Extra Credit by Milo Hart - MM College Romance book cover

Extra Credit — Bonus Chapter

Office Hours
A scene too hot for Amazon
by Milo Hart

This bonus chapter takes place two months after the end of Extra Credit. Adrian and Mason are officially together, the semester is over, and spring has arrived at Whitfield. But some habits die hard — especially the ones that involve a locked door and the words “sit down.”

My office hours are Tuesdays and Thursdays, two to four, and exactly no one comes.

This is by design. I’ve cultivated a reputation for being thorough, exacting, and mildly terrifying, which means the students who need help come prepared and the students who don’t need help stay away, and I get four hours a week to sit at my desk and work on my thesis in peace. The graduate office is quiet. Kai is teaching. The building hums with the distant sound of someone else’s class. I have my laptop, my coffee, and the satisfying isolation of a man who has organized his professional life to minimize interruption.

At 2:47 PM, someone knocks on the door.

I don’t look up. “Office hours are posted on the door. Come in.”

“I know when your office hours are.”

I look up.

Mason is standing in the doorway. He’s wearing a button-down — an actual button-down, not a hoodie, not a team shirt — with the sleeves rolled to the elbow in what I immediately recognize as a deliberate, targeted imitation of my own aesthetic. His hair is pushed back. He’s carrying a notebook. His jeans are the fitted ones, the dark pair he bought after I mentioned — once, offhandedly, while he was lying naked in my bed — that he looked good in denim that actually fit.

He bought jeans because I said he looked good in them. He is wearing those jeans now, in my office, at three in the afternoon.

He’s grinning.

“I need help with my homework,” he says.

“You’re not in my class.”

“I’m in your everything.” He steps inside. Closes the door. I hear the lock click — soft, deliberate, the sound of a man who has thought about this and decided to do it anyway. “And I have a question about probability.”

“Mason.”

“Mr. Vale.” His grin widens. He walks to the chair across from my desk — the student chair, the institutional plastic thing that a hundred undergraduates have sat in while I explained concepts they should have learned in prerequisite courses — and he sits down. Crosses his legs. Opens his notebook to a page that is, I can see from here, completely blank.

“I’m having trouble,” he says, “with conditional probability.”

“You got an A-minus on your Stats 202 midterm. Your understanding of conditional probability is above the class median.”

“Maybe I need a refresher.” He leans forward. Elbows on his knees. That look — the one I’ve categorized, filed, and failed to develop an immunity to. Dark eyes, open face, the carefully deployed innocence of a man who is anything but. “I learn better with structure. You know that.”

I take my glasses off. Put them back on. The tell — he knows the tell, he’s been reading it since October, and I can see the knowledge in his eyes. He knows exactly what the gesture means. He’s counting on it.

The door is locked. Kai is in class until four. The hallway outside is empty — I can tell by the silence, the particular quality of academic quiet that means no one is around to hear anything that happens in this office for the next hour.

I should send him home. I should tell him that this is my workplace, that the desk he’s eyeing has a stack of ungraded problem sets on it, that I have a meeting with my advisor at four-thirty and I cannot show up to that meeting smelling like sex and looking like a man whose carefully maintained professional veneer was dismantled by a twenty-one-year-old in fitted jeans.

I should do all of those things.

“Close your notebook,” I say.

He closes it.

“Stand up.”

He stands. The speed of his compliance hasn’t changed since the first night — instant, full-body, the reflexive obedience of a man whose nervous system was rewired in a study room and has never been rewired back. He’s on his feet before the second syllable leaves my mouth, and the chair rolls backward, and he’s standing in front of my desk with his hands at his sides and his chin slightly lifted, waiting.

Two words, and we’re back. Not back to the beginning — back to the language. The private dialect we built in a study room and an apartment and a bed with ruined hospital corners. The vocabulary of command and compliance that isn’t about power anymore, that hasn’t been about power since the night he said I love you and I said it back. It’s about play. About the mutual, joyful, consensual recreation of the dynamic that made us — two people who discovered each other through the structure of teaching and never stopped wanting to learn.

“Come here,” I say.

He walks around the desk. Stands in front of my chair. I’m sitting; he’s standing. The height difference is reversed from our usual configuration — he’s above me, looking down, and I’m looking up, and the novelty of the angle sends a current through my body that settles directly behind my belt.

“Question one,” I say. “If the probability of a student coming to office hours is point-oh-five, and the probability that said student locks the door is point-nine-five given attendance, what’s the probability that I’m about to do something inadvisable?”

“One,” he says. “The probability is one.”

“Correct.”

I reach up. Grab his belt. Pull him forward until his hips are at the level of my face and his hands land on the back of my chair for balance, and the sound he makes — a low, caught breath, the involuntary intake of a man who was expecting this and is still surprised by how much he wants it — settles into my bones like a chord resolving.

“Adrian —” His voice drops. “We’re in your office.”

“I’m aware.”

“Anyone could —”

“The door is locked. Kai’s in class. And you started this.” I run my thumb along the inside of his belt, tracing the warm skin just below his navel. His stomach contracts under my touch. “You walked in here in a button-down with your sleeves rolled and said you needed help with your homework. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

“I really did,” he admits. His voice is already thickening — that honeyed, rough-edged quality that only appears when he’s turned on. I can hear his pulse in it.

“You dressed up for this.” I undo the belt. Slowly. The leather slides through the buckle with a whisper. “You put on a button-down to come seduce me during office hours.”

“I wanted to make a good impression.”

“You wanted to make me lose my mind.”

“Same thing.”

I unbutton his jeans. One button, then the zipper, tooth by tooth, and he watches my hands work with an expression of concentrated need that makes the blood in my body redirect itself with embarrassing speed. He’s hard — the ridge of him visible through the dark denim before I even get the zipper down, straining against the fabric. He’s been hard since he locked the door. Possibly since he left his dorm. Possibly since he woke up this morning and decided to weaponize a shirt and a blank notebook.

I pull the waistband of his boxers down and free his cock and the sight of him — thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip — in the fluorescent lighting of an academic office, three feet from a framed departmental poster about the Gauss-Markov theorem, is so obscene it borders on sacred.

“Question two,” I say. My hand wraps around him. His whole body jolts. “If I do this—” I stroke him, one long, slow pull from base to tip, my thumb sweeping across the slick head. “—what is the probability that you remain quiet?”

“Zero,” he gasps. “Fuck — zero.”

“Then we have a problem.” I stroke him again. Slower. Tighter. Twisting my wrist at the top the way I’ve learned makes his knees buckle. “Because these walls are thin, Mason. And if someone hears you—”

“I’ll be quiet.”

“You’ve never been quiet in your life.”

“I’ll try.”

“Not good enough.” I release him. He whines — actually whines, in a graduate office. “I need a guarantee.”

“What kind of guarantee?”

I look up at him. He looks down at me. His face is flushed, his pupils blown so wide the brown has nearly disappeared, his lips parted and wet where he’s been biting them. He looks debauched. He looks like a man standing on the edge of a cliff deciding whether to jump.

“You don’t make a sound,” I say. “Not one. If you do, I stop. And I don’t start again.”

His jaw works. A swallow. The competitive streak — the one that makes him lethal on a lacrosse field, the one that responds to challenge the way gunpowder responds to flame — flares behind his eyes.

“Deal,” he says.

I take him in my mouth.

His hands slam onto the back of my chair. His knuckles go white. His entire body locks — every muscle, every tendon, the full infrastructure of a Division I athlete engaged in the singular task of not making a sound while his boyfriend swallows his cock in a university office.

He fails almost immediately.

The noise is small — barely a sound, more like a pressurized exhale, a hiss through clenched teeth — but it’s enough. I pull off. Look up at him.

“That was a sound.”

“That was breathing.”

“Breathing doesn’t have a vowel in it.”

“Adrian, I swear to God—”

“Again. From the top. No sounds.”

He grits his teeth. Nods. I take him back in my mouth — deeper this time, testing his resolve, taking him until I feel the head of his cock brush the back of my throat and his thighs tremble against my shoulders. I work him with my tongue — slow, deliberate strokes along the underside, circling the head, finding the spot just below the ridge that I mapped weeks ago and have been exploiting ruthlessly ever since.

He’s silent. Agonizingly, heroically silent. I can see the cost of it — the tendons in his neck standing in relief, the muscles in his jaw clenching so hard I can hear his teeth, his fingers gripping the chair back with a force that’s going to leave marks in the upholstery. He’s holding it in. Every sound, every moan, every iteration of my name that usually fills whatever room we’re in — locked behind his teeth, building pressure, the containment making everything more intense.

I reach up and press my hand flat against his stomach. Feel the muscles clenching and releasing in rhythmic waves. I can feel his heartbeat through his abdominal wall — fast, erratic, the tattoo of a body operating at maximum capacity.

I pull off. He sways. His eyes are glassy and unfocused and he looks like a man who has been edged for an hour, not four minutes.

“Good,” I say. Low. Quiet. The word I have been using to dismantle this man since October.

A sound escapes him. Small, involuntary — a whimper, pressed through his teeth, triggered not by the physical sensation but by the word. The word that has been his trigger since the first session, since the first problem he solved correctly, since I discovered that Mason Cruz’s nervous system responds to verbal praise the way a tuning fork responds to its resonant frequency.

“That was a sound,” I say.

“You did that on purpose.”

“I’m a very good teacher.”

“You’re a menace.”

“Turn around.”

He turns. Slowly. His jeans are open and hanging off his hips and his cock is hard and wet and jutting from his body in a way that would be comedic if it weren’t the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen in this office. He places his palms flat on my desk — on my desk, on the surface where I grade papers and write thesis chapters and maintain the professional facade of a man who definitely does not bend his boyfriend over departmental furniture.

The sight of him there — braced, waiting, the button-down pulling taut across his shoulders, his back a long brown slope of muscle that disappears into the open waistband of his jeans — makes me grip the armrests of my chair hard enough that the joints creak.

“I keep supplies in the bottom drawer,” I say. “For contingencies.”

He turns his head. Looks at me over his shoulder. “Contingencies? You keep lube in your office desk?”

“I keep lube in my office desk since approximately two weeks ago when you texted me a photograph of yourself in this shirt and I realized that this moment was, statistically speaking, inevitable.”

“You planned for this.”

“I calculated the probability and prepared accordingly.”

“That’s the hottest thing you’ve ever said to me. And you’ve said some extremely hot things.”

I open the drawer. Pull out the bottle and a condom. Stand up. The chair rolls backward and hits the wall. I don’t care. I move behind him and press my chest against his back and feel his body respond — the arch, the lean, the instinctive backward press of his hips seeking contact.

I pull his jeans and boxers down to mid-thigh. Not all the way — there isn’t time, and the half-dressed state of it, the urgency of not fully undressing, the fact that we are doing this in clothes with a locked door and a ticking clock, is its own kind of fuel.

I slick my fingers. Press one against him. He’s relaxed — we’ve been together long enough that his body trusts mine on a level that bypasses thought — and my finger slides in with a smooth, warm ease that makes us both exhale.

“Still quiet?” I murmur against his ear.

“Trying.” His voice is strangled. “Trying very hard.”

I curl my finger. Find the spot. His back bows and his hands slide on the desk, scattering a pen holder. Two pens roll off the edge and hit the floor.

“Those were organized,” I say.

“Fuck your pens.”

“That’s not what’s happening here.” I add a second finger and he drops his head between his arms and his breathing goes ragged and shallow, the controlled-explosion breathing of a man trying to contain a detonation. I work him open with a patience that is entirely performative — inside, I am as wrecked as he is, my cock straining against my trousers, my composure a thin, cracking veneer over a need so vast it has its own gravity.

“More,” he whispers. “Adrian, please—”

“What happened to quiet?”

“I said please, that’s different.”

“It’s a word. Words are sounds.”

“It’s a request. Requests are—”

I add a third finger and he bites his own forearm to muffle the groan that rips out of him. The sight of his teeth in his own skin — the improvised gag, the desperate self-silencing — makes me so hard it hurts.

“You’re being so good,” I say. Against his ear. My fingers moving inside him, my other hand on his hip, holding him steady. “So good, Mason. Taking everything I give you. Staying quiet. You’ve always been my best student.”

His body shudders. A full-length tremor that I feel through every point of contact.

“Are you ready?”

“I was ready when I knocked on the door.”

I withdraw my fingers. Roll on the condom. Slick myself. Position the head of my cock against him and pause — one second, two, the held-breath moment before impact that I’ve learned to savor because it’s the last instant of separation, the final frame before we become a single system.

“What’s your color?” I ask. Always. Every time. No exceptions.

“Green.” Immediate. Certain. “So green it’s photosynthesizing. Adrian, please—”

I push in.

His hands slide on the desk. A stack of papers cascades off the edge — student work, my notes, a draft of chapter three of my thesis — and neither of us cares. I seat myself fully inside him with one slow, continuous press and the sensation — the tight, clenching heat of his body around me, the way his back arches and his shoulders roll and his breath catches on a sound he can’t quite contain — makes my vision narrow to a single point.

“Quiet,” I remind him.

He nods. Can’t speak. His jaw is locked and his arms are braced and his body is receiving me with the practiced, hungry fluency of a man who has learned this language inside and out.

I start to move.

Slow. Controlled. Each thrust deliberate, measured, timed — the rhythm of a man who is in his office, in his professional space, fucking his boyfriend over his desk during business hours, and is treating the act with the same methodical precision he applies to every other task. It’s performance. It’s play. It’s the distillation of everything that makes our dynamic work — the contrast between control and chaos, structure and surrender, the composed exterior and the devastation underneath.

“You came to my office hours,” I say. My voice is low and steady and completely at odds with the fact that I am balls-deep inside another human being on university property. Each word is timed to a thrust. “You put on a nice shirt. You brought a blank notebook. You sat in the student chair and asked me about conditional probability.”

He’s trembling. His fingers are white on the desk edge.

“And now you’re bent over my desk with my cock inside you and you’re trying not to scream.” I thrust harder. Deeper. Hitting the angle that makes his whole body jerk. “How’s your conditional probability now?”

He breaks.

The sound that comes out of him is muffled by his own forearm — he’s biting down, teeth in skin, but the moan is too big to contain entirely. It leaks around the edges of his self-imposed gag, a raw, guttural, half-sobbed vocalization that fills the office and is, I am certain, audible through the wall.

“Failed,” I say. “That was a sound.”

“Don’t — you — dare — stop—”

I don’t stop. I pick up the pace. My hands on his hips, pulling him back to meet each thrust. His body is clenching around me in rhythmic waves — involuntary, instinctive, the muscular response of a man approaching orgasm at speed. The desk is rocking. The remaining items on its surface — my laptop, my coffee mug, the stapler, a framed photo of the department cohort — vibrate with each impact, a percussive accompaniment to the obscene symphony of skin on skin.

I reach around. Wrap my hand around his cock. He’s soaked — precome and the residual slickness of my mouth, and my hand slides over him in a tight, fast stroke that synchronizes with my thrusts. His body is caught between two points of stimulation — my cock inside him and my hand on him — and the dual input is overloading his capacity for silence. He’s gasping into his arm, his breath coming in sharp, bitten-off sobs, his whole body shaking.

“What’s your grade, Mason?” I ask.

His voice is wrecked. Ragged. The voice of a man who is being fucked in an office at three PM and has lost every cognitive function except the one that responds to my questions.

“A,” he gasps. “A-plus. Whatever you want. Whatever you want.”

“Good boy.”

He comes.

My hand catches most of it — a hot, pulsing rush over my fingers and onto the underside of my desk, which is a cleaning problem I will deal with later and will not regret for a single second. His body clamps around me so hard the world goes white at the edges, and his orgasm triggers mine with the mechanical inevitability of a chain reaction — one variable reaching maximum value and catalyzing the next.

I come inside him with my forehead pressed between his shoulder blades and my hand still on his cock and his name behind my teeth and the fluorescent lights buzzing above us like they have no idea what just happened beneath them.

We stay there. Him bent over my desk, me draped across his back, both panting. The office is silent except for our breathing and the distant, oblivious hum of the building. The hallway beyond the locked door is empty. The world outside this room has no idea, and the privacy of that — which used to terrify me, which used to feel like concealment — now feels like a gift. A garden with a wall. A room with a door that only opens from the inside.

I pull out. Carefully. He hisses. I deal with the condom — disposed of in the trash can, buried under paper towels, evidence destruction that I execute with the clinical efficiency of a man who has a meeting in ninety minutes.

He straightens up. Turns around. His jeans are still around his thighs, his shirt is untucked on one side, his hair is wrecked, and his face — flushed, satisfied, glowing with the specific luminosity of a man who was just comprehensively fucked — is the most beautiful thing in this building.

“There’s come on your desk,” he says.

“I’m aware.”

“On the underside. You’ll need to—”

“I will handle it.”

“With what? Your thesis?”

“With a cleaning product like a civilized person.”

“You came inside me in a university office. The civilized ship has sailed.”

I clean the desk. I clean him — warm paper towels from the bathroom down the hall, retrieved during a tense, pants-still-undone commando mission that took eleven seconds and shaved three years off my life. I clean myself. We reassemble. Jeans buttoned, shirts tucked, hair approximated. His belt buckle gives him trouble — his hands are still shaking — and I do it for him, standing in front of him, threading leather through metal, and the domesticity of the gesture in this context makes something in my chest expand.

He looks around the office. The pen holder is on its side. The papers are on the floor. My coffee mug has migrated six inches to the left. The framed department photo is crooked.

“So,” he says. “Same time Thursday?”

“I have actual students on Thursday.”

“Cancel them.”

“I can’t cancel office hours because my boyfriend wants to—”

“Wants to what? Say it. In your office. Out loud.”

I look at him. This man. This ridiculous, beautiful, stubborn, brilliant man who walked into my life with a 34 on a statistics midterm and dismantled every structure I ever built and replaced them with something better.

“Thursday,” I say. “Same time. Bring the shirt.”

He grins. Steps close. Kisses me over the desk — quick, warm, tasting like us. “Best office hours I’ve ever attended.”

“You’ve never attended office hours.”

“And now I know what I was missing.”

He unlocks the door. Opens it. Checks the hallway — empty, blessedly, mercifully empty — and pauses in the frame. Looks back at me with those dark eyes that I have been falling into since October and will go on falling into for as long as he’ll let me.

“I love you, Mr. Vale.”

“I love you, Mr. Cruz. Now get out of my office before someone sees you.”

He grins. Walks out. The door closes behind him.

I sit down at my desk. The surface is warm where his palms were. The pen holder is sideways. There’s a sticky residue on the underside that I’m going to need industrial cleaner for. My thesis draft is on the floor. My coffee is cold.

I straighten the pen holder. Stack the papers. Align my glasses on my nose. Retrieve the pens from the floor and place them in order of ink weight.

And I smile. The real one. The full one.

The one that’s his.

Thank you for reading Extra Credit! If you loved Adrian and Mason’s story, don’t miss the rest of the Milo Hart catalog.

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