MB Saucy Side: Hot and Cold (Ambrose Version)

Inspired By: www.nobelprize.org/prizes/medicine/2021/press-release/ because science is sexy

AU where Button is a college student and Rosy is their tutor.

* * * *

When Ambrose volunteered to help you study for your biology final, you hadn’t anticipated that his unorthodox tutoring methods.

Your lashes brush against the soft silk of Ambrose’s tie, currently tied securely around your eyes. You can vaguely tell his location due to the turned-on lamp upon your nightstand, which illuminates the stripes of his tie whenever you turn your head slightly to the right.

“No peeking.” His voice comes as low grumble right next to your ear, causing your breath to hitch. He’s closer than you thought.

Papers rustle as he flips through your class notes, reminiscent of an ASMR video that Sally once sent you. But the electric frisson that runs down your back is less a physical reaction to the paper’s gentle swoosh, and more an anticipatory response to Ambrose’s nearness. Your boyfriend likes to surprise you. Who knows what he has planned for tonight?

“Give me . . .” Ambrose trails off suggestively, thumbing through your stack of index cards like a deck of cards; he fans the papers against the skin of your upper arm until he finds a question that he likes. “Give me the definition of a protein.”

“Protein.” You miss the brush of the notecards—without Ambrose’s touch, however removed, you’re a hollow ache of desire. “A complex biomolecule comprised of amino acids and peptic bonds.”

Ambrose hums with approval. “Such a diligent student.”

“I prefer the lessons that you taught me.” Because you’ve never been one to pass up playing with fire.

His hand grasps the back of your neck, forcing your head to the side so that you look away from the turned-on lamp and can no longer discern his silhouette through the tie’s fabric.

“No distractions, Wiseman,” he scolds. “We’re studying.”

You nervously wet your lips before deciding to take one more risk. “I’d rather be studying you—”

His mouth halts your final word. This kiss is deep and intense, almost businesslike in its thoroughness, as if he’s resolved to give you something that will tide you over until this study session’s end. But when he breaks away, you smugly note that his breathing is just as rapid and uneven as your own.

“Who won the 2021 Nobel Prize in Medicine?” he demands.

“Julius and Patapoutian.” You arch forward, silently begging for the kiss’s continuation.

“For?” He withdraws further as punishment for your unsatisfactorily short answer.

“For discovering the nerve cell sensors dealing with temperature, pain, and . . .” You gasp. Ambrose’s hands have stolen upwards from beneath the hem of your shirt, and his palms splay securely against your midriff.

“Pressure,” he whispers. “Temperature, pain, and pressure.”

You let out an embarrassingly needy mewl as his large hands migrate upwards and over your skin. Not content to have his exploration constrained beneath fabric, he pulls at your shirt with a low growl, and you compliantly lift your arms so that he can take it off completely. There’s a flash of total darkness as he lifts the shirt over your head, and then a promising swish from what you assume (and hope) is him taking off his own shirt as well.

You hear his footsteps as he walks across the room—one, two, three, four. Each second that he’s away, you shiver and goosebump beneath the air conditioner’s breeze. Before you can chide him for neglecting your lesson, you hear the mini-fridge open and close. His footsteps stride back to you.

“What cold receptor did they discover?” he asks.

Your mind goes blank as Ambrose slides an ice cube down the line of your neck. It melts against your skin, the water welling at the dip above your collarbone, which Ambrose banishes with a slow, hot lick.

“I’m waiting.” He trails the ice cube lower, across your chest and down to your navel, sucking your flesh that prickles in the wake of its chill.

“TRPM!” Your brain can barely function at this point, let alone recall biology terms.

“TRPM what?” He removes the ice cube, causing you to whimper. Somehow, you feel colder without his touch than with the ice drawing circles upon your skin.

“TRPM8!” you explode. “Damn it, Ambrose. TRPM8!”

He kisses you as a reward, the remaining sliver of the ice cube upon his tongue. You’re tormented by the juxtaposition of his mouth’s warmth and the ice’s cold—until the ice melts between you, until only Ambrose’s heat remains. Once the ice cube is completely gone, he withdraws again, leaving you aching once more.

“What else does TRPM8 respond to?” His voice is insufferably collected in the aftermath of your embrace.

You turn your head to the light and reach out towards his shadow, or what you think is his shadow through the blindfold. Your hand lands on his upper chest. Beneath your palm, his heartbeat pounds, even more rapid than your own racing pulse. You smirk.

Ambrose places his hand over yours, pressing it against his bared skin. His fingertips are still cold from the ice cube, but the rest of his skin is burning hot. “What else does TRPM8 respond to?” he repeats.

“Menthol.” You curl your fingers, so that the tips of your nails lightly scratch across his skin, and he moans. “Which is why mint gum feels so cold.” You lean forward, and blow a cold stream of air next to your hand. You must’ve hit your target, because he moans again.

“Only you can make bubblegum sexy, Wiseman.” His fingers twine through yours, and he brings your hand lower down his chest and to his lap. You hear the neglected notecards fall feather-soft upon the carpet, but Ambrose doesn’t pay any heed. He grabs both your hands and stands.

“Let’s talk about TRPV1,” he murmurs, leading you across the room.

Still blindfolded, you allow him to pull you onto the bed. Once you’re lying down, he unknots his tie from around your eyes. You have barely a moment to appreciate the hungry desperation of his expression before his lips once more capture yours.

“TRPV1,” you manage to gasp between kisses. “The receptor for heat.”