Page 35 of Marrying My Professor

"Haven't you?"

"I've been trying to keep you safe," I bite out. "From me. From this. We can’t do this, but you do not have to flaunt your boy toy in my face."

Her breath catches. "Alexander⁠—"

"Do you have any idea what it's been like?" I step closer, and she doesn't back away. "Watching you sit there, watching you smile, watching you exist in the same space as me and knowing I can't touch you? Knowing that if I do, I'll lose everything?"

"Then why call me a brat and tell me to stay away?" she challenges, her voice rising. "Why kiss me in that closet and then act like it never happened?"

"Because it can't happen!" The words explode out of me, raw and unfiltered. "You're my student, Elara. You're twenty-three years old and sitting in my classroom, and I'm your professor. This—us—it's not allowed. It's not ethical. It's not⁠—"

"I don't care," she interrupts, stepping into my space, close enough that I can smell her perfume, that intoxicating mix of vanilla and peaches that's been haunting me for weeks. "I don't care about the rules or the ethics or what's allowed. I want you."

"Elara—"

"And you want me," she continues, her voice dropping to something raw and trembling. "I know you do. I can see it every time you look at me—the way your jaw tightens when I walk in, the way you track my movements like you're cataloging every breath I take. The way you can't help yourself even when you're pretending you can. So stop lying to both of us. Stop pretending you don't want this. Stop pretending you don't want me."

The words detonate something inside me.

My control—already frayed to the breaking point, stretched so thin I can feel it tearing—snaps.

I close the distance between us in one violent step, my hand coming up to cup the back of her neck with enough force that she gasps. My fingers tangle in her hair, fisting in those thick curls, and I use the grip to tilt her head back, exposing the column of her throat. Her eyes go wide, pupils blown, lips parting on a sharp inhale that I feel against my mouth as I claim it.

It's not gentle. It's not careful. It's brutal and desperate and three weeks of starvation given form.

My mouth crashes into hers like I'm trying to devour her whole, and she responds immediately—no hesitation, no retreat—her hands fisting in my shirt hard enough that I hear fabric tear. She pulls me closer, impossibly closer, until there's no space left between us, until I can feel every curve of her body molding against mine.

She tastes like mint and defiance and every bad decision I've ever wanted to make.

I can't get enough.

I back her against the desk, my body pressing into hers with enough force that she has to brace her hands behind her to keep from falling. The edge of the wood digs into her thighs and she gasps against my mouth—a sharp, needy sound that goes straight to my cock.

I take advantage of the opening, my tongue sweeping past her lips, claiming the inside of her mouth with the same ruthless intent I've been holding back for weeks. She meets me stroke for stroke, her tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm that feels both familiar and brand new, like we've done this a thousand times and like it's the first time all at once.

Her nails dig into my shoulders through the fabric of my shirt, sharp enough to hurt, and the bite of pain only makes me want her more. Makes me want to mark her the way she's marking me.

"Alexander," she breathes when I pull back just long enough to let her catch her breath.

"You drive me insane," I murmur against her lips, my hand sliding down to grip her hip. "Sitting there with him. Letting him touch you. Flirting with him like I'm not watching."

"It doesn’t matter. I'm yours," she says, and the words hit me like a punch. "Even when you're avoiding me. Even when you're pretending this doesn't exist. I'm still yours."

I close my eyes, resting my forehead against hers. "You can't be mine, Pet. Not here. Not like this. I will ruin everything for you, Pet."

“That’s not your choice,” she shakes her head, looking at me head on and I am so fucking weak for her it’s pathetic. “If I want you to ruin me, that is my choice.”

"Elara—" I say, my hand sliding higher on her thigh, stopping just short of where I know she's wet for me.

"Ruin me, Alexander, please" she whispers, her eyes locked on mine.

Her words are a permission I have no strength to refuse. My control shatters.

That’s it.

My hand, the one teasing the hem of her t-shirt, fists in the soft cotton and yanks it up. I don’t bother with the buttons of her denim skirt. The metallic rasp of the zipper being dragged down is loud in the quiet classroom. I push her skirt up, exposing her pretty pink pussy to me and find exactly what I knew was waiting for me. Hot. Slick. Mine.

She cries out, a sharp, surprised sound that turns into a moan as my fingers slide through her. “Alexander…”