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“Professor,” Welsey says, leaning back as if he’s at a theater. “How’s the dream of equal protection under law treating you today?”
“Mr.Carter,” Alexander returns. “How will the legal library survive without your colorful commentary?”
Welsey’s grin flicks like a blade. “Poorly, I’ve heard the books cry when I leave.”
“Cheeky, just like the grade on your first essay,” Alexander says, then looks at me. “Miss Cross, you seemed to have missed my class and my essay.”
“Something came up, Professor Draven,” I say, looking at the floor, and avoiding Alexander’s eyes.
“Not good enough, Miss Cross,” he says so sternly, my spine jerks to a straight line. “I would like a word.”
Heat rolls low in my stomach, unwelcome and undeniable, a response I don’t ask for and can’t seem to stop. My pulse jumps, skidding against my ribs, and suddenly I’m acutely aware of where I am in space—how close he is, how easily he commands attention, how my body has learned the cadence of his authority and answers it without permission.
“Fine.” I dip my chin once. The word leaves me steady, but my fingers tighten against my thigh, a faint tremor betraying what my face refuses to give.
Wesley’s attention flicks between us, catching the tension like it’s entertainment. He lets out a low whistle. “Gotta bounce to my fraternity anyway, doll.”
I lean forward, just enough. Close enough that his focus sharpens. “See you at the next one,” I say, letting it linger.
He grins, swings his backpack onto one shoulder, then leans back in and brushes a kiss against my cheek. It’s light. Public. Nothing. And still, his gaze slides past me, pins Alexander in place, holds there a beat too long before he murmurs, “Don’t miss it.” A nod toward Alexander, and he’s gone.
“Miss Cross.” Alexander’s voice snaps through the space. I turn. His jaw is locked tight, mouth drawn into something severe and coiled, eyes dark and unblinking as they settle on me. “Follow me.”
He doesn’t wait to see if I comply.
We move through the library in silence, past occupied tables and into quieter corridors where the air changes, dustier, older. Special collections sit like a forgotten spine at the back of the building—dim lights, tall shelves, the kind of place no one wanders into without a reason.
He stops between the stacks and turns on me so suddenly I almost collide with his chest.
“Why haven’t you been in class?” Alexander asks, those steel eyes freezing me in place.
His voice is low, clipped, pitched for control rather than volume. He’s standing too close already, shoulders squared, eyes fixed on me like he’s been starved since seeing me last.
I shift my weight, letting my hip settle into one leg. “Are you always this attentive to your new students?”
His jaw tightens. The smallest movement, but I see it. “Answer the question,” he says.
“I needed space,” I reply, my fingers playing with the hem of my sleeve, a nervous habit I don’t bother hiding. “Our last conversation was…intense.”
And that’s me putting it lightly. How do you tell your professor that you are obsessed with him? That the idea of never being able to be intimate with him again fucking blows? That all you can think about everyday and night is when is he going to touch you again? How do you admit to yourself,, and him, that he is distracting you from finding out the truth behind your brother’s death?
You see? There’s no way to say it.
He exhales through his nose and takes a step back, the tension breaking just enough for me to take a deep breath. His shoulder hits the bookshelves behind him and he slumps there, one hand braced against the spines, gaze dropping for half a second before lifting again, darker.
“Then you should be smarter about where you spend your time,” he says. “If you want to avoid tense conversations with boys then you need to stay away from boys with blue patches.”
I smile, slow and curious, because he’s telling me not to do something and that has always seemed to be a mistake men make with me.“Why?” I ask lightly. “That’s exactly where I want to be.”
“Because I said so.”
I twist my lips to the side, and look at him through my eyelashes. “That’s not good enough, Professor. You’re not my daddy.”
The space between us collapses in an instant, and his hand closes around my throat gently.
“Are you asking for a spanking, Pet?” He snarls into my ear, and the rasp of his voice makes my panties go wet.
“You’re not allowed to give me one, remember?” I tease, the feeling of his hand putting even more pressure around my neck makes me want to moan, but I swallow it down.
