Page 5 of Marrying My Professor

And lucky for me, the guy she was with—Mike Daniels—was a complete prick. A man who thought offering her twenty thousand dollars to play girlfriend for a few hours was generous. I could tell she was worth five times that before she even opened her mouth. He was lowballing her and didn’t even have the sense to know it.

Fast forward twenty minutes, and now she’s in the elevator with me, biting the corner of her lip, pretending she’s not watching me from the reflection in the mirrored walls. We’re headed to the private Veritas club in the penthouse of this building.

And all I can think is: Thank God I didn’t stay home tonight.

“You look nervous, Red,” I murmur, watching her green eyes flick around the confined space of the elevator, and her nails tap against her silver clutch. There’s a restless energy in the way she stands—like she’s prepared to bolt and seduce in the same breath.

Her bottom lip slips slowly from between her teeth, glistening. “Maybe it’s because I don’t know where we’re going.”

“We’re staying in the building,” I answer, letting a slow smirk tug at my mouth as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. She’s trying to look unimpressed, unbothered, but her body is giving her away in ways she probably doesn’t even realize.

“You could be taking me to your apartment to kill me,” she counters, brows raised as she folds her arms under her chest—pushing her breasts up in a way that should violate a dozen laws. It takes actual effort to drag my eyes back to hers. A painful amount.

“I’m not going to kill you,” I assure her, the elevator ticking slowly upward. I take a step closer anyway, because I can’t not. Her scent hits me—cinnamon, vanilla, pear—and it rushes over my senses so sharply I nearly groan.

“So we’re going to your apartment?” she challenges, heat in her tone, mischief in her eyes.

Her wit could unravel me. She’s so damn quick, always ready with a comeback, a spark, a tease. Like a brat just waiting to be coaxed into misbehaving.

God, I hope she is a brat.

“I have to know you for longer than ten minutes before you come into my apartment,” I say, stepping closer again until only a sliver of space remains between us. Close enough that the air pulsates with something she pretends not to notice.

She inhales sharply, chest rising, eyes darting around the elevator before they snap back to mine—wide, bright, and just a little breathless.

And fuck, she has no idea what she’s doing to me.

I slide my hands into my pockets, refusing to touch her—because if I do, I won’t stop. The temptation is vicious. The allure of her is so potent I can practically feel my self-control fraying at the edges. One wrong move and I’m hitting the emergency stop button, tearing that dress down the middle, and fucking her right here against the mirrored wall of this elevator and I haven’t even kissed her yet.

But she’s lucky, I’m a gentleman. Mostly. Barely.

She leans in closer, enough that her perfume drifts up my neck, looking at me through those long, dramatic black lashes like she already knows every filthy thought running through my head.

“Awe,” she purrs, lips curling into a wicked little smile. “I thought we were going to your apartment. I would look so good walking around your house in one of your button-ups.”

My jaw tightens. My pulse spikes. Every muscle in my body goes tense with want.

And just when I’m about to forget every rule I’ve ever lived by, the elevator dings.

The elevator doors slide open. She slips by me with a sway in her hips, and the ache straining against my slacks is downright painful, because she is a fucking brat.

I adjust my slacks, tucking my cock into my waistband, and follow her out of the elevator.

The penthouse lobby stretches before us—vast, echoing, and empty. Bronze panels gleam along the walls like burnished gold, broken up by sharp columns of matte black. The floor beneath us is a deep teal marble shot through with obsidian veins, polished to a mirror shine. Soft lighting glows from recessed geometric fixtures overhead, casting warm shadows that make the whole space feel both luxurious and forbidden.

It’s designed to look as exclusive and unsuspecting as possible, because what happens past those sound proof doors does not match the pristine, clean of this lobby.

“Alexander,” she questions, her heels tapping against the marble, and she tilts her head just slightly as she takes in the space. “What is this place?”

“This is where all the fun happens,” I whisper as I slip into step beside her until we approach the single desk at the far end of the lobby.

A woman stands behind it, dressed in a fitted black ensemble and sensible heels. Her brunette hair is pulled into a sleek high bun, not a strand out of place. She lifts her head elegantly, a thick Russian accent rolling across her tongue. “Good Evening, Sir. Ma’am. What do you see?”

“See?” Elara asks, looking around the vast, empty space.

I offer the required phrase, letting it roll low and certain off my tongue. “Lucem video. Veritas videt tenebras.”

Which for non-latin speakers means, ‘I see the light. The truth sees the dark.’ That is the motto of Veritas and the only way for you to get into any of their spaces across the world.