Page 78 of Marrying My Professor

One of my hands leaves her hip, snakes around her front, and finds the swollen, desperate bud of her clit. I press and circle, my touch ruthless, perfectly in time with my thrusts.

That’s all it takes.

Her orgasm shatters her. A raw, screaming release that makes her entire body convulse against the ropes. Her back arches impossibly, her head thrown back. The contractions around my cock are relentless, milking me, pulling me over the edge with her.

My own release is a white-hot detonation. I drive into her one last, deep time, shuddering as I spill myself inside her, my groan lost against the sweat-damp skin of her shoulder.

For long moments, there is only the sound of our ragged breathing. The air is thick with the scent of sex and exertion. I stay buried within her, my weight resting on her, both of us held up by the cross.

Slowly, sensation returns to her. The bite of the rope on her wrists. The cool wood against her cheek. The delicious, bone-deep ache between her legs where I am still, softly, inside her.

I press a kiss, surprisingly tender, to the mark my teeth left on her shoulder. “Color?” I murmur, my voice hoarse.

A weak, breathless laugh escapes her. “So very, very green.”

22

ELARA

The angel costume is perfect.

White silk flows from my shoulders in carefully constructed wings that catch the afternoon light, each feather hand-stitched and weighted just enough to move naturally when I walk. The dress itself is equally ethereal—layers of gossamer fabric that cling to my body before floating around my legs in a way that suggests divinity while still revealing enough skin to be seductive. Strategic cutouts expose my shoulders, my back, the curve of my waist.

My face is hidden behind a silver mask shaped like a bird, delicate filigree covering everything from my hairline to my cheekbones, leaving only my mouth and jaw visible. My lips are painted deep crimson—the only splash of color against all that white and silver, like a drop of blood on snow.

I look like an angel who's tasted sin and liked it.

Perfect for what I'm about to do.

The north woods clearing buzzes with activity—faction leaders in expensive suits mingling with alumni and faculty, all gathered to watch the final trial like it's opening night at the theater. Which, in a way, it is. Entertainment purchased with the suffering of desperate young men who think surviving this will make them powerful instead of broken.

I smooth my hands down the front of the dress, feeling the weight of what's hidden beneath the flowing fabric. A thin blade, barely longer than my palm, strapped to my inner thigh where no one would think to look. Sharp enough to kill with precision. Small enough to conceal completely.

"Elara."

Nathaniel Davis materializes beside me, appearing with that particular quiet efficiency that makes me think he was probably very good at hunting when he was younger. He's dressed impeccably as always—charcoal suit, burgundy tie, an expression of polite interest that never quite reaches his cold eyes.

"Praefectus Maximus," I greet, dipping my head in the small bow Alexander taught me. The gesture of respect these men expect, demand, require as proof of proper submission.

"None of that." His hand finds my elbow, and I have to suppress the instinct to pull away from his touch. "We're family now. Call me Nathaniel."

Family. The word tastes like poison, but I smile anyway. "Thank you for inviting me. I know I'm still new to all of this, but I wanted to support the tradition. To understand what Alexander has been part of for so long."

"Alexander is fortunate to have found someone so... adaptable." His eyes travel over my costume with open appreciation, lingering on the exposed skin at my shoulders, the curve visible through the sheer fabric. "You look absolutely stunning. Like something Caravaggio might have painted. Beautiful and dangerous in equal measure."

The comparison sends a thrill through me despite myself. Dangerous. He called me dangerous.

Does he know? Does he suspect?

"You're too kind," I say, letting my lashes lower demurely even as my pulse kicks into overdrive.

"Not kind. Honest." His hand moves from my elbow to the small of my back, proprietary in a way that makes my skin crawl. He leans in close—close enough that I can smell his cologne, expensive and overwhelming, close enough that his breath ghosts across my ear. "Do what all angels do, Elara."

I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. "I'm sorry?"

"Bring a man to his knees." His voice is barely above a whisper, intimate and terrible. "Make him believe in divine judgment. In consequences for his sins."

My eyes snap to his, wide with shock and something that might be understanding. We stare at each other for a long moment—this man who runs the entire Veritas Order, who could have me killed with a word, who holds my husband's leash and my life in his hands.