Chapter 4 Edge of Control

Theo Pov 

I leave the room like I’m walking away from a live wire.

Door clicks shut behind me. Hallway air feels colder than it should. My cock is still half-hard, jeans chafing every step down the stairs. Pulse hammering in my ears. Taste of his skin still on my tongue—salt, cinnamon, the faint metallic tang where I bit too hard.

I make it to the architecture annex. Slide into critique five minutes late. Professor Linden raises one eyebrow but doesn’t comment. I take my seat. Open my laptop. Pretend the render on screen is the most important thing in the world.

It isn’t.

Every time someone speaks I hear his voice instead—cracked, begging, sir please. Every time I shift in my chair I feel the ghost of his thighs wrapped around me, the way he clenched when I pinned him.

My phone stays face-down on the table.

I don’t touch it.

Not for the first twenty minutes.

Then it vibrates. Once. Soft buzz against wood.

I ignore it.

Another buzz. Then another.

My jaw tightens so hard my molars ache.

I flip the phone over.

Three messages from Jaz. No preview text—just video attachments.

I glance around. No one’s looking. Everyone’s staring at the shitty parametric model on the projector.

I open the first video. Volume off. Ear angled away from the guy next to me.

Jaz on his knees. Hand wrapped around his cock—slow, torturous strokes. Face flushed. Eyes half-lidded. Mouth open. He’s whispering something—lips moving, no sound—but I read it.

Theo. Sir. Fuck—need you.

He speeds up. Hips jerk. Veins stand out on his forearm. Then he stops—abrupt. Hand squeezes the base. Head drops forward. Shoulders shake. Video ends.

Second video: same position, but now he’s got two fingers in his ass. Pumping slow. Cock leaking steadily onto the sheets. He’s whimpering—silent in the muted clip, but I can hear it in my head. High, broken, desperate.

He edges again. Right to the brink. Stops. Slaps his own thigh once—hard—trying to pull himself back. Tears on his cheeks.

Third: he’s on his back now. Legs spread wide. Hand flying. “Can’t—fuck—Theo—” Stops again. Drops the phone. Screen goes black mid-sob.

My dick is fully hard now. Painfully. Pre-cum soaking through boxers.

I lock the screen. Breathe through my nose. Slow. Controlled.

I fail.

I text him one-handed under the table.

You’re doing so well. One more. Send proof.

Dots appear immediately.

Yes sir.

I sit through the rest of critique like I’m underwater. Words wash over me. I nod. I ask one question about material stress that makes the presenter stutter. I don’t hear the answer.

When Linden dismisses us I’m out the door before anyone can speak to me.

I don’t go to the library. Don’t go to the café.

I go straight back to East Hall.

Door’s unlocked again.

I push in.

He’s exactly where the last video left him—on his back, legs wide, hand still wrapped around his cock but frozen mid-stroke. Eyes red-rimmed. Chest heaving. Cock so red it looks painful. Leaking in thick beads down his shaft.

He looks at me like I’m oxygen.

“Sir—”

I don’t speak.

I lock the door. Drop my bag. Kick the door shut harder than necessary.

Cross the room in three strides.

Grab his wrists. Pin them above his head with one hand.

He gasps—sharp, needy.

I lean down. Bite his bottom lip—hard enough to draw blood this time.

He moans into my mouth. Tongue chasing mine. Desperate. Sloppy.

I pull back just enough to growl against his lips.

“You edged four times now?”

“Five,” he whispers. Voice wrecked. “Couldn’t stop after the third. Kept thinking about you—your mouth—your cock—fuck—”

I release his wrists. Shove my hand down between us. Grip him—tight.

He bucks—whole body jerking.

“Bad boy.”

“I’m sorry—sir—please—”

I stroke once—slow, punishing.

He sobs.

I stop.

“On your knees.”

He scrambles. Kneels on the floor in front of me. Hands behind his back like he already knows.

I unzip. Pull myself out—still hard from the videos. Slick at the tip.

“Open.”

He does. Tongue out. Eyes locked on mine.

I feed him my cock—slow at first. Let him taste. Then deeper. Until I hit the back of his throat.

He gags. Tears spill. Doesn’t pull away.

I grab his hair. Fuck his mouth—slow, deep thrusts. Controlling the pace.

He moans around me—vibrations shooting straight to my balls.

“Good,” I mutter. “So fucking good.”

He hums. Takes me deeper. Nose pressed to my pubes.

I pull out. Slap his cheek lightly with my cock—wet, obscene.

“Bed. On your stomach. Ass up.”

He crawls. Obeys. Face down, ass presented. Hole still slick from his own fingers earlier.

I strip the rest of the way. Climb behind him.

Spit on my hand. Slick myself. Line up.

Push in—one hard thrust.

He screams into the pillow—muffled, raw.

I don’t stop. Pound him—deep, relentless. Hand on the back of his neck holding him down.

“Mine,” I growl with every thrust. “Fucking mine.”

“Yes—yours—sir—fuck—harder—”

I give it to him.

Bedframe slams the wall. Skin slaps skin. His moans turn to sobs.

I reach around. Grab his cock—stroke in time with my thrusts.

“Come when I do.”

He’s shaking. Hole clenching. “Can’t—gonna—please—”

“Now.”

I slam deep. Come hard—filling him. Hot pulses that make him shudder.

He follows—cock spurting across the sheets. Whole body convulsing.

I collapse over him. Still inside. Arms wrapped tight around his chest.

Don’t pull out.

Just hold.

Breathe against his neck.

He’s trembling. Soft whimpers.

I kiss the bruise I left on his shoulder.

“Stay,” he whispers.

I don’t answer.

Just tighten my arms.

My phone buzzes—class reminder. Group project meeting.

I reach over. Silence it.

Turn it off completely.

Press my lips to the back of his neck.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He exhales—shaky, relieved.

I stay buried inside him. Softening slowly.

Hold him like if I let go he’ll disappear.

For the first time I don’t care about deadlines.

I care about this.

About him.

About the way he fits against me like he was made for it.

I’m fucked.

Completely, irreversibly fucked.

And I don’t want to be unfucked.

Ever.