The heavy click of the door following Frank's exit signaled the sealing of a vacuum. The air in the Student Council office felt like it had been sucked out, replaced by a charged, static tension that made the fine hairs on Joel's arms stand on end.
Joel sat paralyzed, his fingers still white-knuckled around the waistband of his trousers. He was a mess of contradictions—shame, fear, and a treacherous, deep-seated longing that he had tried so hard to bury under the lie of it being a "joke."
James turned back to Joel, his amber eyes darker than they had been all day, glowing with a proprietary, dangerous light.
"You heard your savior," James whispered, the silkiness of his voice vibrating in the small space. "He thinks he can protect you by interfering in my business."
James took a slow, deliberate step forward, closing the distance until his knees were brushing against Joel's. He reached down, his long, elegant fingers plucking the tube of arnica ointment from Joel's lap.
"But Frank isn't here now, is he?" James murmured. "And I told you—I don't like my things being broken. I told you I wanted you treated."
"I... I can do it," Joel gasped, his voice cracking. "Please, President, I'll go to the restroom and—"
"No." The word was a velvet command. "Sit still."
James reached out for the waistband of Joel's school trousers. His touch was slow, almost leisurely. He hooked his thumbs into the fabric with a possessive, erotic deliberation.
Joel's breath hitched, a soft, wounded sound escaping his lips. He felt the heat of James's hands through the fabric, a warmth that seemed to sear straight through to his skin. As James slowly lowered the heavy wool, Joel felt like he was being unraveled. He couldn't move nor even look away.
James's gaze followed the descent of the fabric. As the pale, porcelain skin of Joel's hip and upper thigh was revealed, James's eyes traveled over every inch of it. Joel felt a strange, dizzying sensation—it wasn't just James's hands touching him; it was his eyes. The way James looked at the curve of his hip felt like a physical caress, a heavy, velvet weight that made Joel's skin prickle and flush.
The bruise was a vivid, angry map of purple and indigo against Joel's fairness. James leaned in closer, his face inches from the exposed skin.
"You're so pale," James breathed, his voice a low, rough shadow of its usual self. "Everything shows on you, doesn't it, Joel? Every bruise."
James reached out, extended a single finger and grazed the very edge of the bruise. His touch was light—but it sent a jolt of electricity straight to Joel's core.
Joel's back arched instinctively, his head falling back against the leather chair. A small, broken moan escaped his throat before he could stifle it, a sound of pure, startled reaction.
James froze, his finger still resting against Joel's skin. He looked up, his eyes locking onto Joel's wide, watery ones. A slow, dark smirk spread across his face.
"Why are you making sounds like that, Joel?" James asked, his voice dripping with a teasing, lethal sweetness. "It was just a touch. Are you really that sensitive? Or is it because it's me touching you?"
Joel couldn't answer. His throat was tight, his mind a chaotic swirl of the lie he'd just told and the truth that was screaming through his nerves. He wanted to push James away, and he wanted to pull him closer. He was drowning in the proximity of the boy he had loved in secret for two years—the boy who was currently treating him like a toy and a masterpiece all at once.
James finally unscrewed the cap of the ointment. He squeezed a dollop of the cool, clear gel onto his fingertips.
He applied it with a slow, agonizingly rhythmic motion. He started at the top of the bruise, his fingers circling the bone of Joel's hip, the pressure varying from a light tickle to a firm, demanding rub. The gel was cold, but James's skin was scorching. The contrast made Joel shiver violently, his hands clutching the edges of the chair so hard the leather groaned.
"Ssh," James whispered, his other hand coming up to rest on Joel's opposite knee to steady him. "Hold still. I'm just helping you."
James moved his fingers lower, tracing the edge of the bruise toward the inner thigh. Every movement was a provocation. He lingered on the sensitive skin, his thumb occasionally "accidentally" brushing further than necessary.
Joel was slightly trembling now, a fine, constant shaking that he couldn't control. His eyes were squeezed shut, his breath coming in short, uneven hitches. The scent of the arnica mingled with James's cologne, creating an intoxicating, suffocating atmosphere. He felt exposed, not just physically, but emotionally. He felt like James was reading the truth of his feelings through the way his body reacted to every touch.
"You're shivering, Joel," James murmured, his voice sounding closer, as if he were leaning his forehead against Joel's shoulder. "Is it the cold? Or are you enjoying this a little too much for someone who claimed it was all a 'joke'?"
James pressed his palm flat against the bruise, the warmth of his hand sinking deep into the muscle. He massaged the area with a slow, heavy intensity that made Joel's vision go white at the edges.
The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by the sound of their synchronized, heavy breathing and the faint, wet slide of the ointment against skin. Joel felt like he was hovering on a precipice. He was terrified of what James would do next, and even more terrified that he would stop.
Finally, James pulled his hand away. He stayed there, hovering over Joel's lap, his eyes fixed on the glistening, medicated skin of Joel's hip.
"There," James said, his voice returning to a cold, clipped tone, though the darkness in his eyes remained. "Treated."
He reached out and, with a final, lingering flick of his wrist, he pulled Joel's trousers back up. The fabric felt rough and intrusive against his sensitized skin. James stood up, smoothing his own blazer, the "President" mask clicking back into place as if the last ten minutes had never happened.
Joel slumped in the chair, feeling confused and overstimulated. He felt like he had been marked.
"Now," James said, walking back around his desk and sitting down with a terrifyingly calm grace. "Since you're feeling better, it's time we discussed the terms of your service. Because you aren't leaving this office until you understand exactly who you belong to for the rest of this semester."