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The first thing you notice when you step into Solomon’s library for today’s lesson is the sorcerer himself, coat hanging off the back of his chair and shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He’s leaning back in his seat with an open book in his lap. You know the moment he’s aware of your presence because his eyes stop scanning the page and there’s a deliberate pause before he closes his book and glances at you expectantly. He smirks and crooks his finger, urging you forward from where you’ve paused in the doorway.
You’re carrying the tomes he assigned as yesterday’s homework and set them on the desk - yellowed, dusty texts filled with magical theory and spells that seem far above your current ability. You’re ready to take your seat, but you realize that Solomon is sitting in the only chair. There should be extras in a room nearby, but he sighs loudly when you turn around to fetch one.
“Can I ask where you’re going?” he asks with a hint of impatience.
“I’m going to get another chair, but I’ll be right back,” you explain quickly, waiting by the door for his approval.
He seems disappointed and you don’t understand why at first, but then he pushes his chair back and pats his thigh invitingly. “If you need a place to sit, my lap is always an option, my darling apprentice.”
You should be immune to his flirtatious banter by now, but the invitation is so surprising that it makes you sputter and blush before you rush away to find a chair that is most definitely not his lap. You hear him chuckle quietly, but when you re-enter the library dragging another chair behind you, the lighthearted moment between you has passed. He can be mischievous at times, but you know not to test his patience when his mood turns serious.
With a flick of his wrist, one of the books with yesterday’s homework slides across the table towards him and you hurriedly take a seat at his side. “Let’s see how much you’ve learned, shall we?”
After nearly an hour, you’re overwhelmed by the whiplash of his brutal criticism and genuine encouragement. He is relentless as a teacher, correcting you with a firm tone when you can’t recite incantations or complex rituals perfectly from memory. The warm praise he offers when you do answer his questions correctly soothes your rattled nerves like a balm.
You lean back with a sigh and glance at Solomon who’s grown silent next to you. There’s a strange intensity in his gaze that makes you want to hide from his scrutiny. A tense moment passes and he says you’re advancing ahead of schedule. You can’t help how your cheeks flush at his appraisal and the pleased twinkle in his eye.
You had fair warning at the beginning of your apprenticeship that he wouldn’t tolerate laziness, disappointment, or failure from you; knowing that you’re exceeding his expectations makes you unspeakably happy. He’s more than a teacher to you, and above all else, you know he considers you a friend - and that’s not a word a man like Solomon uses lightly to describe others.
Lately he seems even more daring as he teases along the boundary that separates friendship and something more romantic. From the early days of your acquaintance, his wisdom and strength gave you comfort and stability. You can’t help but feel uncertain now that he’s becoming noticeably more affectionate. When it comes to Solomon, you know nothing is ever what it seems - so you deflect his flirting and dodge his wandering hands with shaky resolve while you try to piece together the truth behind his intentions. It’s so easy to give into the temptation, to let him guide you down another new path in your relationship, but you don’t want to risk heartache later if your assumptions about his own feelings for you are incorrect.
Solomon pushes his chair away from the table abruptly and it shakes you from your thoughts. He collects some of the books into his arms and he heads towards the towering wall of shelves behind you. “I’ll put these away so you can take a short break before we begin today’s lesson,” he offers. He must be in a good mood because he’s humming while he returns his materials to their proper places.
You’re about to escape to the kitchen to make tea for both of you when he makes a questioning noise. As though he senses your curious gaze on his back, he says without turning around, “I left one of the books on the table. Would you be a dear and hand it to me?”
It’s the smallest book you were given to read after yesterday’s lesson, pushed out of the way early on once he was satisfied you had absorbed its contents. You reach for it but it seems to slide out from under your fingers and further away across the table. You frown and lean forward with your hand stretched out as far as you can manage. Your palm smacks against bare wood as the book slides away yet again. In one last-ditch effort, you’re on the tips of your toes and nearly flat against the table; you grin triumphantly when you finally have the cover trapped under your fingertips. Your victory is short-lived when an unexpected weight brushes against your back. It causes you to jerk suddenly and the book slips from under your tentative hold. You groan in frustration when it falls over the other side of the table and flops onto the floor.
“I’ve wanted to bend you over my desk like this for days,” a voice whispers into your ear.
You’re stunned when you realize Solomon is standing behind you, leaning over with his arms caging your body in place. He’s not quite touching you, but you know his body is effectively trapping you underneath him.
“You were moving the book on purpose,” you mumble in embarrassment. Your mouth is dry and your cheeks are burning when you realize the suggestive position you’re in. You can’t turn to look at him without bumping against his chest so you hang your head in defeat instead. It’s not the first time you’ve fallen for one of his tricks and it won’t be the last.
Solomon’s hand is stroking your hip and you try not to squirm under him. “It was an amusing game at first,” he admits and you know from his tone that he’s smiling. You feel his chest press against your back and his nose is in your hair, and you hear him breathe in deeply. His exhale is a sigh that tickles your ear. “But now that I have you like this, I’m not willing to let you go so easily.”
You try to ignore the hand that’s slowly making its way under your shirt. “Maybe we should talk about this first,” you suggest, but your voice is shaking and your protest sounds weak.
Solomon tuts disapprovingly like your suggestion is barely worth responding to. His fingers make their way across your waist and follow the slope of your belly, squeezing the soft folds of skin with the tiniest bit of pressure that sets your nerves ablaze. Everytime you start to doubt why he’s attracted to you, he distracts you - with murmured desires in your ear, his fingers searching for the places on your body that are most sensitive - and you know he’s doing it on purpose to prove his point.
He continues exploring your chest, rubbing over the pact marks etched into your skin like his touch can erase them. He doesn’t care that his body is littered with the evidence of his own pacts, but jealousy makes his blood boil when he thinks about others having a claim over you. Mine, he thinks when he gives into the temptation to grind against you, letting you feel your effect on him, the way his feelings for you rob him of nearly all self-control.
“Solomon, please—” you plead desperately; whether you want him to keep going or to stop is impossible to say at this point. You’re drowning in the heat of his body so close to yours, the frustration you can feel radiating from him in waves, the possessive hold he has on you.
“You’re mine,” he seethes between gritted teeth, crushing your body to his as he continues to move against you. His hands are exploring freely now, fingers digging into your skin hard enough to bruise, kneading your soft flesh in apology after. He nips at your throat and drags his teeth against your shoulder. He bites down harder than he intends when he hears the first soft, breathy whimper escape you.
When you finally start to move, pushing your hips back against his, it rips a guttural moan from him and snaps the last tethers of his restraint. There’s a hand fisted in your hair and he pulls your mouth towards his. It’s less of a kiss and more of a heated exchange of needy, panting breaths as your quiet moans echo his own desperate sounds. He manages to draw your bottom lip into something resembling a kiss - the first kiss between you - and it gives you a moment of clarity.
“Not here,” you plead against his lips with the last bit of coherency you can muster. You’ve imagined what it might be like to finally give in to him, but you don’t want your first time together to be on an old, uncomfortable desk in his library.
He seems to understand exactly what it is you want - like he always does - because his body stutters to a halt and he presses a chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth. He moves back enough to turn you around in his arms, and the lustful haze that darkens your eyes makes him powerless to resist you. He pulls you against him and he feels your hands clench in the back of his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll disappear. He brushes his lips against yours, a silent promise that he’s never going to let you go.
“Next time,” he teases with a wicked grin before teleporting you both to his bedroom with an audible pop.