Chapter 4

Diego’s POV

I knew from the moment I stepped into this institute that Sophia Brooks would be the end of me.

There was something about her I couldn’t quite place.

Maybe the way her eyes held a quiet storm behind all that careful composure, or the subtle sway of her hips when she thought no one was watching.

Whatever it was, it had hooked me four months ago, long before I ever touched her.

I’d saved one photo of her from the department’s online student showcase and night after night, I’d jerked off to that picture.

So when the opportunity fell into my lap, her naked on my desk, legs spread, begging me not to ruin her future, I didn’t hesitate.

That first night wasn’t how I wanted our first real meeting to go.

I’d pictured something more romantic, maybe dinner somewhere, then having slow sex until she was trembling under me because she wanted to be there, not because she had to.

But the second she dropped to her knees and took me in her mouth, my restraint shattered.

“Fuck,” I’d groaned, fingers tightening in her hair. “Just like that, Sophia… deeper.”

She’d whimpered around me, eyes flicking up to meet mine, and swallowed every inch like she was starving for it.

And I’ve been chasing that high ever since.

It’s been two weeks now.

We've had sex almost everywhere.

My office after school hours, the supply closet on the fourth floor, the backseat of my car in the faculty parking lot when the night guard was on his smoke break.

Last Tuesday, bent over my desk again, skirt shoved up around her waist, I’d thrust into her slow and deep while she clawed at the wood.

“Tell me you want it,” I’d growled in her ear.

“I want it—God, Diego, harder,” she’d gasped, pushing back to meet me. “Don’t stop.”

I’d gripped her hips and fucked her until the desk rattled, until she came with my name on her lips.

“Diego… fuck, Diego…”

She’s responsive in a way that borders on addiction and as much as I hate to admit it, I’m obsessed.

This was exactly what I came to Chicago to escape.

Two years ago in Spain I was still Diego Vega, I’d been a p**n actor for eight years.

I had everything to live a comfortable life until I crossed a line I never should have.

In a fit of rage after a bad breakup with a co-star, I'd secretly installed hidden cameras in my apartment and filmed our encounters without her consent.

I didn't plan to do anything with it at first, it was just twisted revenge, a way to feel in control, I had even forgotten about her because I was already married and I loved my wife dearly.

But when she started bad-mouthing me to producers, I leaked clips online anonymously which was a non-consensual distribution.

In the industry, that's a criminal offence, up to two years in prison, fines, and a lifetime stain on your record.

The backlash was immediate, she pressed charges, and all agencies I worked under blacklisted me.

I lost every endorsement as the case dragged on for months, I avoided jail with a plea deal and a massive fine and mandatory counselling but my career was in ashes.

Worst of all, I lost Betty.

My ex-wife didn’t even wait for the dust to settle. She packed her bags the same week the story broke and left me for a seventy-two-year-old real-estate tycoon with a yacht and zero social-media presence.

“You’re damaged goods now, Diego,” she’d said the night she walked out. “And I’m not spending the rest of my life being pitied because of you.”

It gutted me.

I quit the industry the next month, burned every bridge behind me, and moved continents.

Chicago was supposed to be a clean slate.

I still had my bachelor’s degree in Fashion Design, something I’d earned before the cameras ever found me and I figured teaching would keep me grounded.

Except I’m not invisible.

My libido never got the memo about healing.

In the six months since I arrived, I’ve fucked my way through at least a hundred women.

I never slept with the same one twice.

After the first time, I’d block their number because I told myself it was self-preservation.

I didn't want to be attached and I couldn't risk another betrayal but the truth is uglier: I still hear Betty’s voice calling me damaged goods.

So I ruin things before anyone else can.

I’ve watched good women cry and relationships implode because of me, and told myself I didn’t care.

Until Sophia.

The night I walked into that lecture hall and saw her bent over the desk, taking that spoiled brat Michael’s cock like she was starving for it with moans spilling out of her and her breasts bouncing with every thrust, I felt something crack inside me.

Not jealousy. Not exactly. It was raw possessiveness.

I wanted to be the one making those sounds come out of her. I wanted to replace him inside her

But Michael Wills is the Vice-Chancellor Wills’s only son.

Touching Sophia meant risking everything; my new job, my visa status, and potentially jail time if the ethics board decided to make an example of me.

Teacher-student relationships are explicitly forbidden.

One complaint and I’m gone.

So I did the only thing I could think of that would keep her close without admitting how badly I wanted her.

I blackmailed her because that was the only way I could keep my feelings hidden.

We’d just finished in my apartment and she was still on top, straddling me, my cock buried deep inside her, both of us slick and breathing hard.

I didn’t want her to move.

She shifted, trying to lift herself off me.

I caught her waist with both hands and pushed her back down forcing her to take every inch again.

“Where are you going?” I asked, voice rough from everything we’d just done.

“I… I have a date with Mike,” she whispered, eyes flicking away like she was ashamed to say it out loud.

My grip tightened.

“Why are you still going back to him? “It’s clear you don’t love him. He’s just using you, Sophia. You know that.”

Her expression changed instantly and she pushed against my chest, trying to sit up, but I held her in place.

“Unlike you, Mr. Diego,” she snapped, voice laced with something bitter, “you’ve got your life all planned out. My scholarship is the only way I can finally get my mother off my case. The only way I can do something good for myself for once. So don’t pretend you understand.”

“Keep riding me,” I said instead of arguing.

“What?”

She tried to move again, to pull away. I didn’t let her.

I planted my feet on the mattress and thrust up into her watching her eyes flutter shut and her anger fracture into pleasure.

“Fuck…Diego…”

I reached over to the nightstand drawer and the black-bound handbook and held it between us.

She blinked down at it, confused, hips still rocking instinctively against mine.

“That’s the past question for the Éclat Couture Scholarship exam,” I told her. “I got it from Vice-Chancellor Wills this afternoon”

Her breath hitched not just from the way I was moving inside her.

“There’s a major fashion event coming up next week,” I continued, voice steady even as I rolled my hips in a slow grind that made her whimper. “Designers, sponsors, the whole Éclat committee will be there. What if I told you I could speak with the organisers… put in a word for you?”

She froze, eyes wide.

I thrust up again harder this time making her gasp.

“Would you break up with Michael and date me?”