This always happens. I try to stay awake during Intermediate Algebra. I do. I swear. But math is just…sigh.

At this point, I'm starting to consider drugs. Would you like to know why?

Not because I have a secret fondness for math, hitherto unrevealed, that I am dying to unleash upon the unsuspecting world. Not because I want to make the honor roll and make the folks proud of me.

It's because of what happens whenever I fall asleep. Certain things, um, come up. So far no one but Night has noticed, and he would never tease me about it. He's too…well, he's Night.

But the thought of someone seeing me…like that…someone who's not Night, I mean…is…embarrassing.

That's why I'm fighting to keep my eyes open. That's why I'm praying that someone's secret cache of uppers drops into my hot little hands.

He's so shy about his body. The way it reacts. The way it responds. I love watching him as he falls asleep during class and loses the battle for control.

*He* thinks it's embarrassing. *I* think it's incredibly hot.

That's because I know the source of his daydreams.

He thinks I don't know, but I do. Jago is a sensual creature. His body is telling him to act on that vivid imagination of his. But he refuses.

No wonder he's fighting for control.

No wonder he loses.

Oh, God, it happened again. I know it did. I woke up quietly enough, but I can feel a damp spot in between my legs. Shit. How am I going to get out of this room without anyone seeing?

Just because I think it's hot doesn't mean I'll let Jago suffer. I stand up slowly and cross to his desk. I drop my leather jacket over his lap without even looking in his direction and take two steps away from him.

I can hear his sigh of relief from where I'm standing.

It's days like this that I wish I could shout out my love for him. No matter who hears.

He's my guy.

When we're alone, I ask him why keeps happening to me. We make love regularly. Okay, blush, more than regularly. We're teenagers…and we're guys.

It's not like it's some form of secret wish fulfillment or anything.

Is it?

Is there something we're *not* doing that we *should* be doing? Haven't we pretty much done everything?

I laugh out loud when Jago asks me that last question. I'm only 17. I couldn't possibly *know* everything there is to know about making love, much less do it.

But I *do* have a solution.

Or not.

Maybe it won't help. But it would sure be fun to try.

I have no idea how Night got into the school building at night. I know it didn't involve a key, but—maybe I'm better off not knowing.

My heart speeds up when I see the classroom. He wouldn't.

Would he?

I sure would. I can't believe Jago even asked me that. We find our way to our seats and slump into them, as if class were in session.

J looks positively tortured. I can't have that. I lean forward and place my hands on his shoulders. "Relax," I breathe against the back of his neck.

"Um, that's not exactly helping."

I kiss the tender skin at his nape and the tension in him literally uncoils before my eyes. "Pretend I'm not here," I whisper.

"I c-can't."

"Sure you can. You do it everyday. When you're dreaming about me."

He looks stunned. "How did you—?"

"It wasn't hard." I laugh at my unintended play on words. "Or maybe it was."

I slide my hands under his shirt and untuck it from his jeans. It covers the massive bulge at his crotch. I kneel on the floor behind his chair and unsnap his jeans.

He closes his eyes and bites his lip. I knew I had to be his secret fantasy. Better not be anyone else.

I unzip his zipper and release his dick. It throbs to life in my hand, a silky drop of pre-come already leaking from its tip. I remain on my knees, fingering him through the metal frame of the chair. He arches into my palm, his breath shuddery and erratic, and I know he's going to come soon.

I could lick every inch of him and never get enough to keep me satisfied forever. I have to keep going back, refreshing the memory of his taste on my tongue, or reliving the feel of my cock slipping into his ass.

"Mine," I whisper, stroking harder, awaiting the moment when he'll spurt between my fingers.

"Yours," he whispers back. He's a good boy. I love him for that and for so much more.

He groans and he comes, his love like a fountain rhythmically erupting. I rub my fingers in the well of his navel, wetting them with his essence, before licking them clean. He sighs in my arms before turning around to kiss me.

"I love you."

"I love you, too, J."