Page 3 of Marrying My Professor

My eyes drift through the crowd until they land on Mike. He’s standing with Thomas and the other partners, laughing a little too eagerly at whatever bland joke they’ve thrown his way. His shoulders are tense even as he tries to look relaxed, and his smile keeps twitching like it’s stitched on wrong.

Joseph stands slightly apart from the group, his eyes firmly on me.

I lift my fingers and give the tiniest wave. His responding smirk is slow, knowing. A man who thinks he can have whatever he wants. I don’t know if it would hurt or help Mike to let Joseph think he can fuck me, but it’s the most entertainment I’ve had all night.

“I think you can do better than that,” a low, rasped whisper brushes my ear, intimate enough to raise a shiver along my spine.

I turn my head and holy shit.

The man standing beside me is not one of Mike’s overeager colleagues. Not one of the slick, dead-eyed attorneys in their interchangeable navy suits. No, this man looks like he belongs on an entirely different plane of existence.

He’s tall—easily six-three—with dark, slightly tousled hair that looks touched by the wind rather than the gel that plagues every other man in this room. His jaw is sharp, his cheekbones sharper, and the grey of his eyes is arresting—storm grey, almost silver, the kind that makes you forget words, your own name, your entire mission in life.

And he’s wearing a suit, yes, but no tie. The top buttons of his shirt are undone, revealing a hint of collarbone and a sliver of chest like he left a boardroom early to crash a gala. He looks down at me like he’s amused. Or curious. Or studying me in a way that feels far too intimate for someone I’ve known all of three seconds.

My breath catches, and my eyes shamelessly roam his body.

His voice, when he speaks again, is smooth as velvet despite the gravel in it, his mouth curving as he angles his body toward mine. “Are you really going to waste your time with men like that?” he asks, lifting a brow as his eyes travel deliberately over me, slow enough to make my skin heat.

I scoff, shifting my weight onto one hip as I glance over at Joseph, who is now nudging Mike and directing his attention straight at me.

“Would it be better for me to waste my time with you?” I ask, tilting my head and letting my gaze drag lazily across his chest before meeting his eyes again.

“Red, you would never waste any time with me.” He says it with a small, knowing smirk, dipping slightly closer as he extends his hand to me. “My name is Alexander.”

I take it lightly, his calloused large hand engulfing mine, as I respond. “Elara.”

“Beautiful name,” he smirks.

“Mmm,” I hum, running my tongue along the inside of my cheek as I purposely ignore Mike’s stare burning a hole in my side. “I don’t think my boyfriend likes you talking to me,” I say, swiping my spritz from the lineup of drinks I ordered; lifting the glass to my lips, letting him watch the movement.

“I don’t really give a fuck what your boyfriend thinks.” He leans in as he says it, his hand sliding casually into his pocket, bicep flexing, eyes locked onto my mouth.

“I would. He could kick your ass,” I murmur, arching a brow as I shift a bit closer—not enough to touch, but the heat coming off of him engulfs me regardless.

“I doubt that.” He steps in, closing the distance by another inch, his shoulder nearly brushing my arm again. His cologne—warm musk, cedar, smoke—wraps around me, flooding my senses. His voice dips lower. “You want me to leave you alone?” he asks, his fingers tapping lightly against his thigh, like he already knows the answer.

My heart jumps painfully. Heat flares in my cheeks. My body moves faster than my mind, and I shake my head—quick, frantic, unguarded. “Shit,” I breathe, catching the slip too late.

He notices instantly. His mouth pulls into a slow, wicked grin as he lets out a low, pleased chuckle. He leans in, bracing one hand on the bar behind me, caging me just enough that I feel the warmth of his chest radiating toward mine. His breath ghosts along the shell of my ear as he whispers, “Is that boy really your boyfriend?” His nose grazes my hairline, the question a hot drag down my spine.

“Guess,” I smirk, taking another sip of my drink.

“Mmm.” His gaze drops deliberately, sliding over every inch of me like he’s taking inventory of sins.

My dress leaves him nothing to hide behind.

It’s a sapphire blue gown, cut from a shimmering fabric that catches the bar lights and scatters them across my body like sparks. Tiny studded crystals cling to the material in a constellation pattern, drawing the eye down every curve. The halter neckline plunges in a bold, near-dangerous V that skims the center of my chest, the ruching pulling everything inward, tighter, higher.

The fabric hugs my waist before falling in a smooth, liquid line to the floor, the skirt pooling softly around my heels. When I shift even slightly, the crystals flicker—tiny bursts of fire cascading over the dress, making it look alive. The entire gown glitters like it’s breathing with me, like it’s daring him to touch.

His eyes drag back up, slower this time, jaw ticking.

“No,” he murmurs, gaze lingering shamelessly on the dip of the neckline, the sparkle across my hips, the way the fabric clings as if it was stitched directly onto my skin. “A man knows not to have his girlfriend outside in a dress like this and expect other men to behave.”

I roll my eyes, lady boner gone. “So, I shouldn’t wear things because men won’t behave?”

“No,” he chuckles, licking his lips and pinning me with those grey eyes. “See if I were your man, you could wear whatever you want but every man in here would know to keep their eyes locked on yours, or I would have words for them. A man doesn’t let his colleagues, or boss eye fuck his girl in front of his face.”