Page 7 of His to Teach

Her eyes widen, but she doesn't pull away. Instead, she nods frantically, legs wrapping around my waist to pull me deeper.

"Say it," I command. "Tell me what you want."

"Want you to fill me," she whispers, face flushed with shame and arousal. "Want you to…to breed me."

The words send fire through my veins. I increase my pace, fucking her in earnest now, one hand slipping between us to rub her clit. "Come for me, princess. Let me feel that tight little pussy squeeze my cock."

She shatters almost instantly, back arching off the desk, walls clenching around me as she cries out—"Daddy!"

The word hits me like lightning. I hadn't even told her to call me that, but it pours from her lips like a prayer as she comes, shame burning in her eyes even as pleasure overwhelms her. It's the most beautiful, filthy thing I've ever heard.

I follow her over the edge, burying myself deep and flooding her with my release, marking her as mine from the inside out. "That's it," I growl against her neck. "Take all of Daddy's cum, little girl. Every fucking drop."

Afterward, I hold her trembling body against mine, stroking her hair as reality slowly reasserts itself. What have I done? Crossed every professional line. Risked my entire career. For what?

I look down at her—cheeks flushed, lips swollen from my kisses, eyes trusting and vulnerable—and know I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

She's mine now. And God help anyone who tries to take her from me.

four

. . .

Flower

I can't stop replaying it in my head. The way Professor Davis—Gordon—looked at me when I bent over to pick up that pen. The sound of the lock clicking shut. His voice, rough and commanding, calling me "princess" and "little girl." His body, so much larger than mine, pressing me down onto his desk. The stretch and burn as he claimed my virginity. And worst of all—or maybe best of all—the word that escaped my lips when I came: "Daddy." I didn't mean to say it. It just…happened. And the way his eyes darkened when I did, the growl that rumbled through his chest…God, I'm blushing just thinking about it. Two days later, I still feel him between my legs, a delicious soreness that reminds me with every step that I belong to him now.

"Miss Darling? The passage I just referenced?"

His voice snaps me back to the present. The lecture hall. Twenty-five pairs of eyes turning to look at me. And him—Professor Davis—standing at the podium, eyebrow raised in that way that makes my stomach flip.

"I'm sorry, Professor. Could you repeat the question?" My voice comes out small, breathless.

Something flickers in his eyes—amusement, maybe. Or possession. "I asked which passage in 'Hills Like White Elephants' most clearly demonstrates Hemingway's use of subtext."

"Oh." I scramble to find my place in the text, painfully aware of his eyes on me. "The part where she says, 'And we could have all this,' she said. 'And we could have everything and every day we make it more impossible.' The subtext is about the abortion, how it will change their relationship forever."

He nods, satisfied. "Precisely. Hemingway tells us everything without telling us anything."

He turns away, continuing the lecture, and I release a shaky breath. Focus, Flower. Just focus on the class.

But I can't. Not when his deep voice washes over me, sending heat pooling between my legs. Not when I know what that voice sounds like whispering filthy promises in my ear. Not when I've felt those large hands gripping my hips, positioning me exactly how he wants me.

I press my thighs together, trying to ease the ache building there. It doesn't help. My underwear is already damp, and we're only twenty minutes into a ninety-minute lecture.

He paces as he speaks, commanding the room with effortless authority. Every gesture deliberate. Every word precisely chosen. His sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. The shadow of stubble on his jaw that would feel delicious against my inner thighs.

Stop it. I force my attention to my notebook, writing down his points about Hemingway's economy of language. But even his academic insights are sexy—sharp, incisive, revealing layers of meaning I'd never have found on my own.

"Let's examine the story's ending," he says, leaning against the podium. "'I feel fine,' she said. 'There's nothing wrong with me. I feel fine.' What are we to make of this?"

A student two rows ahead raises his hand. "She's in denial about the trauma of the abortion?"

Professor Davis shakes his head. "Too simplistic. Miss Darling?"

My heart jumps when he calls on me again. "She's lying," I say. "She doesn't feel fine at all. She's just saying what he wants to hear because she knows the relationship is over anyway."

His eyes lock with mine, something hot and private passing between us. "Yes. Precisely. Sometimes what remains unsaid is more powerful than what's spoken aloud."