Losing Control [ spencer reid x reader ] ✔

16. Who's in Charge?

"Who can tell me what a stressor is?"

A cluster of hands raise around you, and you look at Spencer, his tall frame walking around his desk at the front of the room. His eyes flit around, looking at each of the students who have their hands up. Eventually, his eyes fall on you.

"Ms. Y/l/n, can you tell me what a stressor is?"

Of course I can, you think to yourself. Let's just try to not make it too obvious we're dating, Spence.

"A stressor is anything that causes someone extreme tension or pain," you state, folding your hands in front of you.

"Can you give me an example?" Spencer leans against his desk.

You purse your lips, leaning back in your seat. "Any sort of major life change—getting fired from a job, getting passed over for a position you really want, a death of a family member."

Spencer nods, obviously pleased. "Very good."

You smile, watching his eyes graze down your body. They catch yours, and you're met with a look of adoration and amazement. After a moment, he retreats back behind his desk, shuffling his papers.

"Please read chapters nine and ten tonight. Next class, we'll discuss psychosis and some personality disorders." He stands at his full height, eyeing the class. "We're nearing the end of the semester, so I advise you to take good notes and do your reading."

The class mumbles a mismatched "yes, sir," as they pack up their stuff. You stay seated, pushing your notebook and human behavior book into your bag, watching the rest of the students file out the door. Spencer is leaning forward on his desk, hands spread as he reads over a file on his desk.

"You're concentrating intensely, doctor."

His head snaps up as you approach his desk, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He stands, closing the file and walking around to you. You look up at him, your bodies almost touching. His fingers lightly rest on your hips, his mouth twisted up into a lazy smile.

"You have to stop targeting me in class," you scold him, your hands trailing up his biceps.

His hands enclose around the small of your back. "I can't help it. Who else is going to have all the right answers to my questions?"

"That's called teaching, Spence," you explain, resting your hands on either side of his neck. "Not everyone is going to have the right answer."

He groans, sighing. "I know."

You glance toward the open door, removing your hands from him. He notices your glance and struts over to the door, shutting and locking it. Walking back over to you, he brushes the hair off your neck, leaning down to ghost his lips over your skin. You inhale sharply, hands gripping his arms.

"S-Spence, we can't," you whisper, "not here."

"You don't like the thought of your professor fucking you over his desk?"