Page 13 of Marrying My Professor

I miss his voice. His smell. The sexy growl that leaves his throat when he commands me around. I want him in a way that feels impractical and irritating, especially since I don’t know his last name, and I don’t even know if Alexander is the name his mother gave him or just another mask he wears as easily as the rest. It pisses me off more than it should. A note for future Elara: next time you get tangled up with an impossibly attractive, dominant man who rearranges your nervous system in a single night, steal his ID. Force a second meeting. Unhinged, yes, but arguably necessary when your pussy quivers at the mere thought of him.

But that is not the point. The point is that I feel wrung out and overcaffeinated at the same time, my nerves humming just beneath my skin as I hurry across the quad with my coat pulled tight around me, trying to arrive at class looking like a functional adult instead of a woman still vibrating from the aftershocks of last night.

Belgrave University looks different in the morning than it did when I did my online tour a few months ago. Less seductive. More austere. The gothic stone buildings loom against a pale winter sky, their sharp spires cutting into low clouds like accusations. Ivy claws its way up ancient brick walls, stripped bare by the season, all brown veins and brittle determination. It’s beautiful in a way that feels cold and judgmental, like it’s daring you to prove you belong here.

I don’t. Not really.

My boots slip slightly on a slick patch of ice, and I curse under my breath, catching myself on a wrought-iron railing before I go down. Somewhere nearby, a group of students laugh, carefree and loud, bundled in Belgrave scarves and knit hats that probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget. I straighten, schooling my expression into something neutral and unbothered, because the last thing I need is to look like an off-campus transfer who doesn’t know how to walk in winter.

It's not like my reputation actually matters. I'm not even taking the classes that are useful for my degree. I am supposed to be getting a degree in Dance, but I am taking a Forbidden Ethics class with Professor Draven.

It’s not officially called that, of course. On the course catalog it’s listed as Advanced Ethical Theory and Applied Moral Reasoning, but everyone knows what it really is. The class professors warn you about. The one that isn’t required, isn’t recommended, and absolutely isn’t designed to make you comfortable. It’s about power structures, morally gray areas, institutional corruption, and the places where law quietly fails people on purpose.

It’s also where Wesley Carter sits every Tuesday and Thursday at nine a.m.—the name attached to the last outgoing call on my brother’s phone before he died. That single detail makes him more than just another student in the room; it makes him my first real lead, the faint crack in Belgrave’s polished surface, hinting at a private world operating just beneath this pristine university’s carefully curated image.

I exhale slowly, shoving my hands deeper into my coat pockets as I take the steps two at a time toward the academic building. My reflection flashes briefly in the glass doors as I push inside, and I barely recognize myself. My curls are pulled back into a loose, low knot that never quite behaves, thick strands escaping to frame my face in soft spirals that the cold has coaxed into tighter definition. A cream knit sweater peeks out beneath my dark coat, layered with a heavy scarf wrapped snugly around my neck, that does nothing to soften the faint shadows beneath my eyes. A plaid skirt brushes mid-thigh above sheer tights, paired with black boots already dusted with salt and grit from the walk in.

The girl from two weeks ago, glittering and dangerous and wanted, feels like someone I dreamed up rather than someone I was, a phantom version of myself that doesn’t quite survive the daylight.

I push open the double doors and head inside, already cataloging everything I know about Wesley Carter. Freshly twenty-one. All-American football poster boy with the kind of face alumni love and administration protects. His family owns an obscene amount of television programming in the United States, the kind of quiet media empire that shapes narratives without ever stepping into the light. Around campus, he’s infamous for exactly two things: his entitlement and his taste in women. Blondes. Big tits. No mystery there. Lucky for me, I’ve got a pair of double D’s and red hair threaded with blonde highlights, which puts me squarely in his preferred line of sight whether I want to be or not. If Wesley Carter is predictable—and everything I’ve learned suggests he is—then I already know how to get his attention.

I move down the hall toward Room 3B, my heels clicking sharply against the polished stone floors. Pre-law students cluster in groups along the walls, talking too fast, laughing too loud, debating Supreme Court cases like they’re discussing the weather. I catch fragments as I pass.

“…strict scrutiny⁠—”

“…precedent doesn’t apply⁠—”

“…my dad clerked for⁠—”

I keep my head down, my grip tightening on the strap of my bag as I pass, looking for Welsey out of the corner of my eye.

I push open the classroom door and step inside, expecting the low hum of lecture to already be underway. Instead, the room is oddly quiet, filled with the soft murmur of students settling into their seats, flipping notebooks open, scrolling through tablets. The professor isn’t here yet.

Relief and disappointment tangle in my chest.

The room is tiered, semi-circular, with dark wood desks that curve around the central podium. Tall windows line one wall, letting in thin winter light that casts long shadows across the floor. I pause just inside the door, scanning the room automatically, a habit I’ve picked up without realizing it.

And then I see him.

Wesley Carter sits three rows down, sprawled back in his chair like he owns the place. One arm draped casually over the empty seat beside him, long legs stretched out in front like he’s God’s gift to the female race. He’s wearing a fitted Belgrave hoodie under a tailored coat, the school crest embroidered neatly over his chest. Blonde hair, sun-streaked even in winter, falls in an artfully messy wave across his forehead. His jaw is strong, clean-cut, the kind of face that looks trustworthy even when it shouldn’t.

He’s laughing at something one of the guys beside him says, head tipped back slightly, throat exposed, confidence rolling off him in waves. It’s easy to see why people like him. Easy to see why doors open. Easy to see why no one ever thinks to look too closely.

He scans the room lazily, eyes drifting from face to face until they land on me and stop. His gaze drops first, slow and deliberate, and I cross one leg over the other like I don’t notice, a small, practiced curve to my mouth as he drags his attention back up. It’s blatant. Unembarrassed. The way his eyes linger at my legs, trace the line of my coat, pause at my chest before finally locking with mine isn’t flattering so much as transactional, and the smirk that follows confirms it. He thinks he’s already won something.

I play along anyway.

I shift my weight and step into the aisle, letting my coat fall open just enough to reward the look, even as something cool settles in my stomach. My heels click softly as I move down the row at an unhurried pace, fingers adjusting my bag strap, curls brushing my cheek as I pretend to check seat numbers. Wesley straightens as I pass the first tier, subtle but unmistakable, his arm dropping from the empty chair while his friend follows his line of sight and grins like he’s in on the joke.

When I reach the row in front of him, I hesitate just long enough to sell the decision, then slide into the seat directly ahead. I set my bag down, cross my legs, lean forward to tuck it beneath the desk, my sweater pulling tight across my back in a way I know he’ll notice. When I straighten, I sweep my hair into a loose knot, leaving a few curls free, fully aware of his attention settling between my shoulders, crawling in a way that does nothing for me except remind me exactly how easy he is to read.

I feel it when he leans forward.

Not a touch at first, just the shift of his weight, the faint creak of his chair as it moves closer. One of his hands comes down on the back of the empty chair beside mine, casual but possessive, while the other settles against the top edge of my seat, close enough that his knuckles hover near my shoulder. He cages the space without actually claiming it, like he’s testing how much room I’ll let him take.

I don’t look at him.

His breath brushes my ear, warm and faintly sweet, and he lowers his voice until it’s meant for me alone. “Hey,” he says, voice low, easy, pitched lower just for me.