Jaywalking

by Rachel Ember

  Emile shook his head. “No. I understand some things are just a question of perspective. I’m glad that you don’t have to struggle. And I’m not sorry that I did. We all have our own paths.” He smiled. “You obviously like dogs. Did your family have them?”

  Jay remembered the moment in Laramie’s Bar when they’d still been strangers, and Emile had ordered a Coke instead of a drink with alcohol, and Jay had been sure, somehow, that it had been for Jay’s sake. To spare him a small discomfort. And like he had then, Jay felt full of warmth for him, except now the feeling was mixed up with knowing what his mouth and his cum tasted like, and he almost couldn’t breathe.

  “No. My mom’s allergic.” Emile nodded, and when another silence threatened, Jay went on determinedly. “What about you? Have you always had dogs?”

  “No. Godot is my first. I always wanted one, but my mother had her hands full with taking care of the two of us. She didn’t have the energy or, frankly, the money, to spend on a pet, too.”

  “Oh.” Jay tried to imagine Emile as a kid of limited means; it wasn’t easy, looking at him now. “Where’s your mom now?”

  “Still in New Orleans, where I’m from.”

  Jay grinned. “So, that’s what it is. I thought you had a little bit of an accent.”

  Emile smiled, too, and nodded. “Mine has never been strong, and it faded even more while I was in college.”

  “That’s cool. I haven’t really been to the south much, but New Orleans is one of those places everyone wants to go.”

  “I love the city, but living there and visiting there are different things. And you? Where did you grow up?”

  “A couple hours from here. A small town called Jameston.”

  “I’m not familiar.”

  Jay laughed. “No, you wouldn’t be. It’s a very small town.” He trailed his hand over the arm of the office’s guest chair, wondering if anyone had sat in it since he’d been there. And then he looked around the room, noticing the details that had escaped him before, when all he’d been able to pay attention to had been Emile. He was still hyper-aware of Emile; he still wanted to be touching him all the time. But it was different from the anxious kind of wanting he’d experienced before they’d touched and fucked and slept in the same bed together. Stronger, maybe, but more settled.

  There were framed certificates on the walls—degrees, and academic honors. The frames and matting matched, but the scrolling fonts and the textures of the paper varied. A bachelor’s degree in Literature—cum laude, of course—from the University of Texas. His Master’s degree from Columbia. Jay look over his shoulder, surprised. “You lived in New York?”

  Emile nodded as he finally left his spot by the door, and walked around the desk and sat in his chair. “Yes. It was wonderful—for a while. I don’t think I could have lived there my entire life. And, of course, Columbia was outstanding.”

  “I can imagine,” Jay murmured. Light winked on something on the carpet; he kneeled and, more carefully this time, pried a slender shard of glass out of the fibers of the rug and dropped it into the wastebasket. He recalled a question that had been lurking in his thoughts since the last time he’d seen Emile, and impulsively asked it. “When I was here… when I broke the jar… was that another professor who came in?”

  “Yes. Benjamin Canfield.”

  Was it Jay’s imagination, or did Emile sound the slightest bit tense when he spoke that name?

  “He’s the head of the English literature department,” Emile added.

  “Does that make him your boss?”

  “Yes.” Emile swallowed. “And we—we used to see each other.”

  Even though he’d half-suspected it, the confirmation left Jay briefly taken aback. He tried to keep his voice casual as he asked, “So, is he the ex that you’d just broken up with this summer?”

  Emile nodded.

  Jay couldn’t help imagining himself standing side-by-side with the other man, and wondered if they had a single thing in common other than their taste in men.

  And what did that say about Emile’s taste in men? Was Benjamin Emile’s type? If he was, what kind of a shot did Jay have at keeping Emile interested?

  Maybe not a very good shot at all… although that wouldn’t stop him from taking it.

  He leaned against the desk toward Emile. “I’ve wanted to see you so badly.” He tried to infuse the words with all of the yearning that had been seething in him for days. “I can’t stop thinking about you.” Jay didn’t go into detail, but his eyes roamed over Emile—over his mouth, and his hands. And in his head, vivid memories flashed of what he couldn’t see right now... the soft skin of his lean stomach and the slick, clenching heat of his lubed asshole.

  Jay closed his eyes to get a grip on himself, but opened them again when Emile spoke.

  “Me, too,” he murmured.

  Jay began to walk around the desk, trailing his hand against the edge of its surface as he moved. Emile’s eyelashes fluttered as his gaze shifted rapidly from Jay’s hand, up his arms to his face and back again, like he couldn’t decide where to focus.

  God, it was the most thrilling thing Jay had ever known, seeing Emile react to him so profoundly, even when his actions were so small. Maybe nothing about them made sense from the outside looking in; maybe he couldn’t understand why Emile wanted Jay when he could have had someone who’d made something of themselves—a peer. But from the inside of this bubble that seemed to form around them when they were together, it did make sense. Jay could feel a connection between them that went beyond something as arbitrary as their objective compatibility.

  He stepped around the corner of the desk so that he stood in front of Emile, who’d turned his chair to face Jay, his lips now parted and his head tilted back to stare up at him. The sweet thrill in Jay’s chest ratcheted up in intensity. He’d never felt quite this powerful; it was like he’d just scored winning goals and made a roomful of people laugh and caught a dozen cute men giving him a once-over, all at the same time.

  He lowered himself between Emile’s knees, drunk on the feeling, and ran his hands up the smooth fabric of Emile’s slacks, feeling the taut muscles seize beneath the cool, silky fabric, even as Emile looked down at him with dismayed, rapt eyes.

  “What—we—” Emile said, his voice breathy.

  “You locked the door, didn’t you?” Jay asked. His hands completed their path up Emile’s tantalizing thighs, and his fingertips skimmed the smooth-grain leather of his belt.

  Emile swallowed hard and nodded.

  “Do you want me to stop?” he asked, sliding his thumb along the line of Emile’s thigh and biting his cheek against a groan when he felt the rigid flesh of Emile’s cock, hard and eager, through the fabric.

  Emile shook his head, a lock of his soft, beautiful hair falling out of place and over his forehead. For some reason, that loose lock of hair made Jay too crazy to wait another second. He unbuttoned and unzipped Emile’s pants, drew out his cock, and put it in his mouth.

  Twelve

  Emile

  October

  Emile leaned back in his chair, his legs shaking as Jay’s warm mouth surrounded him, the sunlight through the window behind him haloing Jay like a dirty fallen angel. He had hooked a few fingers into Emile’s unzipped fly to tug his trousers out of the way; his thumb was snug against the base of Emile’s cock, protecting him from the bite of the zipper. With his other hand, Jay stole his way past Emile’s shirttails and splayed his palm over Emile’s stomach. The possessive gesture felt overwhelmingly good.

  Emile wasn’t sure how he could feel so casually mastered when he was the one sitting in a desk chair with his tie and jacket on, and Jay was the one kneeling on the floor. But Jay’s control was indisputable as he languorously teased Emile with his tongue and the occasional, deliberate rasp of his teeth.

  He wanted to touch Jay’s hair, and while with other partners he might have hesitated, it felt right to surrender to the impulse with Jay, pushing his silky golden waves
off of his forehead. At his touch, Jay looked up, his eyes bright and blue and warm. Emile met that stare and memorized the sight of Jay like this, with Emile still buried in his mouth. The urge to come too soon made Emile writhe in his chair.

  Jay pulled off just long enough to jerk at the spread waistband of Emile’s trousers, and with a whimper and a glance at the locked door, Emile shimmied out of them without protest. Jay immediately took his cock into his mouth again, cheeks hollowing as he sucked hard at Emile’s head. “Fuck,” Emile grunted, his hands clenched on the arms of his chair.

  Jay wormed his right hand beneath Emile; at some point, he must have sucked on his fingers—because they were wet and probing along the cleft of Emile’s ass with unmistakable intent.

  “Jay, God,” Emile whimpered, but he was already arching his back, levering up his hips to give Jay access, and a choked sigh was punched out of him when Jay pushed his forefinger inside to the first knuckle.

  He jerked as he came, hands scrabbling against the arms of the chair and legs jerking in the pooled legs of his pants, his knees straining against the elastic of his briefs and Jay’s palm spread over his right ass cheek, holding him steady while his right forefinger continued to push and roll inside Emile. All the while, Jay’s lips and tongue and throat worked his cock like he was thirsty for every drop Emile gave him.

  When Emile was spent and sensitive, Jay gently lowered him back onto the chair and kissed the tops of his thighs, and then he rested his chin there, looking up at him. Emile stroked back his hair again, his head lolling heavily on his shoulders, convinced all of his bones had melted.

  “Please don’t tell me that we have to stop,” Jay pleaded quietly.

  Emile let a lock of blond hair catch on his thumb, and then he pushed it back, too. “We should,” he said in a halfhearted whisper.

  Jay’s eyes narrowed, and Emile could understand why. Emile’s phrasing hadn’t escaped Jay, and neither had his tone. But Jay stood up and, to Emile’s surprise, pulled Emile up with him, and then he bent and retrieved his briefs, helping Emile into them. Afterward, he did the same with his trousers. And then he turned them so that he could drop into the chair, making as though to pull Emile into his lap along with him.

  Emile half-laughed, half-yelped in protest, his cheeks still warm from the absurd pleasure of Jay dressing him. He braced his feet against the floor—before the poor old chair could be forced to take their combined weight—and slid down to his knees between Jay’s legs instead, kneeling where Jay had knelt, but with his arm stretched out across Jay’s lap and Jay’s hand sliding into his.

  Once he was there, he couldn’t help noticing that Jay was hard. But when he tugged at Jay’s hand to free his own and do something about it, Jay held his fingers harder, and lifted his other hand to stroke Emile’s hair until Emile looked up at him.

  “This is nice,” he said quietly. “I like you right there.”

  Emile’s cheeks grew hot again. “I like me right here, too,” he admitted, wondering if Jay really understood the significance of Emile kneeling for him, and not simply for sex. There was something about Jay’s expression that suggested he just might.

  Instincts. Jay had them, even if he didn’t have the experience to match. Emile had always known a Dom needed both, and wondered which one was more important. He thought he knew now.

  Sighing, Emile rested his cheek against Jay’s knee and closed his eyes.

  For about a minute, neither of them said anything, and Jay stroked Emile’s hair. Then, Jay said quietly, “We should stop, but we won’t, right?”

  “I… don’t think I can,” Emile admitted.

  Behind him, the sun fell through the window, warming his back.

  “She’s so small,” Emile said, watching the tiny black dog dart across Oliver’s backyard, which had a new wrought-iron fence encircling the landscaped lawn.

  “She’s the average size for her breed,” Oliver said crisply, as if Emile had offended him.

  “I didn’t mean to call your precious, vicious dog a runt,” Emile said, shaking his head in amusement.

  They were sitting on Oliver’s back patio, drinking Moscow mules from the traditional copper mugs because Oliver took his full bar and its accessories very seriously—particularly for someone who only drank when he had company.

  The black Chihuahua—Cujo, Emile remembered incredulously—was a determinedly unfriendly dog. She had bared her tiny teeth at Emile, and though she didn’t openly snarl at Oliver, she didn’t seem to think very highly of him, either. She’d kept trying to bite their feet while they’d been in the house, though now that they were outdoors, she seemed to hope that if she just ignored them for long enough, they’d disappear.

  Emile was mystified by Oliver’s apparent attachment, but his friend watched Cujo prowl the yard with unmistakable affection in his dark blue eyes. Well, if it took a small, feral animal to make Oliver content, Emile would support what he couldn’t understand. At least, though Emile kept sneaking glances at Oliver’s hands, he didn’t see any signs of fresh bites. Maybe Oliver was making progress with his odd little pet.

  “How are things going with that student of yours?” Oliver lifted his mug to his lips and raised his dark red eyebrows at Emile.

  Emile was glad that he hadn’t been mid-sip. He carefully set down his mug and ran his fingertip over the hammered texture of the copper, drawing a line through the heavy condensation. “Do we have attorney-client privilege?” he asked with weary sarcasm.

  Oliver chuckled, sounding equally sarcastic when he replied, “Oh no. Is it that bad? What did you do, tell him he could have an A if he blew you at your desk?”

  Emile’s eyes darted to his, startled by the way the joke so closely eclipsed reality, and Oliver laughed in earnest, setting down his drink and leaning over his crossed legs toward Emile with a wide grin, his dark blue eyes intent. “Oh no.” He looked delighted. “Emile. Are you awakening as a switch?”

  He snorted, half-tempted to try to describe what it had felt like—how deliciously powerless he’d been with Jay’s head in his lap, his polished shoes on the floor of his office, his tie in place, seeing the distant students walking the crisscrossing paths on the quad out of his second-story office window. His heart had never soared quite that high; he’d never felt more submissive.

  Oliver wouldn’t understand, even if Emile wrote a sonnet about it, so he wouldn’t try.

  “You don’t have to tell me I’m being an idiot,” Emile muttered.

  Oliver sobered. “Did I say that?”

  Emile shook his head. “Like I said, you don’t have to. I already know.”

  His friend leaned back in his chair, watching him closely. “I can tell that you don’t think you’re being an idiot. Your shame doesn’t have that particular flavor.”

  “Flavor?” Even by Oliver’s standards, this was rich.

  Oliver went on, nonplussed. “You think you’re being—a villain.” He nodded to himself, smug at the infallibility of his powers of observation. “You feel guilty. All right, then. Now, I think you’re being an idiot.”

  “Not an idiot for having—for having had sex with a student? But an idiot for feeling guilty about it?” Emile demanded.

  “Yes.”

  Emile shook his head and sipped his drink, just for something to do.

  Oliver crossed his arms. “How is it villainous? You’re both adults.”

  “Because—it’s wrong. It’s against at least three rules.” Emile had reviewed the handbook. “Maybe four!”

  Oliver rolled his eyes. “All kinds of harmless crap is ‘against the rules.’ Would you call someone a bad person for crossing an empty street outside of the crosswalk?”

  Emile didn’t answer; he routinely walked the extra distance to the crosswalks even when there wasn’t a car in sight.

  Discerning something from his silence, Oliver laughed. “Oh, my sweet friend.” His voice had real warmth, which was a rarity for him. “You’ve never even jaywalked.”
/>   “I thought lawyers were supposed to care about rules,” Emile muttered.

  “No. We only care about weighing risks. And money.”

  “If not rules, then what about ethics? There’s an inherent, and likely unconscious power imbalance between us. Can he really give meaningfully consent?”

  Oliver chuckled. “Oh, I have no doubt that there’s a power imbalance between you, but I’m pretty sure that you’re not the one asking permission.”

  Emile glared at him, but he had a point.

  “And you met him in the bar, not in class,” Oliver pointed out.

  Nothing that Oliver was saying had escaped Emile, but it felt better to hear the counterpoints out of someone else’s mouth. Emile took a deep breath, settling on the most difficult of the issues. “But how can I be objective with him? Give him the grade he deserves and not inflate it because we…?”

  “You’re not capable of giving someone a grade they didn’t earn,” Oliver said flatly. “Be serious.”

  “But it wouldn’t have to be conscious! Maybe I’ll see everything I grade from him in a more favorable light and won’t even realize it.”

  “That happens anyway.” Oliver gestured dismissively. “You already have students you like and students you don’t. Preconceived notions, etcetera, etcetera. If the faculty really didn’t think you could grade a group of students as fairly as humanly possible, and while managing your conscious and unconscious biases to the best of your ability, then they shouldn’t have let you teach to start with.”

  Emile almost smiled, amused by how easily Oliver could launch into an impassioned argument. “You say you’re not my lawyer, but you sound like you’re giving a closing statement at my eventual hearing in front of the faculty discipline committee.”

  “Hardly!” Oliver scoffed. “If I were, I would open and close my case with the simple fact that they can hardly punish you for doing what was done to you on Walland’s watch.”

  Emile hunched his shoulders. Ben and Emile’s relationship wasn’t the same—Emile hadn’t exactly been a student anymore by the time they’d gone public—and Oliver knew it, too. But Emile wasn’t sure that made his point any less effective.