Holy—” I shiver as I sink a little further, rolling my hips instinctively to adjust. “It’s like a hidden syllabus down here.”

His laugh cracks into a moan. “Stop talking—I can’t think when you’re—ah, fuck—”

I smile down at him, slow and syrupy, finally bottoming out with a soft uhnnhh as I settle fully onto him, hips pressed flush to his, skin to skin everywhere. My walls flutter around him in a slow clench, and his mouth falls open like I’ve just delivered a thesis defense with no warning.

“There,” I whisper, leaning in until my forehead touches his. “Now you’re all the way in. Welcome to the final level.”

He’s panting hard now, hands gripping my hips like they’re the only things keeping him from losing his goddamn mind. “You’re—God—you’re so warm,” he groans. “You feel… Jesus, I don’t even know what you feel like.”

“Like a dream?” I tease, shifting just slightly, enough to make us both gasp.

He nods rapidly, completely undone. “Like the kind you apologize for in the morning.”

I laugh—low and pleased—and drag my fingers through his hair again, nails scraping lightly along his scalp. “No apologies necessary, Professor. Just keep breathing. This lesson’s just getting started.”

I roll my hips—once, slow, measured. Just enough to make us both feel it. His head tips back, lips parted in that perfect mix of disbelief and want, like he’s still trying to figure out how I got here and whether I plan on leaving. Spoiler: not yet.

“Fuck…” he breathes, eyes fluttering shut as I grind again, easing into a rhythm, letting his cock drag deliciously along every inch inside me. “Holly, you feel—God, you feel unreal.”

I lean down until my lips brush his neck, his pulse thudding hard under my tongue. “I thought you weren’t sure I was real.”

“I’m reconsidering,” he gasps, hands sliding up my back, then down to grip my ass as if that’ll help him hold on. “Either that, or I’ve officially died and this is… academic purgatory.”

I chuckle into his throat, nipping gently at the skin just below his ear. “You think purgatory comes with this much slick, wet pussy?” I rock forward a little faster, and his entire body twitches under me.

He whimpers—actually whimpers—and his hips thrust up into me like he’s lost the ability to sit still. I hiss through my teeth at the pressure, the perfect stretch, the way his cock slides so deep with each upward push it hits something that makes my thighs quiver.

“Okay,” I gasp, laughing breathlessly, “maybe you’re the one teaching now—”

He groans, arms wrapping around me tight as he fucks up into me again, sharp and delicious. “God, I—I’m trying to be respectful, I swear—”

I grin wickedly, sitting up so he can see the full show—me, riding him naked in soft hotel light, breasts bouncing with every roll of my hips, his cock disappearing and reappearing between my thighs, soaked and stretched around him. “Respect is overrated.”

“Holly—fuck, you’re killing me—”

I slide one hand up my own torso, teasing a nipple just because I know he’s watching, because I want him to watch, want him to see what he’s doing to me. I gasp and clench around him, hard, and his jaw drops.

“Oh my God—don’t do that,” he groans.

“What?” I tease, breath hitching as I grind down harder. “This?” I do it again—tighten around him while rolling my hips just right—and he lets out a full-body moan, something raw and startled.

He grabs my hips and thrusts up again, harder now, no rhythm, just need.

I gasp, bracing my hands on his chest as he starts moving beneath me, hips slamming up into mine with messy, desperate heat.

“Shit—Brian—” I gasp, head dipping forward, hips starting to lose their rhythm because everything’s too much and not enough at the same time. He’s deep, pulsing, so thick now with how close he is, and I can feel him twitching inside me every time I rock forward.

“I can’t—I’m sorry, I can’t hold—” he groans, voice cracking wide open, that scholarly restraint unraveling second by second. His eyes are glassy, blown wide with panic and pleasure, and something else—something tender and reverent, like he just realized he’s in love with a hurricane.

“You’re too tight,” he chokes out, hands gripping my hips like he’s clinging to reality. “You feel too good—I can’t—”

“Oh, God, don’t you dare stop,” I pant, voice thin, shot, hips still grinding. And then I start dragging myself on him harder, faster—each motion a slick, desperate roll that grinds my clit right against the base of his cock. Every move makes me jolt with pleasure, sharp and hot, my thighs starting to shake.

He catches on—of course he does—and suddenly that brain of his snaps into action, thumb sliding down between us, seeking, determined.

“You’re—oh fuck, you’re rubbing your—” His words dissolve when he realizes what I’m doing, and he moans like I’ve just cursed him with divine knowledge.

His thumb slips in, tentative at first, then surer, finding my clit and circling in tight, precise strokes like he’s mapping a language he’s only read about but is very eager to learn.

“Fuck, yes—there—right there, Brian” I cry, nails digging into his shoulders, my body arching over his as I grind against both the base of his cock and his fingers now, pleasure winding tighter with every desperate circle.

“God, you’re gonna make me come again,” he groans, breath coming fast, thumb relentless now, matching the frantic pace of my hips. “You’re—Holly, you’re—fuck—”

“I’m close—don’t stop—don’t you stop,” I whimper, forehead pressed to his, everything inside me tightening, pulsing, burning up.

His thumb keeps going, perfect, steady, and his cock is twitching again deep inside me, and then it all hits—me, him, everything at once, my orgasm crashing over me so hard it makes me cry out, legs shaking, thighs clenching around his hips as I break apart on top of him.

He follows immediately, buried deep, groaning through clenched teeth, arms wrapped around me like he’s trying to keep his soul from escaping.

We stay locked there—me trembling in his lap, him pulsing inside me, both of us gasping for air like we’ve just survived some ridiculous miracle.

Finally, his thumb stills, slipping away gently like he’s afraid he might accidentally trigger an aftershock. My hips falter, then go completely soft, folding over him as the last tremors of the orgasm ripple through me like echoes in a cave. I sag against his chest, melted and sticky and just a little breathless, still pulsing faintly around him with every beat of my heart.

He wraps his arms around me with the tenderness of a man cradling something breakable—which, to be fair, I currently am. Boneless. Giddy. Ruined in all the best ways.

“I think…” he pants, his voice barely hanging onto coherence, “I might need you to resuscitate me.”

I let out a quiet, dazed laugh into the curve of his neck, nuzzling there like a very smug, satisfied cat. “You can’t die on New Year’s, Professor. It’s bad luck.”

He groans faintly, still catching his breath. “Pretty sure I just flatlined.”

I lift my head, just enough to look down at him. His hair’s a mess—adorably wild—and his glasses are somewhere behind us, probably steamier than the hotel mirror. He looks completely undone, like a man who got hit by a sex hurricane and didn’t bother seeking shelter.

I brush a hand over his chest, slow and soothing. “Well. If you did die…” I say, pressing a kiss to his collarbone, “you went out doing something very commendable.”

His lips twitch into a grin. “A noble death.”

“Heroic, even.”

“You’ll put it on my tombstone?”

He chuckles—hoarse and breathless. “God, please let that be the last thing my students remember me for.”

I grin, curling into him again. “Well, if they ever find out about this night, they’ll be writing term papers about it.”

“‘Analyzing the Structural Breakdown of Professor Henwood: A Case Study in Complete and Joyful Ruin.’”

I snort, then kiss the corner of his mouth, gentle. “You really are a nerd.”

His eyes are warm, sleepy. “You really did just destroyed me.”

I hum, pleased. “You’re welcome.”

The room is still hazy with heat, skin pressed to skin, and outside the city is still glowing—bright lights, muffled fireworks, faraway laughter. A new year officially underway, and here I am: naked, tangled up with a half-conscious literature professor who might still think I’m a hallucination conjured by cheap champagne and academic burnout.

I stroke his cheek gently. “Happy New Year, Professor.”

He blinks up at me with a lazy, stunned smile. “Happy New Year, Holly.”