Page 62 of Damsel in Disguise

Every time my friends described about their boyfriends’ dicks, I grimaced from disinterest. Now my mind betrays me, spiraling into images I shouldn’t be able to conjure so vividly, replaying scenes that didn’t happen yet.

I’m more than glad to still be a virgin when most of my friends got full-on experience within seventeen—even the two best friends that died.

It feels too forbidden too taboo to think of my married professor like that. Which unfortunately makes it more thrilling.

The lighting catches on his muscles, on the quiet discipline of his posture. He’s not relaxed. Even naked, even alone, he stands like a man perpetually braced for war.

I watch his bicep flex when he rakes a hand through his wet hair. A low sigh leaves his lips, frustration or fatigue slipping through his composure.

My breath stutters at the sight, heat pooling low in my stomach, dampening my panties just by merely watching him.

He doesn’t know I’m here.

He doesn’t know he’s being watched.

And for the first time since I met him, the power feels tilted in my direction.

Arrogance is intoxicating, fleeting, like standing on the edge of a cliff and believing gravity won’t claim you. That’s why it lasts only for seconds.

The next moment, his eyes snap open, and his head whips right in my direction.

Instinct slams through me instantaneously. I melt deeper into the shadows and against the wall. My heart hammers a solo drum, my lungs refusing to work properly. Thankfully, I don’t bump into anything.

Yet my gaze never leaves him, watching him watch the darkness that’s now swallowed me whole.

Alistair keeps staring into the shadows, eyes narrowed and alert, sensing something most people, even his wife, ignore.

My eyes flick around the room, mapping exits, hiding spots, and calculating escape routes just in case he decides to step out mid-shower.

The curtains could work.

When I look back, he’s still watching this exact corner—the darkness I’m occupying with suspicion carved into his expression.

Alistair looks so different, much hotter without his glasses.

I can’t take my eyes off his striking facial features. For a second, I doubt if he’d even see me clearly without wearing his spectacles. But then I remember the way his head whipped in my direction with that much surety. I should never question his capabilities.

He reaches for one of the bottles—likely a body wash or a hair conditioner—and squeezes a generous amount into his palm.

My gaze flickers toward the label, eyes narrowing, trying to decipher the name, but I can’t quite make it out from the distance. If I could at least see the brand, I’d definitely buy one on my way back just to smell him.

Then, slowly, he closes his eyes.

His lips part slightly, breathing deep, chest rising and falling under the assault of water. And then his hand moves—fingers curling around his shaft.

Holy fucking hell.

I’m watching Alistair Hertley, my professor, wrap his hand around his dick and lather it up.

His thumb rubs over the flared head, runs up and down slowly along the length, taking his time massaging it.

His shoulders visibly relax at last, tension bleeding out of him as if he’s shedding armor one layer at a time.

But I stay frozen in the dark, knowing I should look away, and knowing I won’t.

22. AUDIENCE

alistair