Chapter 9: Homework Distraction
The apartment was quiet, a different quiet than the morning. That had been a held-breath quiet, a world-waiting quiet. This was the quiet of concentration, broken only by the soft scratch of my pencil and the occasional, frustrated tap-tap-tap from Pritha’s desk.
I’d finished my calculus problem set an hour ago. The numbers had clicked into place with a rare, fluid ease, leaving my mind clear and oddly restless. I leaned back in my chair, the wood groaning. My eyes went to her, as they always did.
She was framed by the window, late afternoon light turning her curls into a chaotic halo of brown and gold. She had her glasses on, the serious ones with the thin black frames. Her brow was furrowed, a deep line of concentration I wanted to smooth with my thumb. She chewed on the end of her pen, a habit she thought she’d broken. Her other hand was tangled in her hair, pulling absently at a curl.
She looked adorable. And utterly stressed.
A soft sigh escaped her, more a huff of air than sound. She scribbled something, then immediately crossed it out with a violent slash. The paper rustled in protest.
“Stupid,” she muttered to herself. “Why won’t you… just…”
I stood up. My chair scraped softly against the wooden floor. She didn’t look up, lost in a vortex of derivatives and integrals.
I walked over slowly, my socked feet silent on the rug. I stopped behind her, looking over her shoulder at the page. It was a mess of eraser smudges and rewrites. Her handwriting, usually neat and looping, was cramped and angry.
“The limits aren’t matching,” I said softly.
She jumped, a little gasp escaping her. She looked up and back at me, her eyes wide behind her glasses. “You scared me.” Then the frustration flooded back. “I know they’re not matching. That’s the whole problem. They’re supposed to, and they’re just… not.” She threw her pen down. It rolled off the desk and clattered on the floor.
I bent, picking it up. I placed it back carefully next to her notebook. Then I settled my hands on her shoulders.
She stiffened for a fraction of a second, then melted. A long, shuddering breath left her lungs as my thumbs found the hard knots of tension at the base of her neck. I pressed in, using the heels of my hands in slow, firm circles.
“You’ve been hunched over for two hours,” I murmured, working my fingers into the tight cords of her trapezius muscles. “Your shoulders are like stone.”
A low, grateful moan vibrated under my palms. Her head lolled forward. “Mmm. That’s… yeah. Right there.”
I kneaded the tension, feeling it slowly begin to unravel under my touch. The room was warm. She was wearing one of my old band t-shirts, the grey fabric soft and thin, and a pair of tiny black shorts. My thumbs slipped under the neckline of the shirt, finding the bare, hot skin of her upper back. She shivered.
“Hardik,” she breathed. It was half protest, half plea.
“You’re all tied up in knots,” I said, my voice low right by her ear. I pressed a kiss just below her earlobe. “Can’t have that.”
She made another sound, this one softer, more yielding. Her hands, which had been clenched in her lap, relaxed. “It’s unfair. You’re done. You always make it look so easy.”
“It’s not easy. You’re just approaching it like it’s a fight.” My hands slid down, massaging the muscles along her spine through the thin cotton. “You have to coax it.”
“Coax it,” she repeated, a hint of her old teasing returning. “Is that what you’re doing? Coaxing?”
I smiled against her skin. “Maybe.” I straightened up but kept my hands moving on her shoulders. “How about a game?”
She tilted her head back to look up at me, her neck long and exposed. “A game. With calculus.”
“With calculus,” I confirmed. I leaned down, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. My voice dropped to a whisper. “Every problem you get right on this next page… you get a reward.”
Her breath hitched. I saw the pulse jump in her throat. The air between us thickened, the academic frustration transmuting into something else entirely.
She was very still. Then a slow, wicked smile spread across her face. She adjusted her glasses, a deliberate, scholarly gesture that was utterly at odds with the darkening look in her eyes. “What kind of reward?”
“Something to help you… focus.” I let one hand drift from her shoulder, down her arm, until my fingers just brushed the inside of her elbow. She jerked at the touch.
“You’re terrible,” she whispered, but she was already turning back to her notebook, pulling the problem sheet closer. “Okay. Fine. Game on.” Her voice was a mix of determination and breathless anticipation.
She read the first problem. I stayed behind her, my hands resting lightly on her shoulders, my thumb stroking idle circles on her collarbone. I could feel the renewed tension in her, but it was a different kind now—sharp, electric.
She picked up the pen. Her hand was steadier. She began to write, the scratch of the nib loud in the quiet room. She worked through the steps, her lips moving silently. I watched the equations form. She was good at this, she just lost her nerve.
After a minute, she wrote a final answer and circled it. She sat back. “Done.”
I looked at her work. It was clean, logical, perfect. A warm surge of pride moved through me, mixed with a darker, more possessive thrill. “Correct.”
A smug little smile touched her lips.
“My reward, please.”
Her voice was a low, smug purr. I didn’t answer with words.
My hands slid from her shoulders down her arms, under her elbows. In one smooth, unbroken motion, I leaned forward and lifted her straight up from the wooden chair. She let out a small, startled yelp that became a breathy laugh, her papers scattering across the desk.
I sat down hard in the chair she’d just vacated, its warmth immediately seeping into me, and guided her down onto my lap. She settled, her back aligning perfectly with my front. A long, shuddering sigh escaped her as she pressed herself back against my bare chest. I’d never put a shirt on after my shower, just the soft cotton pants.
The warmth was an intimate confirm. A solid, silent truth. Her body heat bled through the thin fabric of my old t-shirt she wore, and through my pants where the weight of her, the delicious pressure of her, pressed down. She wriggled once, getting comfortable, and the friction drew a sharp hiss from between my teeth.
“Comfy?” I murmured into her hair. It smelled like her coconut soap and something uniquely Pritha.
“Mmm. Very.” She tilted her head, resting it in the hollow of my shoulder. Her glasses were slightly askew. “This is my reward? A better chair?”
"For now.. It was an easy question anyways."
My hands settled on her thighs, my fingers spreading wide over the soft skin above the hem of her shorts. I could feel the fine, downy hair under my palms, the solid muscle beneath.
She shivered, a full-body tremor that traveled from her shoulders down to where our bodies met. "That sounds suspicious." Her voice was a breathy attempt at nonchalance. She reached for her pen, her movement causing her to shift in my lap. The friction was a sweet, slow torture. "What's the next problem?"
"Page two," I said, my thumbs drawing slow circles on her inner thighs. "Number four."
She leaned forward, bracing one hand on the desk. The position arched her back, pressing her more firmly against me. A soft, involuntary sound escaped her—a half-moan, half-sigh. She quickly cleared her throat, focusing on the paper. I watched the column of her neck work as she swallowed.
The scratch of her pen was louder now, or maybe I was just hyper-aware of every sound she made. The faint tap of her foot against the floor. The wet click of her tongue against her teeth as she concentrated. I let my hands wander higher, just a fraction, my fingertips dipping beneath the frayed edge of her shorts. Her skin was impossibly hot.
"Hardik." Her pen stilled. A warning.
"Solving for x," I murmured, my lips grazing the sharp tendon in her neck. I tasted salt and soap. "Don't let me distract you."
"You are the definition of distraction." But she started writing again, faster this time. Her breath came in shorter puffs. I saw the moment the solution clicked in her mind, her eyes widening behind her glasses. She scribbled the final integration, the numbers almost aggressive. "Done."
I scanned it. Flawless. A coil of heat tightened low in my belly. "Correct again."
"Reward." This time it was a demand, barely audible.
My hands slid from her thighs up her sides, the worn cotton of my t-shirt—her t-shirt now—riding up under my palms. My fingers found the hem, dipped beneath it, and touched the shocking, smooth heat of her bare waist.
She inhaled, sharp and sudden, her stomach contracting under my touch. I spread my hands wide, mapping the delicate landscape of her ribs, the dramatic inward curve of her waist, the flared wings of her hip bones. Every inch was fever-warm and silken.
I pulled her back harder into me, our bodies sealing together. She was all softness against my chest, a yielding pressure that made my head spin. A whimper caught in her throat as my thumbs stroked the sensitive under-curves of her breasts.
Then, slowly, I moved my hands higher. My palms skated up the flat plane of her stomach, over the subtle, rhythmic flutter of her breathing. The anticipation was a live wire in the quiet room. My fingertips brushed the lower swell of her breasts, and she arched, pressing herself into my hands.
She wasn’t wearing a bra. The realization was a jolt of pure heat straight to my core. My hands cupped her fully, the weight perfect and heavy in my palms. Her skin was impossibly soft, giving way to a firmness underneath that made my mouth water. My thumbs found her nipples, pebbled and tight, and circled them once, slowly.
“Oh, god,” she breathed, the words dissolving into a moan. Her head fell back against my shoulder, her glasses nudging my cheek. Her pen dropped from her limp fingers, rolling across the problem set with a soft rrrrip of paper.
Her pen dropped from her limp fingers, rolling across the problem set with a soft rrrrip of paper.
“That one was harder,” I whispered into the hot skin of her neck, my thumbs still circling, drawing tight, wanting circles around her nipples. “The reward is better.”
“I’m—I’m losing track of the variables,” she breathed, her body arching again, pushing her chest deeper into my hands. Her hands came up to cover mine, not to stop them, but to press them harder into her. Her nails were short, polished a pale blue. They dug into my knuckles.
“The only variable is how many you get right.” I could feel my own control fraying, a thin wire about to snap. The scent of her, coconut and sheer want, was drowning out the smell of paper and old wood. “Next problem.”
She let out a shaky laugh that ended in a moan as I pinched her gently, rolling the tight peaks between my fingers. “You’re a demon. A calculus demon.”
“Look at the page, Pritha.” My voice was gravel. I released her breasts, my hands sliding back down to her bare waist, holding her steady. I could feel the frantic butterfly beat of her heart through her back.
She took a ragged breath, her focus swimming back to the notebook. The numbers must have blurred. She blinked, pushed her glasses up her nose with a trembling finger. She found the next problem. The silence stretched, filled with the sound of her breathing and the low, relentless pulse in my own ears.
Her hand groped blindly on the desk for the pen. She found it, her grip white-knuckled. She began to write. Each stroke was a tense, jagged movement. She was trying to concentrate, trying to hold the thread of the logic while her body sang a different, simpler truth.
I helped. My hands moved down from her waist, over the sharp points of her hipbones, and onto the solid warmth of her thighs. I pushed the fabric of her shorts up, bunching it, until I could stroke the untouched skin higher up. She jerked, a wet spot blooming on the problem set from the pen tip pressing too hard.
“Don’t,” she whimpered, but her legs fell open a fraction, an invitation written in the language of muscle and heat.
“Solving for x,” I repeated, my voice a dark promise. My fingertips traced the inner seam of her thigh, so close to where she was warmest. I didn’t touch her there. Not yet. The game had rules. I pressed the flat of my palm high up on her thigh, feeling the muscle tremble.
She scribbled the last step, the numbers barely legible. “Done.” It was a gasp.
I glanced. The logic held, a miracle of focus. “Correct.”
“Reward.” Her head fell back, her lips parted, waiting for a kiss I didn’t give.
Instead, my hand slid inward. The pad of my middle finger found the damp heat of her through the thin cotton of her panties. A low, guttural sound tore from her throat. Hnnngk. I pressed, not moving, just applying a steady, claiming pressure right over her clit.
Her entire body bowed, her heels digging into the floor legs. Her hands flew back, tangling in my hair, pulling. “Hardik. Please.”
“Please what?” I applied a slow, circular motion. The cotton was soaked, offering no barrier. I felt the hard nub beneath, the swollen folds. “You have to say it. You have to ask for your reward.”
She was shaking, little tremors running through her like minor earthquakes. “Touch me. Properly.”
I hooked my fingers into the waistband of her shorts and her panties together and pulled them down just enough. A swift, ruthless motion. The air hit her wet skin, and she flinched. Then my hand was there, skin on skin.
The sound she made was pure relief, a sobbing exhale. She was drenched, impossibly hot and silken. I traced her slowly, from the yielding entrance all the way up to that frantic, tight peak. I coated my fingers in her, the scent filling the space between us, musky and sweet.
“Good girl,” I murmured, and she convulsed at the praise, a sharp cry escaping her. “Getting all the answers right.”
I slipped one finger inside her, just to the first knuckle. Her inner muscles clenched, a viscous, hot pull. She was tight, clutching at me. I added a second finger, stretching her gently, the slow slide punctuated by her ragged gasps. My thumb settled over her clit, a firm, circling anchor.
“The next… the next problem,” she choked out, her hips beginning to rock, fucking herself on my hand with tiny, desperate movements.
“The next problem,” I agreed, my voice a rough scrape against her ear. My fingers kept moving inside her, a slow, twisting plunge that made her thighs clamp around my wrist. “Page three. The last one. The word problem.”
She whimpered, a high, thin sound. Her hands slapped against the desk, scattering more papers, searching for the right sheet. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused. I curled my fingers, pressing up into that spongy, secret place.
“Ah! Fuck—” Her head dropped forward, curls hiding her face. She braced herself, knuckles white on the wood. The wet, rhythmic sound of my hand moving in her filled the room, obscene and intimate. “I can’t… the numbers…”
“You can.” I slowed my pace, drawing my fingers almost all the way out, a teasing, empty threat. “Read it to me.”
She sucked in a shuddering breath. Her voice, when it came, was shattered, stumbling over the dry, academic language. “A cylindrical tank… radius of three meters… leaking at a rate proportional to the… the square root of the…” Her explanation faltered as I pushed back in, deep, my palm grinding against her.
“To the square root of the volume,” I finished for her, my own breath hot and fast. “Keep going.” I established a ruthless, steady rhythm, the heel of my hand hitting her clit with each inward stroke. Squelsh. Squelsh. Her hips jerked, trying to match it, to take more.
She kept reading, the words tangling with her moans. “Find the rate… the rate of change of the height…” She was shivering, her skin glowing with a fine sheen of sweat. The rational part of her mind was clinging to the logic, a life raft in a storm of sensation. I could see it in the desperate clench of her jaw, the way her eyes darted across the page between fluttering shut.
Her fingers scrambled for the pen. She drew the cylinder, a shaky diagram. She wrote dV/dt = -k√V. Her handwriting was a spidery wreck. Every few seconds, her body would convulse around my fingers, a soft cry bursting from her, and the pen would skitter.
“Good,” I whispered, my lips on her damp neck. “So good. Keep going, love. Separate the variables.”
She wrote the first step of integration. A low, continuous moan vibrated in her chest. Her inner muscles were fluttering, a frantic, helpless pulsation against my fingers. She was close, teetering on that razor’s edge. I could feel it in the tightening of her stomach, the way her breath came in short, sharp pants.
I didn’t let up. My thumb pressed harder, circling with insistent precision.
“Hardik… I’m… I’m going to…” The warning was a sob.
"No. You will not. Not until you solve the problem." I groaned.
“Fuck you, Hardik,” she breathed, the curse unraveling into a whimper as my fingers kept working. A slow, deep curl inside her that made her heels dig into the floor. But my words deterred her release, a dam holding back a shuddering tide. “Not until you solve it.”