Chapter Seven
If Professor Iseya was trying to kill Summer...
He might just get his wish before long.
Summer lay stretched on his stomach in bed and replayed this morning. That kiss. Iseya’s long, strong thighs wrapped against his hips, the way he could feel Iseya’s hardened cock pulsing against his own, arousal thick on the air between them and its scent dripping as heavily, as headily as the honeysuckles. The way Iseya had tasted, as their mouths had mated together until they were practically drinking each other dry. The quiet control in Iseya’s every touch, making sure Summer knew his place—and that place was submitting to him with needy gasps, pliant and wanting.
And how Iseya had refused to even look at him or acknowledge him unless it involved classwork for the rest of the day, once Summer had come back from calming himself down and clearing his head.
With a groan, he dragged a pillow up, buried his face in the sheets, and then flumped the pillow right back down on top of his head.
Wanting Professor Fox Iseya was murder.
Lifting his head, blowing his hair from his eyes, Summer buried his arms under the pillow, settled his chin against the case, and stared at his headboard, the worn dark-stained wood nearly black in the deep evening darkness, the barest hint of moonlight through the windows gilding and outlining the edges.
How long would Iseya let this keep going on?
Two days, two kisses, and Summer was already a tangled-up wreck.
While Iseya, no matter how hotly he kissed Summer each time...
Fell back on cold detachment and distance the second it was over, as if it had never happened.
As if he really felt nothing, and no matter how his body might respond when he touched Summer, kissed him...
He’d never let Summer in beyond that, to scale those cold walls to find the warmth inside.
Maybe this really was just an experiment to Iseya, and in a few months he’d get tired of it once Summer proved he could be conditioned by Pavlovian methods far too easily, and it stopped being even remotely interesting.
Iseya was just...
Was just doing this to give him incentive to take those necessary small steps with his anxiety, anyway.
That...
That shouldn’t hurt so much.
The pain was a small thing in the center of his chest, but it had the weight and gravitational mass of planets.
Sighing, Summer mooshed his face into the pillowcase again.
He was a mess.
And he needed to get some sleep. He’d spent half the evening cleaning up a disaster zone of potentially hazardous chemicals Dr. Liu had left in the kitchen sink like it didn’t even matter, and the other half dozing off over reviewing student homework assignments on why Freudian principles no longer applied in modern psychology. In the morning he was supposed to try drafting his first lesson plan on his own, submitted for Iseya’s approval, and—
—and he lifted his head sharply, heart giving an erratic thump, at the sounds of shouting echoing from down the hall.
He tumbled out of bed, not even bothering with shoes or a shirt over his pajama pants, and bolted out into the living room. He caught a glimpse of Liu’s door creaking open and sleepy, confused eyes peeking out before Summer spilled out into the hall.
Just in time to catch two boys come tumbling out of their room, tangled up in a smashing, punching, slapping brawl with limbs flying everywhere and clothing ripping, just a flash of grit-toothed faces and angry eyes before they crashed to the floor, while all up and down the hall more doors opened, lights flicked on.
“Hey!” Summer threw himself at the mess of thrashing arms and legs, thrusting himself between one boy and the other just in time for the knee that had been smashing toward one boy’s face to hit Summer right in the ribs.
He grunted, flinching back as a dull burst of pain hit him, but managed not to fall.
While the boy who’d just kneed him froze, his snarling grimace turning into a look of abject terror as he took in exactly who he was looking at.
Summer guessed he did have some clout as a teacher, after all.
Straightening, sucking in a few wheezing breaths and pressing his hand over his aching side, he looked between the two boys; the other lay on the ground with his cheek purpling and swelling, one eye forced nearly shut, while the boy in front of Summer had a busted nose, blood trickling down onto his upper lip. Jay Corey and Eli Schumaker, if Summer remembered them right from second and third block class rosters.
“Don’t move,” he told Eli firmly; Eli didn’t budge an inch save for to drop his leg, staring at Summer with his eyes so wide the whites showed all around, face petrified in a mask of fear and his half-clenched fists still upraised.
Summer bent to offer Jay his hand. “C’mon,” he said. “Up.”
Sniffling, Jay rubbed at his nose and then stared at his bloody fingers, before giving Summer his other hand. Summer pulled him up, drawing him to his feet until he found his balance; then Summer lifted his head, looking down the hall. Several other students peered out with wide-eyed curiosity; a few other teachers had emerged as well.
“Go back to your rooms,” Summer called. “It’s past curfew.”
He knew the magic word.
And on curfew doors started slamming instantly, while a few of the other teachers moved down the halls, checking to make sure the boys complied.
Summer returned his attention to the two battered boys in front of him—who quite pointedly stood apart from each other, keeping Summer between them and not looking at each other.
Summer sighed, folding his arms over his chest. “Okay, what started this?”
Neither Jay nor Eli answered. Until Eli muttered half under his breath, “...punk piece of—”
“Eli,” Summer cut off firmly, but Jay was already glaring at Eli.
“You started it,” he growled, and Eli whipped back around, gesturing fiercely.
“The hell I did, I told you you could come if you
