Page 18 of His to Teach

Got you, I think, a small thrill of victory running through me.

"Miss Darling," he says suddenly, "would you share your thoughts on Derrida's concept of différance as it applies to our reading?"

My cheeks heat. Of course he would call on me now, when my mind is anywhere but on French critical theory. I straighten, gathering my scattered thoughts.

"Derrida argues that meaning is never fixed," I begin, proud of how steady my voice sounds. "It's always deferred, always in relation to other meanings. In our text, the narrator's identity is similarly unstable—defined more by what he isn't than what he is."

As I speak, I shift again, crossing my legs slowly, deliberately. His gaze drops momentarily to the movement before snapping back to my face.

"An adequate analysis," he says, and only I can hear the strain beneath his professional tone. "Though perhaps lacking in depth. See me after class to discuss further."

My pulse quickens. The other eight students in this small seminar exchange glances—Gordon Davis rarely offers individual attention unless your work is either exceptional or abysmal. They don't know which category I fall into. I do.

The remaining forty minutes of class are torture. Gordon continues lecturing, calling on other students, never looking at me for too long. But I feel his awareness of me like a physical touch. The air between us seems to crackle with tension that only we can perceive.

When he finally dismisses the class, I take my time gathering my books, letting the others file out ahead of me. Gordon busies himself with his notes, not looking up until the last student closes the door behind them.

The moment we're alone, his head snaps up, eyes burning into mine.

"My office," he says, voice low and dangerous. "Now."

I follow him into the hallway, maintaining a professional distance as we walk. It's nearly 8 PM. The building is mostly empty, just a few lights glowing from faculty offices where dedicated professors or teaching assistants work late.

But he doesn't lead me to his office. Instead, he makes an unexpected turn, guiding me toward one of the large lecture halls used for introductory courses. He checks inside, confirms it's empty, then ushers me in, closing and locking the door behind us.

"What do you think you're doing?" he demands once we're alone, stalking toward me as I back up instinctively.

“Learning?” I suggest with a innocent blink that fools neither of us.

"You know exactly what I mean." He closes the distance between us, backing me against the podium at the front of the room. "No underwear. In my class."

I tilt my chin up defiantly. "I forgot."

"Liar." His hand finds my thigh, sliding up under my skirt to confirm what he already knows. "Jesus, princess. You're soaked."

I am. Have been since the moment I decided on this little game. Since I felt his eyes on me and knew he understood exactly what I was doing.

"Anyone could have seen," he growls, fingers finding my bare core, stroking through slick folds. "Anyone could have known what a desperate little slut my perfect student is."

I should be offended by the word. Instead, it sends a jolt of arousal straight to my core. "No one saw but you."

"That's not the point." His fingers push inside me without warning, making me gasp. "The point is you took that risk. Exposed what belongs to me."

"I'm sorry," I whisper, not sorry at all.

He seems to read the defiance in my eyes. In one fluid motion, he spins me around, bending me over the podium. My hands instinctively grab the edges for support, my cheek pressed against the cool wood surface.

"Anyone could walk in and see what a desperate little whore my princess is," he growls, flipping my skirt up to expose me completely. I hear his belt unbuckling, his zipper lowering. "Is that what you want? To be caught?"

"No," I gasp, but my body betrays me, getting wetter at his words.

"Your body says otherwise." The blunt head of his cock presses against my entrance, teasing but not penetrating. "Beg for it."

"Please," I whisper, pushing back against him.

His hand comes down on my ass in a sharp smack that makes me yelp. "Louder. I want to hear how badly the star student needs her professor's cock."

"Please," I say again, louder this time. "Please fuck me, Gordon."