Page 13 of His to Teach

"It serves its purpose." He hands me a glass of ice water. Our fingers brush, and even that small contact sends electricity through me. "Did you bring your draft?"

I hold up the folder. "Yes. I revised the section on feminist critique like you suggested."

He takes the folder, sets it on the counter without opening it. "Good. We'll get to that."

Our eyes meet, and the pretense falls away. We both know the thesis draft is just that—a pretense. An excuse.

"Gordon..." I start, not sure what I want to say.

He steps closer, one hand coming up to cup my face. "You're nervous."

"This feels different," I admit. "Being here. In your home."

"Do you want to leave?" His thumb strokes my cheek.

I shake my head. "No. That's not what I want."

"What do you want, princess?" His voice drops lower, that tone that makes heat pool between my legs.

"You." The word comes out a whisper. "Just you."

He kisses me then, soft and gentle at first, then deeper as I respond. His arms wrap around me, lifting me slightly to better align our bodies. When we break apart, I'm breathless.

"I have a confession," I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.

His eyebrow raises. "I'm listening."

I drop my gaze, heat flooding my cheeks. "The shame…it turns me on. Knowing this is wrong. That you're my professor. That we could both get in so much trouble." I force myself to look up at him. "Is that twisted? That the wrongness makes it better?"

For a moment, he's completely still, his expression unreadable. Then a slow smile spreads across his face—not mocking, not judgmental. Understanding.

"No, princess. It's not twisted." His hand slides to the back of my neck, grip firm. "The forbidden has always been intoxicating. And you've been such a good girl, haven't you? So proper and studious your whole life. This is the first rule you've ever broken."

I nod, relief washing through me. "You don't think less of me?"

"I think you're perfect." He kisses me again, briefly. "Come with me."

He leads me through the apartment to the bathroom—a surprisingly large space dominated by a deep soaking tub. Steam rises from water already drawn, scented with something woodsy and masculine.

"What's this?" I ask.

"I want to take care of you." He turns me to face him, hands moving to the first button of my blouse. "Will you let me do that, little girl?"

The endearment sends shivers down my spine. I nod, unable to speak as he slowly undresses me, each movement deliberate. When I'm naked before him, I resist the urge to cover myself. His eyes roam my body with such naked appreciation that any self-consciousness fades.

"Beautiful," he murmurs. "So fucking beautiful."

He strips quickly, efficiently, revealing his powerful body—all lean muscle and controlled strength. When he's naked too, he tests the water with his hand, then helps me into the tub.

The water is perfect—hot enough to pink my skin but not uncomfortable. I sink down with a sigh as he climbs in behind me, his larger body cradling mine. We sit in silence for a moment, my back against his chest, his arms wrapped around me.

"Relax," he whispers against my ear. "Let me take care of you."

He reaches for a washcloth and soap, working up a lather before beginning to wash me. It's the most intimate thing we've done—more intimate even than sex. The way he handles me, like I'm precious and breakable. The way he pays attention to every inch of skin, from my shoulders down my arms, across my stomach.

"Such a perfect little body," he murmurs, cloth sliding over my breasts. "Made just for my hands."

I lean back against him, surrendering to his ministrations. His hardness presses against my lower back, but he makes no move to escalate things. This is about care, not sex. At least for now.