Page 7 of Marrying My Professor

She lets out a shaky breath. “And what do you call me?”

“Hmm,” I sigh in her ear, running my fingertips along the curve of her neck and over her shoulder. “Depends. Will you submit to me?”

My fingertip runs over her racing pulse, and I want to pull her against me, feeling her body mold to mine.

“Yes,” she whispers so faintly I almost miss it.

“Well then tonight you’ll be my little pet,” I smirk, thinking about her on my desk at the university as my hand slips lower, until it encompasses her waist. “You will follow instructions. Learn a couple of lessons, and be a very good girl for me. Right?”

“Yes,” she says, her voice mostly breath.

“Good girl,” I praise, before forcing myself to take a step back from her as I lift the solid black mask to my own face. It’s simple, stark, obscuring everything but my eyes, and a clear indicator of my rank.

I knock on the wall twice, and the wall in front of us glides open, revealing the club itself.

The space opens before us in a sweep of black lacquer, burnished bronze accents, and deep teal shadows. The lighting here is low and intimate, flickering off metallic surfaces and glass in soft, seductive ripples. Tables cluster in scattered arrangements, some small and candlelit, others larger and draped in dark fabrics. Velvet couches in charcoal and teal curve around the edges of the room, occupied by people lounging too closely, whispering too quietly.

At the center of it all rises a bronze cage—tall, ornate, and pulsing with light. Inside, a woman dances with slow, hypnotic movements, her silhouette sliding against the bars like a promise. The crowd watches her with the kind of hunger this place cultivates.

Every person wears a mask—lace, leather, sculpted metal, shimmering fabric—each disguising faces but revealing intent. Their identities may be blurred, but the hierarchy is crystal clear. Rank drips from posture, from mask quality, from how much space each person occupies without apology.

And tonight, I’m the highest-ranking officer in the room.

The air carries the warm notes of amber, jasmine, and skin heated by proximity. A masked ensemble of musicians plays a sultry, winding melody—a mix of strings and low percussion that settles into the bloodstream, urging bodies closer before minds realize what’s happening.

Elara steps forward, breath soft, eyes wide, drinking in the room like it’s decadence embodied. She turns her head just enough to look back at me, lace framing her gaze, lips curving into a wicked smile that hits me low and hard.

I close the distance between us in two steps. My hand finds the small of her back, warm through the thin fabric of her dress. She relaxes into my touch in a way that sends a wave of heat through me.

“Come on,” I murmur, guiding her through the shifting bodies and flickering shadows.

She follows with an easy sway of her hips, letting me lead her deeper into the club, past masked patrons lounging on teal velvet couches, past murmured conversations that sound more like confessions than small talk, past the pulsing bronze cage where a dancer arches against the bars like she was born inside them.

I guide her toward one of the corner booths—a curved alcove draped in black and bronze, half-hidden but still offering a perfect view of the room. A place meant for quiet negotiations, private touches, and dangerous conversations.

“Sit,” I say, the command low, instinctive.

She slides into the booth without protest, the slit of her dress gliding open to reveal a long, smooth line of thigh. She doesn’t try to hide it. She lets me look.

I take the seat beside her, close enough that our thighs touch with every small shift of her body.

A server approaches instantly, head bowed, mask simple and black. “Sir,” they greet. “Drinks?”

“Bring a Hugo Spritz,” I say. “And a double of the ten-year on rocks.”

She shifts closer to me, a small smile on her face. “You remembered my drink.”

“I have a knack for attention to detail,” I smirk, sliding my arm behind her and pulling her body closer to mine.

“And for touching me.” She whispers, a knowing smile on her lips as her eyes are locked on the cage in front of us.

The dancer’s hips sway in slow, deliberate circles, each movement smooth enough to look effortless but precise enough to show the strength in her legs. When she arches her back, the motion is clean, controlled, the kind of practiced fluidity that makes every eye follow the line of her spine. Her fingers wrap around the bronze bars, sliding up and down in a rhythm that suggests she’s teasing the crowd as much as she’s performing for them.

The bronze and teal lights play over her body in pulses, catching the gleam of sweat on her shoulders, illuminating the curve of her waist, then dipping her into shadow again.

“She’s good,” Elara murmurs, voice low. “Really good.”

“You sound impressed,” I say.