Page 9 of His to Teach

He groans, a deep animal sound that vibrates through his chest. "That's it, princess. Take Daddy's cum. Take every fucking drop."

His fingers press harder on my clit, circling with ruthless precision. "Come for me. Now."

I shatter, convulsing around him as pleasure floods every nerve ending. He follows immediately, driving deep and holding there as he pulses inside me. I can feel it—hot spurts of his release filling me, marking me from the inside out.

For long moments, we stay frozen in that position, his body draped over mine, both of us breathing hard. Then slowly, carefully, he withdraws. I wince slightly at the emptiness, then again as I feel his release trickling down my inner thigh.

"Shh," he soothes, turning me in his arms. His expression is softer now, almost tender as he brushes hair from my face. "Did I hurt you, princess?"

I shake my head. "No. It was…perfect."

He cleans me with tissues from his desk, helps me straighten my clothes. His movements are gentle, possessive. When he kisses me afterward, it's almost reverent.

"What are we doing?" I whisper against his lips.

"Something we shouldn't be," he answers honestly. "Something that could ruin us both."

"I don't care." And I don't. In this moment, nothing matters but the way he looks at me, the way he makes me feel—both the filthy pleasure and the intellectual validation. No one has ever seen me so completely.

"Dangerous words, little girl." He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "You should care."

"Do you? Care, I mean?"

His hand tightens on my waist. "Not enough to stop."

I rise on my tiptoes to kiss him again. "Good. Because neither do I."

As I leave the lecture hall on wobbly legs, his release still warm inside me, I know with perfect clarity that I'm in too deep to turn back. Whatever this is—this forbidden, shameful, exhilarating thing between us—I'll risk everything to keep it.

And that should terrify me. But it doesn't. It feels like freedom.

five

. . .

Gordon

I need distance. Space to think clearly. That's why I assigned Flower an extra reading list—obscure literary criticism that will keep her busy in the library rather than in my office where I can't trust myself around her. It's been two weeks since that first time on my desk, and I've had her six more times since then. Twice more on that same desk. Once against the wall of my office. Once in my car, parked in the darkest corner of the faculty lot. Once in an empty classroom after hours. And once in a bathroom stall during a department function, her small hand pressed over her mouth to muffle her cries as I fucked her from behind. It's madness. It's addiction. It's going to destroy us both if I don't get control of myself.

I last exactly four hours before I find myself walking toward the library.

Just to check on her, I tell myself. Make sure she's making progress on the Baldwin critique I assigned. That's what responsible professors do. They follow up.

They don't stalk their students through the stacks, keeping just enough distance to remain unseen.

The main reading room is crowded with midterms approaching. I scan the tables, searching for honey-blonde hair and a small frame bent over books. I spot her in the far corner, surrounded by open texts and notebooks. Her hair is piled in a messy bun on top of her head, exposing the delicate curve of her neck. She's wearing another sundress—pale yellow this time—with a cardigan against the library's aggressive air conditioning. She looks painfully young. Painfully innocent.

Except I know better. Know how she moans when I suck her nipples. Know how she begs for my cock. Know how she comes with my name—or "Daddy"—on her lips, shame and pleasure mingling in those wide green eyes.

I should leave. Now. Before she sees me.

But then he appears. Sean Morris. One of the department's teaching assistants—working on his PhD dissertation about gender and power dynamics in modernist fiction. Ironic, given his reputation with the female students.

He stops at Flower's table, leaning down to say something I can't hear. She smiles up at him—that genuine, guileless smile that first caught my attention. He pulls out the chair next to her and sits. Too close. Points to something in her book, his shoulder brushing hers.

My vision narrows to a pinpoint, blood rushing in my ears. This is why I needed distance—to prevent exactly this reaction. This possessive, primal rage that has no place in academia. No place in a man my age.

But I can't stop it. Can't control the way my body moves on autopilot, stalking toward them through the stacks.