Fox had the iron part down.
But Summer...
Summer seemed to be the one who understood the nurturing in ways that Fox couldn’t.
And it was quite curious to watch both how Summer smiled and bloomed with easy warmth as he explained concepts in simple terms, and how Craig’s face cleared with comprehension and almost pride as he grasped onto them.
“Oh,” Craig said. “Oh—that, I get it, so it’s about measuring functional capacity. I think I can use that to answer the question. Thanks, Mr....what was your name again?”
“Su—” Summer caught himself, flicked Fox an almost sheepish look, then half-smiled, eyes creasing, brightening. “Hemlock. It’s Mr. Hemlock.”
“Thanks, Mr. Hemlock.” Craig gathered his things up, standing with the awkward, jerky motions of effusive youth; a quick look toward Fox, a nervous dip of his head, and he scurried out of the office, the door slamming closed behind him with an absolute lack of manners.
And leaving them alone.
Summer looked over his shoulder at the door, then back to Fox, before offering a rueful smile, hunching down into his shoulders a bit. “Sorry, I just... I kind of jumped in there a bit.”
“I was actually quite surprised you did,” Fox said. “You seem much less anxious in singular interactions.”
Shrugging one shoulder, Summer said, “I mean...he’s just one kid. It’s a lot easier to talk one-on-one than it is to stand up in front of a bunch of them, all of them staring at me, while I’m actually trying to make them listen. I’m... I’m not someone who captures people’s attention. I’m not someone who can impress people. So I just feel like they’re staring at me and wondering what I’m doing up there, because I don’t belong.”
I’m not someone who captures people’s attention.
And yet...
Somehow he seemed to have captured Fox’s.
“What you’re describing,” Fox said, “is impostor syndrome. You’re well aware of your technical qualifications to do the job, and yet you doubt them nonetheless because you fear others can see your personal failings and insecurities.”
A ghost of a smile flitted across Summer’s lips. “I know the textbook definition of impostor syndrome, Professor Iseya. But knowing it doesn’t make it any easier to get past it.”
“I am far too familiar with that unfortunate dichotomy.”
“I guess you would be, huh.” But before he could explain that cryptic statement, Summer looked away, clearing his throat softly and rubbing his hand to the back of his neck, a pink tinge seeping into tanned cheeks. “So...was that brave enough to earn my kiss for the day?”
Fox nearly choked on his next breath.
He didn’t know why he thought, after a night’s sleep and by the light of the next day, Summer might well have forgotten this little gambit.
Or realized, at least, that Fox was quite old, quite dull, and quite impossible to deal with in any sort of...romantic context.
Yet here he was, with that tiny smile still playing about his lips, nearly quivering with a sort of shy, sweet hope that seemed to radiate off him in a cloud of warmth.
Fox sighed, setting his pen down on the desk.
He had made an agreement.
And he did honor his agreements.
With an irritated sound in the back of his throat, he stood, crooking his finger. “Well, come here. I’m not kissing you across the damned desk again,” he muttered.
Summer’s head came up so sharply his hair actually flopped back from those wide, brightening blue eyes, before he tumbled out of the chair and stood as if coming to attention.
“Where—I—should I—”
Fox closed his eyes.
“Hellfire,” he growled, stepped around the desk, hooked his arm around Summer’s waist, and jerked him in to kiss him.
He didn’t mean to be rough—but there was something annoying about Summer, something that got under his skin and frustrated Fox until he felt like he was punishing Summer with that kiss, abusing his mouth in hard, hot caresses that only barely waited to ask permission, waited for the low moan and the slack softness of Summer’s mouth to invite him in before he invaded, searching deep as if he could find whatever it was that made Summer so persistent, so irritating, so...so...
Intoxicating.
There was something intoxicating about the way Summer’s body molded to his; about the taut, lithe strength hidden beneath the crispness of his shirt, his slacks, those shoulders firm and tapering down to a narrow waist, slim hips. About the way Summer had to just barely rise up on his toes to reach, leaving him leaning harder still against Fox; about the way his hands caught at Fox’s arms just above the elbows, snared in the sleeves of his shirt, held on tight.
He was so warm.
And so completely, sweetly submissive, as Fox caught Summer’s lower lip between his teeth and pulled it into his mouth to taste him, to tease him, to suckle and bite and nibble until the flesh turned warmer still in his mouth, tender and giving to every bite while Summer let out soft, helpless, hungry sounds that did absolutely terrible things to Fox’s constitution. His control.
His restraint, as he let his fingers fall to dig into Summer’s hips, and pulled the aggravating young thing into him.
No room between them. No space for breath, for hesitation, for doubt when Summer gave himself over so willingly with a deep, husky moan—but suddenly he was shoving Fox back, pushing him with his body, challenging him with the pressure of flesh to flesh as he nudged Fox until his hips hit the desk and he slid back, settling atop the cherrywood, and Summer angled his hips between his knees—ah.
Ah.
Fox let his thighs spread, flanking Summer’s hips.
And as Summer leaned into him, pressed flush...
Ah, God.
The heavy, hard ridge of arousal was unmistakable, and the answering heat in Iseya was undeniable, a raw hot burst of throbbing pressure rising against his slacks, sliding against Summer until they were chest to chest, hip to hip, cock to cock, and their tongues twined in slow, deep mimicry of the subtle rhythmic movements between them, suggestive and
