Page 16 of His to Teach

"Yes." I nod slowly. "An argument that, while not novel itself, could have merit if properly supported." I pick up a stack of papers from my desk. "Instead, you offered this."

I begin reading from her paper, systematically dismantling her arguments point by point, exposing logical fallacies, factual errors, and sloppy scholarship. It's brutal. Thorough. By the time I finish, her face is flushed red, eyes wide with humiliation.

"This," I announce to the class, "is the difference between critique and slander. Miss Phillips makes claims she cannot support, ignores contrary evidence, and bases her conclusions on emotional reactions rather than scholarly analysis."

I fix her with a cold stare. "In academia, we judge work on its merits. Not on petty jealousies or unfounded speculations about how grades are earned."

Her eyes widen in understanding. She knows I've heard her gossip. The class doesn't know what I'm referring to specifically, but they sense the subtext, heads swiveling between Phillips and me.

"Miss Phillips, I suggest you focus on improving your own scholarship rather than denigrating that of your peers. See me after class to discuss how you might salvage your grade for the semester."

The rest of the lecture proceeds normally, though there's an electric tension in the air. When I dismiss the class, Phillips bolts without staying behind as instructed—a cowardice that doesn't surprise me.

Flower lingers, waiting until the room clears before approaching my desk.

"What was that about?" she asks softly.

I look up from gathering my papers, taking in her concerned expression. "Phillips has been spreading rumors about how you're earning your grades."

Her face pales. "Oh."

"Grab your things," I say, voice low and tight. "We're leaving."

She doesn't question it, just gathers her backpack and follows me from the lecture hall. I lead her through side corridors, avoiding the main quad, to the faculty parking lot. My car sits in the far corner, partially obscured by an overgrown hedge—the reason I chose this spot months ago.

Neither of us speaks as I unlock the doors. She slides into the passenger seat, and I circle to the driver's side. Once inside, I don't start the engine. Instead, I turn to her, taking in her anxious expression.

"Are you okay?" she asks, reaching for my hand.

The tenderness in her voice nearly undoes me. She's concerned about me when she's the one whose reputation is being attacked.

"No," I admit roughly. "I'm not okay."

In one fluid motion, I pull her across the console onto my lap. She gasps, surprised but pliant, knees straddling my thighs in the confined space. My mouth claims hers in a kiss that's all teeth and tongue and desperation.

"Someone could see," she whispers when I release her, glancing nervously at the windshield.

"Let them." My hands find her waist, fingers digging in possessively. "Let them see who you belong to."

Her eyes widen, pupils dilating with a mixture of fear and arousal. "Gordon..."

"Take off your shirt." My voice is unrecognizable, even to myself. Low and dangerous.

She hesitates only briefly before reaching for the hem of her blouse, pulling it over her head to reveal a simple white bra. My hands move to the back seat, retrieving my suit jacket. From the inner pocket, I withdraw my belt, the leather supple in my hands.

"Give me your wrists."

She does, offering them up with a trust that makes my chest ache even through the haze of possession consuming me. I loop the belt around them, cinching it tight enough to hold but not enough to hurt. Her breath comes faster now, chest rising and falling rapidly.

"What are you doing?" she whispers.

"Reminding you who you belong to." I pull her bound wrists above her head, securing them to the grab handle above the door. "And making sure you never forget it."

I unsnap her bra with one hand, pushing it up to expose her perfect breasts. Bend to take one nipple in my mouth, sucking hard enough to make her gasp and arch against me. My other hand pushes her skirt up around her waist, finding her already wet through her underwear.

"Is this for me?" I growl against her skin, fingers pushing aside the damp fabric to stroke her folds. "Is this tight little pussy wet for Daddy?"

"Yes," she gasps, hips bucking against my touch. "Only for you."