Page 84 of Marrying My Professor

The words go straight to my cock, making it ache painfully against my pants. It is wrong. We are in a university building, and she is still covered in blood. We should get her home as quickly as possible, clean her up, and make sure there is no physical evidence tying her to James’s death beyond the Veritas members who already saw her. They will not say anything. Everything that happens at the ball is considered club business, and anyone who speaks about it—murders included—would face excommunication at best and death at worst. After everything they sacrificed to earn their place, none of them would risk that.

But looking at her now—wild and blood-soaked and absolutely feral with need—all my carefully constructed logic evaporates.

"I'm not your professor anymore," I manage, even as my hands find her waist, pulling her flush against me so she can feel exactly what she's doing to me.

"You will be." Her hands slide up my chest, nails dragging slightly through the fabric. "Once the investigation concludes. Once they clear you. You'll be back in that classroom, standing at that desk, trying not to stare at me while I sit in the third row and think about this moment."

She grinds against me, the movement deliberate and devastating.

"Think about how I pushed you into this room covered in another man's blood," she continues, her voice dropping to something dark and seductive. "Think about how I made you hard despite the fact that I just committed murder. Think about how fucked up we are and how perfect that makes us for each other."

"Jesus Christ, Elara⁠—"

"That's not my name tonight." She pulls back slightly, her hands moving to the clasp of her wings. They fall to the floor with a soft thud, white feathers stained red. "Tonight I'm just your student. Your favorite student. The one who stays after class to ask questions. The one who sits in the front row with her legs crossed just to watch you lose focus."

The wings’ removal reveals more of the dress underneath—the cutouts, the sheer panels, the way blood has soaked through to her skin. She looks like a crime scene and a wet dream simultaneously.

"And you're my professor," she continues, her hands returning to my belt, successfully unbuckling it this time. "The one who pretends he doesn't notice when I bend over to pick up my pen. The one who calls on me just to hear my voice. The one who fantasizes about me every night and hates himself for it."

My hands move to stop her—or maybe to help her, I can't tell anymore—catching her wrists. "This is a terrible idea."

"The best ideas usually are." She twists free from my grip and drops to her knees in one fluid motion, looking up at me with that silver mask still in place, lips painted red, blood on her hands. "Tell me, Professor. What grade would you give a student who's willing to do absolutely anything to pass your class?"

The fantasy she's weaving—the deliberate role play—should feel wrong. Should feel inappropriate given what just happened, given where we are, given everything.

Instead, it makes me so hard I can barely think.

"Elara—"

"Wrong name." Her hands move to my zipper, sliding it down with agonizing slowness. "Try again."

I stare down at her—this woman I married, this killer who just avenged her brother, this angel covered in devil's blood kneeling at my feet like she's worshipping at an altar of our shared depravity.

And I make a choice.

I tangle my fingers in her blood-matted hair, gripping hard enough to make her gasp. "A student who's willing to do anything?" I let my voice drop into that professor tone she loves, the one that makes her squirm in her seat during lectures. "That depends entirely on what 'anything' entails."

Her smile is wicked, triumphant. "Why don't you show me what you want, Professor? Teach me a lesson I won't forget."

The permission—the explicit consent wrapped in roleplay—breaks whatever restraint I was still clinging to.

"Then open your mouth," I command, my grip tightening in her hair. "And show your professor exactly how dedicated you are to your education."

She complies immediately, her lips parting, tongue darting out to wet them in a gesture that's pure calculated seduction. The silver mask catches the classroom's fluorescent lighting, making her look otherworldly. Inhuman. Like an angel who fell so far she forgot what heaven looked like.

My hand is still in her hair, controlling the angle of her head, when her mouth closes around me and every coherent thought evaporates into pure sensation.

She's not gentle. Not tentative. She takes me deep immediately, her throat relaxing to accommodate, and the contrast between the blood on her hands—visible where they brace against my thighs—and the warm, wet heat of her mouth creates a cognitive dissonance that makes my head spin.

"Fuck," I groan, my head falling back against the classroom door. "Such a good student. So eager to learn. So dedicated to perfecting your technique."

She hums around me in response, the vibration traveling straight up my spine, and I have to focus on not finishing embarrassingly quickly. But it's difficult when she's looking up at me with those wild eyes, when she's still wearing that blood-soaked dress, when I can see the evidence of what she did—what we did—painted across white silk.

"Is this what you fantasized about?" she pulls back just enough to speak, her voice rough, wrecked. "When I sat in your classroom? When I answered your questions? Did you imagine me like this—on my knees, eager to please, willing to do anything you asked?"

"Every fucking day," I admit, the confession torn from somewhere deep and honest. "Every time you walked through that door. Every time you challenged me. Every time you looked at me like you knew exactly what I was thinking."

"I did know." She takes me back into her mouth, deeper this time, and the sight of her—angel wings discarded, mask still in place, covered in evidence of our crime—makes something dark and possessive roar through my chest.