Page 6 of Marrying My Professor

The woman smiles widely. “Welcome. Are we both members?”

“No,” I respond, feeling Elara’s eyes burning into the side of my head. “She would be my plus one. Praefectus.”

“Ah,” she smiles, nodding her head as her eyes slink toward Elara. “Well. I would need her ID. She must be at least 21 to enter the space.”

And that’s when my stomach drops. Fuck. I never asked.

In all my staring and wanting and losing my damn composure over her, it never occurred to me to ask. I should have known better. I do know better. If she’s under twenty-one, she’ll be the age of one of my students and I can’t be found with a girl the age of one of my students. It’s a line I don’t cross.

She reaches into her small clutch without hesitation and hands over her ID.

I stand perfectly still, forcing my expression into something neutral even as my pulse hammers under my skin. I’m thirty-one. I cannot play games with someone too young to legally drink, let alone someone I’ve already undressed with my eyes. I shouldn’t have looked at her the way I did. Shouldn’t have brought her up here. Shouldn’t want her the way I do.

The woman scans the card, her features softening into a polite, almost warm smile.

“I love California,” she comments, handing the ID back.

Elara returns the smile easily. “It’s so much better than New York.”

As she slips the card from the woman’s fingers, I steal a glance at the birthdate. 23. She is 23. Still young for me—too young for most men with a conscience—but it hits me harder than it should that she isn’t a teenager. Not a student. Not forbidden. Just… young. Temptation in a blue dress.

I exhale slowly. I can live with twenty-three.

“As a native New Yorker,” I say, resting a hand lightly against my chest, “I’m offended.”

Elara snorts, not bothering to soften the jab. “Oh, well I’m offended for you. New York is terrible.”

I look at the woman who chuckles lowly as she presses the button to reveal the hidden hallway into the club, because Elara’s smart mouth is its own kind of lure, drawing me in with every sly remark, every bold opinion she tosses out as if she owns the air around her.

Intriguing doesn’t even begin to cover how I feel about her.

The woman behind the desk gestures smoothly, and the seamless bronze panel to our right glides open without a sound. The hidden passage behind it stretches in a long, dim corridor of black stone and amber sconces.

“Have a good night, Miss. Praefectus,” she says, bowing her head slightly as a sign of respect.

Elara glances at me, one brow arched, mischief simmering in those green eyes. She doesn’t ask what the title means. She doesn’t flinch. She simply smirks like she’s already decided she’ll figure out every secret in this place, whether she’s invited to or not—then walks ahead of me into the hall.

And I watch her go.

Her hips sway in a slow, unhurried rhythm, the silk of her blue dress hugging and releasing with each step, guiding my gaze like she’s leading me on a leash and pretending she isn’t. She has no idea how dangerous she looks in this lighting—bronze glow on bare spine, shadows slipping over the curve of her waist, each movement deliberate without trying to be.

I follow her through the narrow entry corridor toward the inner chamber. The sound of low music thrums ahead—a pulsing, sensual beat paired with warm laughter and the quiet, intimate murmur of whispered conversations.

Before the final set of doors, I reach into the small ebony drawer built into the wall and pull out two masks—one delicate lace piece and one solid black.

“Here,” I say, stepping beside her and lifting the lace mask. It’s soft between my fingers, shaped to frame her eyes and tie with thin black ribbons. “Everyone in the main club wears one. Veritas protects anonymity. It’s… part rule, part ritual.”

She turns toward me, and I hold the mask up to her face for a moment—not touching, just gauging. It suits her almost too well. The lace softens nothing; it enhances all of her sharpness, her mystery, her bite. It’s unfair how effortlessly she embodies what this place is built for.

Her eyes narrows on me. “What is this place?”

The corner of my mouth lifts despite myself. “A private club for rich pricks.”

“Like you?”

“Exactly like me.” I tie the ribbons behind her head, letting my fingers brush her hair—just enough contact to feel how warm she is. I lean in closer and whisper low in her ear. “But in this club, you call me Sir. We don’t use our real names.”

This Veritas Club is a BDSM club, completely anonymous. I am Sir, or Praefectus if someone knows my ranking. Elara is an outsider, but I rather not use her name in front of these monsters. You never know who is truly here.