Page 17 of His to Teach

I push two fingers inside her without preamble, curling them to hit the spot that makes her keen. "They're saying you're a slut," I murmur, watching her face as shame and arousal battle for dominance. "Saying you earn your grades on your knees."

She whimpers, eyes squeezing shut. "I'm not…I don't..."

"You love being my dirty little campus slut, don't you, princess?" I withdraw my fingers, using both hands to tear her underwear down her legs. "Tell me the truth."

"Yes," she admits, voice breaking as fresh tears spill down her cheeks. "I love it. I hate that I love it, but I do."

Something dark and possessive roars to life inside me at her confession. I free my cock from my slacks, position her over me, and thrust up into her in one brutal stroke that makes her cry out.

"Mine," I growl, hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise, forcing her to take me deeper, faster. "Say it."

"Yours," she sobs, tears streaming down her face even as pleasure contorts her features. "Only yours, Daddy. Always yours."

The car rocks with our movements, windows beginning to fog from our combined heat and breath. Anyone walking by would know exactly what's happening inside—a professor fucking his student raw in the faculty parking lot. The thought should terrify me. Instead, it pushes me closer to the edge.

"You're going to come," I command, one hand moving between us to circle her clit. "Come all over Daddy's cock like the desperate little slut you are."

Her inner walls clench at the filthy words, a fresh wave of tears spilling from her eyes as she nods frantically. "Please," she begs through her sobs. "Please, I need it."

"What do you need, princess? Tell me."

"Need you to fuck me," she gasps, shame burning her cheeks crimson. "Need you to breed me. Make me yours where anyone could see."

I lose control at that, thrusting up so hard the car shakes. "Take it," I growl. "Take every fucking drop. Show Daddy how sorry you are for letting them talk about you."

She shatters, inner walls clamping down on my cock as she comes with a broken sob of my name. I follow immediately, burying myself as deep as possible and flooding her with my release, marking her as mine in the most primal way possible.

Afterward, as our breathing slows, I reach up to unbind her wrists. Red marks circle them like bracelets from her straining against the belt. I bring each one to my lips, kissing the abrasions with a tenderness that contrasts sharply with the brutality of moments before.

"Did I hurt you?" I ask, voice rough with emotion.

She shakes her head, eyes still wet with tears. "No. Yes. But I liked it." She lowers her gaze, fresh shame coloring her cheeks. "Does that make me twisted?"

"No more twisted than me." I gather her close, cradling her against my chest. "I'm sorry about Phillips. About what she's saying."

"It's okay." She nestles closer, small and vulnerable in my arms. "It's worth it. You're worth it."

I stroke her hair, guilt and possession warring in my chest. "I shouldn't have done this here. It was reckless."

"I know." She looks up at me with those impossibly green eyes. "But I needed it. Needed to know that even when people are talking about us—about me—you still want me. Still think I'm worth the risk."

"You are." I kiss her forehead, her eyes, her tear-stained cheeks. "God help me, but you are."

We stay like that for several minutes, her curled in my lap, my arms around her. Eventually, reality reasserts itself. We need to leave before someone notices my car still here, windows fogged, rocking stopped but evidence of what happened clear to anyone who might look.

But as I help her dress, as I smooth her hair and wipe away the last traces of tears from her cheeks, I know with absolute certainty that Phillips will never spread another rumor about Flower. Not after today's public dissection of her academic failings. Not after the clear message I sent to the entire class.

eight

. . .

Flower

I cross my legs, then uncross them slowly, feeling the cool air on my bare skin beneath my skirt. I've never done anything this bold before. This reckless. This deliberately provocative. But after yesterday—after seeing Gordon dismantle Andrea Phillips in class for spreading rumors about me, after what happened in his car—something has shifted inside me. A newfound courage. Or maybe just a deeper submission to the dark, delicious thing growing between us. Either way, I'm sitting in his evening seminar on Literary Criticism with no underwear, watching his eyes narrow the exact moment he notices.

He's mid-sentence about Derrida's deconstructionist approach when it happens. His gaze, which routinely sweeps the room to maintain engagement, lands on me in the front row. I shift slightly, allowing my knees to part just enough to make it clear what I've done—or rather, what I haven't worn. His words falter almost imperceptibly—a microsecond of silence that no one else would catch. But I do. I know his rhythms now, the precise cadence of his lectures. That tiny hesitation is like a shout to me.

His eyes darken, pupils dilating even as his expression remains professionally neutral. He recovers smoothly, continuing his point about binary oppositions in text, but there's a new tension in his shoulders, a tightness in his jaw that wasn't there before.