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Overnight, this banana thing has exploded out of proportion, and it’s all Professor Segul’s fault.
The situation is completely out of control.
I spent the two years with my head down, existing beneath anyone’s notice, and then he called me out for eating a banana.
I storm down the top floor hallway, the doors and notice boards on either side of me fading into blurs. Blood roars between my ears, and I clench and unclench my hands into fists.
There are memes on the university intranet about bananas and entire debates on whether women should eat them in public. Some girl from the Student Union who I’ve never met just started up a petition to cancel Professor Segul. Someone even messaged me to be her mouthpiece.
I’m lying low until it blows over, but I’m still pissed.
And if that bastard even thinks about giving me another C, I’ll use my teeth and show him what could be worse than mediocrity.
The pulse between my legs pounds so hard, I feel its reverberations down to my ankles. My jaw clenches. What about this confrontation is arousing?
My pussy muscles clench even harder than my fists.
That’s all I need.
Professor Fucking Stahl is conditioning me to associate him with not just sex, but guilty pleasure. I need to get a grip on reality. Men who make comments worthy of campus-wide memes deserve fists, not fellatio.
Raising my chin, I storm into his office.
“Do you know what they’re saying around the university?” I ask. “Everyone heard—”
“Bad girls who can’t knock get punished,” he says from behind his desk.
Professor Segul is without his jacket today, and doesn’t even wear a waistcoat. His shirt sleeves are rolled up past his elbows, exposing his muscular forearms. His white shirt is unbuttoned, giving me tantalizing glimpses of his pecs.
It’s crazy. I’ve seen him in various states of undress already, had his cock halfway down my throat, yet my mouth still drops open.
He peers at me through eyes that look turquoise in the morning light. All sense of retribution and rebelliousness evaporates under the heat of his gaze.
The professor raises a brow. “What do you have to say for yourself, Miss Stahl?”
I want to tell him that he ordered me here at 7:45, but I remember the text he sent as I hurried out of the lecture theater. Sassing him will only add to my punishment.
“You humiliated me,” I say.
He leans back in his seat, languid like a lion waiting for his lackeys to bring the spoils of their hunt. Does that make me the lioness or the soon-to-be-devoured prey?
My clit throbs in time with my rapid heartbeat, already knowing the answer.
“And how was I supposed to interpret that display of your delectable breasts?” he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting into the barest trace of a smile. “And how did you expect me to react when the tip of your tongue grazed that banana?”
When I lick my lips, his eyes darken, and his chest inflates with a deep inhale.
“A woman should be able to eat breakfast and take off her cardigan in public without certain men misinterpreting her actions.”
“But you’re not just any woman.” His voice is dark, dangerous, demanding. “You’re mine, and what we do together isn’t for public display. Not unless it’s a scene of my choosing.”
The butterflies in my stomach flutter. Firstly, at the confirmation that I stand out among other girls. Secondly, the fact that he just claimed me as his. And thirdly, at the prospect of public sex.
“What am I going to do with you, Miss Stahl?” he asks.
The question coils around my senses like a constrictor. If I’m not careful, I’ll let him reel me into his view of yesterday’s antics. Professor Segul would have me on my knees—exactly where he wants—begging for forgiveness.
I shake off my stupor and brush aside his attempts to take control. “Consider us even.”
