Page 28 of His to Teach

The forbidden has become my everything. And I wouldn't change a single moment that led us here.

epilogue

. . .

Gordon

Eighteen months later

Eighteen months. That's how long it's been since Gordon carried me across campus in his arms, ending our secret nights in his office and starting the rest of our lives together. The scandal, the investigation, the six-month suspension without pay, the ethics training, the formal reprimand—it all feels like a distant memory now. Worth every second. Every humiliating meeting, every whispered rumor in the halls. Because at the end of it, I became his wife. Mrs. Flower Davis. And now I sit in the front row of his Advanced Literary Theory seminar, seven months pregnant with our daughter, my hand resting on the curve of my belly while his wedding ring glints on my finger every time I raise it to speak.

The other graduate students still look at me like I'm some kind of anomaly—a pregnant woman who not only survives Gordon Davis's legendary intellectual eviscerations but actively provokes them. They don't understand. They can't. They see the terrifying professor who reduces doctoral candidates to stammering wrecks. I see the man who kneels beside our bed every night to kiss my stomach and whisper to our unborn child. The man who calls me his good girl while he worships my changing body with hands and mouth until I'm trembling and begging. The man who is so thoroughly, completely mine.

"Professor Davis?" I say, letting my voice carry just enough sweetness to pull him out of whatever reverie he's fallen into while staring at me. "I'd like to challenge your reading of Butler's theory of performativity."

The room goes still. Eyes dart between us. Gordon's reputation has only sharpened since his return—more ruthless, more precise. But everyone has noticed the single exception: me. The pregnant woman in the front row who gets to push back without being dismantled.

"By all means, Mrs. Davis," he replies, the deliberate emphasis on my married name sending a familiar shiver down my spine. "The floor is yours."

I launch into my counterargument—carefully constructed, sharp, respectful but unyielding. I feel his gaze on me the entire time, hot and proud behind that professional mask. When I finish, he lets the silence hang for a perfect beat before responding.

"An interesting perspective, Mrs. Davis," he says, voice smooth as ever. "Though perhaps overlooking the historical context Butler herself acknowledges in her later work."

He dismantles me with surgical precision—no special treatment, no mercy. Just like we agreed. The intellectual sparring is its own kind of foreplay, and we both know it.

After class, I pack slowly while students swarm him with questions. I wait until the room empties, until only one lingering first-year doctoral student—Matthews—remains. He stops beside my desk, too close, voice low.

"That was impressive," he says, eyes flicking to my notes, then to my belly. "I've never seen anyone challenge Professor Davis like that and survive."

I smile politely. "I suppose I have an advantage."

"Beyond being his wife?" He leans in a fraction more. "Seriously, any tips for engaging with him? He terrifies everyone else."

Before I can answer, Gordon is there—sudden, looming, his presence alone enough to make the air feel heavier. "Mr. Matthews," he says, voice dangerously soft. "Office hours are posted on the syllabus if you have questions about the material."

Matthews jerks upright, stepping back so fast he almost stumbles. "Yes, sir. I was just⁠—"

"Leaving," Gordon finishes. "My wife needs to rest."

The boy flees. Gordon's hand settles on the small of my back—possessive, steady.

"You didn't have to scare him," I murmur, leaning into his touch. "He was just being friendly."

"He was standing too close." His voice is tight. "And looking at you too long."

Eighteen months of marriage, a baby due any day now, and he's still feral when another man gets within three feet of me. Some things never change. I love that about him.

"Take me home, Professor," I say, letting the title roll off my tongue just to watch his pupils dilate. "Your daughter is doing somersaults on my bladder."

His expression softens instantly. "Let's get you off your feet."

Four months later, I sit in the rocking chair in Eleanor's nursery, nursing our daughter while moonlight spills through the window. Eleanor Grace Davis—named after the department chair who could have ended Gordon's career but instead became our advocate. She's finally asleep, milk-drunk and peaceful, tiny fist curled against my breast.

Gordon appears in the doorway, watching us with that quiet intensity that still makes my heart skip.

"Is she asleep?" he asks softly.

I nod, smiling down at her. "Finally. She fought it hard tonight."