The bass thrummed through the floorboards of the off-campus house, a visceral heartbeat that vibrated up through the soles of Jenna’s boots and into her very bones. The air was thick with the cloying sweetness of cheap vodka and the sharper tang of desperate cologne. Bodies pressed together in the living room, a writhing, anonymous mass under the strobe of a cheap light machine. It was the kind of party she usually avoided—too loud, too messy, too full of fumbling freshmen trying to prove something. But tonight, she was here. Because he was here.
Professor Alistair Vance stood near the keg, a glass of red wine cradled in his long, elegant fingers. He was a study in contrast to the chaos around him: a dark v-neck sweater over a crisp collared shirt, his salt-and-pepper hair immaculately styled, his jaw sharp and clean-shaven. At forty-two, he possessed a gravitas that made the frat boys in their backward caps look like children playing dress-up. He was her Contemporary Literature seminar professor, a man whose deep, resonant voice made even Sylvia Plath sound like a lover’s whisper. And he was a man she should not, under any circumstances, be staring at with such hungry, undisguised interest.
But she couldn't help it. Her body hummed like a live wire, the low-cut black top she wore a silent declaration of war against propriety. She'd let her dark hair fall loose in waves, a stark contrast to the tight buns and scrunchies of the other girls in the lecture hall. She’d painted her lips a deep, almost bruised plum, and she’d watched his eyes flicker to them when she’d walked into his office hours a week ago, fabricating a question about Dubliners just to hear him speak.
Now, here he was, in a den of debauchery, a wolf surrounded by sheep. His wife, a sleek blonde named Clarissa who taught Art History, had left an hour ago, claiming a headache. Jenna had seen her go, and a dark, thrilling hope had bloomed in her chest. The house was a maze of bodies and noise, but the space between Jenna and Alistair seemed to hum with a different kind of electricity.
He caught her eye. A single, sharp glance over the rim of his wine glass. He didn't smile. He didn't nod. He just held her gaze for a beat longer than was safe, a silent acknowledgment that cut through the din. Then, he turned and walked through the crowd, not toward the front door, but toward the back staircase that led to the dark, quiet bedrooms upstairs.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. It was a command. A question. A dare.
She took a gulp of her beer, set it down on a sticky table, and followed.
The stairs creaked under her weight, the sounds of the party fading into a muffled thrum. The hallway upstairs was dim, lit only by a single, naked bulb at the far end. The air was cooler here, smelling of old wood and dust. She saw a crack of light from a door at the end of the hall, just slightly ajar. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps. This was insane. He was her professor. He was married. This was everything she should walk away from.
But her feet carried her forward, her every step a quiet rebellion. She pushed the door open.
It was a small, sparse bedroom, stripped of its occupant’s personality save for a crumpled T-shirt on the floor. The only light came from a small desk lamp, casting a golden, intimate glow over the single bed and the man standing beside it.
Alistair turned to face her. His wine glass was empty, held loosely at his side. His calm gray eyes, which in the lecture hall were all intellectual authority, now held a heat that made her stomach clench.
"Close the door," he said, his voice low.
She did, the click of the latch echoing in the small room. She didn't lean against it, but stood her ground, her chin lifted, giving him a slow, deliberate once-over. She let her gaze drag from his broad shoulders down his chest to the flat plane of his stomach, and lower, to the very obvious tension in his dark trousers.
"You followed me," he stated, not a question.
"You wanted me to," she replied, her own voice surprisingly steady.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "You should not be here, Jenna."
"And yet, you're the one who left a trail of breadcrumbs." She took a step forward, then another, until she was close enough to smell him—a clean, masculine scent of sandalwood and paper. "You've been looking at me all night. All semester."
"Looking is not the same as having," he said, his eyes dropping to the swell of her breasts, barely contained by the black silk of her top. "And having you…" he trailed off, his voice a husky rasp. "That would be a very, very bad idea."
"I'm not asking for permission," she whispered, and reached out, her fingers brushing the rough stubble on his jaw.
The touch broke the dam. He inhaled sharply, and then his hand was on hers, turning it, pressing his lips to the sensitive skin of her wrist. The kiss wasn't gentle. It was searing, a brand. His tongue flicked over her pulse point, and she gasped, her knees weakening.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured against her skin, his other hand coming up to cup her elbow, his thumb stroking a burning path up the inside of her arm. "Tell me to leave."
"No," she breathed.
He released her wrist and his hands came up to cup her face, tilting her head back. His eyes were dark, intense. "Once we start, I won't be gentle. I won't be your professor who grades your papers and praises your cleverness. I will be a man who wants to ruin you. Do you understand?"
The threat sent a jolt of pure, molten lust straight between her legs. "Yes," she said, and her voice was a confession.
His mouth crashed onto hers.
It was not a tentative, exploratory kiss. It was a conquest. His lips were firm and demanding, his tongue sliding against hers with a possessive hunger that stole her breath. She tasted the residual tannins of wine on his tongue, mixed with something dark and masculine. Her hands fisted in the soft wool of his sweater, pulling him closer, her body arching into his. Her nipples tightened into hard peaks, pressing against the silk, and she felt the answering hardness of his erection straining against his trousers, a heavy, promising line of heat against her belly.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. "Too much fabric," he growled, and with one rough, impatient tug, he had pulled her top over her head, tossing it aside. His breath caught at the sight of her. She had forgone a bra, her full breasts bare, the dusky pink of her nipples already pebbled tight with arousal. "Christ, Jenna."
He didn't look at her like a student. He looked at her like a man in the desert who has just found water. He lowered his head, his lips trailing a hot, wet path down her throat, over her collarbone, until he reached her breast. He didn't tease. He took the nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue circling the sensitive peak before his teeth grazed it, making her cry out. She bucked against him, her fingers digging into his scalp as he lavished the same wet, demanding attention on her other breast.
His hands worked at the button of her jeans, the zipper a loud rasp in the quiet room. He pushed them down her hips, along with her black lace panties, and she stepped out of them, kicking off her boots in a clumsy, frantic motion. She stood naked before him, feeling the cool air on her flushed skin, feeling more vulnerable and more powerful than she had ever felt in her life.
He took a step back, his eyes drinking her in. He slowly pulled off his sweater, then his shirt, his movements deliberate. The sight of his body made her mouth go dry. He was not the slender academic she’d pictured. He was solid, a dusting of gray hair across his chest, his shoulders broad and his arms strong. A thin line of hair trailed from his navel and disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers. He unfastened them, letting them fall, and stepped out of them, his boxer briefs tented obscenely with his arousal.
She watched, transfixed, as he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs and pushed them down. His cock sprang free, thick and long, the head flushed a deep, angry red. Precum beaded at the tip, glistening in the lamplight. It was the most beautiful, intimidating thing she had ever seen.
"On the bed," he commanded, his voice a low rumble. "On your hands and knees."
She obeyed, the rough, cheap sheets cool beneath her palms and knees. She could feel his gaze on her exposed flesh, the damp heat between her legs a throbbing, aching void. She heard him retrieve a condom from his wallet, the crinkle of the foil impossibly loud in the silence.
He moved behind her. His hands found her hips, his fingers digging into her skin. "I've wanted this," he whispered, his breath hot against her shoulder blade. "I've wanted to see you like this. Beautiful. Ready. For me."
Then she felt him. The blunt, wet head of his cock pressing against her entrance. He pushed, just the tip, and she gasped, a sharp, exquisite stretch. He held still, letting her adjust, letting her feel every nerve ending fire to life. "You're so tight," he groaned. "So fucking perfect."
He took her with a slow, deliberate thrust that filled her completely. She cried out, her fingers clenching in the sheets. He was thick, so much thicker than the boys she'd been with, a glorious fullness that pressed against every sensitive spot inside her. He began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that had her eyes rolling back. His hips slapped against her ass, the sound wet and rhythmic, a counterpoint to her ragged moans.
He leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back, his lips against her ear. "You like being fucked by your professor?" he hissed, his voice a venomous caress. "You like knowing you're a bad, dirty secret?"
"Yes," she panted, her body rocking with his. "Don't stop."
He didn't. He increased his pace, the strokes becoming harder, faster, more punishing. He reached around, his hand finding the slick ache between her legs, his fingers circling her clit with a brutal, perfect pressure. The dual assault—his cock pounding into her, his fingers working her nub—sent a shockwave of pleasure through her. She came with a sharp cry, her body clamping down on him, her vision going white.
He didn't let up. He rode through her orgasm, groaning as she tightened around him. "That's it," he growled. "Let go." He pulled out, and before she could register the loss, he flipped her onto her back. He lifted her legs, hooking them over his shoulders, and drove back into her, deeper this time, hitting a spot that made her see stars. The new angle was devastating. He was everywhere, in her, over her, his face a mask of concentration and raw hunger.
He fucked her like he meant it, like he was trying to erase every other touch she had ever known. His thrusts grew erratic, his breathing a harsh, desperate pant against her
