732 FUCKING A JOCK IN HIS SOCKSIt was a crisp afternoon, and..

732 FUCKING A JOCK IN HIS SOCKS

It was a crisp afternoon, and I was walking across the university quad when I spotted Mark.

He was sitting on a bench, legs stretched out, scrolling through his phone. He had just come from training—his soccer shorts clinging to his toned thighs, his calves flexed under the long black Nike socks pulled up to his knees. The way they hugged his legs caught my attention more than I cared to admit.

Mark looked up, saw me, and grinned.

“Professor,” he said, leaning back lazily, hands resting behind him. “You heading somewhere, or just enjoying the view?”

I smirked. “I could ask you the same thing.” My gaze flicked down to his legs before I could stop myself. The socks, the shorts, the smooth skin peeking between them—it was a sight.

He caught it. Of course, he caught it.

Mark shifted, stretching his legs out even further, as if to give me a better look. “Training just finished,” he said, feigning innocence. “Figured I’d cool off out here.”

I stepped closer, tilting my head. “And have you?”

His lips curled into that knowing smirk. “Not quite.”

I exhaled through my nose, amused. This game of his had been going on for weeks now—flirty comments, lingering glances, excuses to stay behind after class. He was good at it. And I was tired of pretending not to notice.

“I live nearby,” I said, keeping my voice even. “Why don’t you cool off there instead?”

Mark didn’t even pretend to think about it. He stood, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “Lead the way.”

As we walked off the quad together, I glanced once more at those socks, those legs, and smiled. I couldn’t wait to get him naked, but he can keep the socks on.

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