FORBIDDEN HANDS: My Cold Professor

Cherish’s POV

I didn't do relationships.

Not anymore.

Two years was long enough to teach me that forever was just a pretty word people used until they found something better. Or someone closer.

I had stopped believing in soft promises and late-night confessions. What I believed in now was simple: fun when I wanted it, silence when I didn't, and never letting anyone close enough to leave a mark.

Tonight was supposed to stay simple.

The club pulsed around me like a living thing. Purple and pink lights cut through the dark, flashing over bodies that moved too close and laughed too loud.

The bass was heavy enough to feel in my ribs. I leaned against the bar in my black Led Zeppelin crop top and short plaid skirt, nursing a drink I didn't really want.

My long hair stuck slightly to the back of my neck from the heat of too many people packed into one space.

Lila was already three drinks ahead of me.

She appeared at my side with flushed cheeks and that dangerous sparkle in her eyes that always meant trouble.

Her glossy lips curved into a grin as she bumped her shoulder against mine.

"You're boring tonight," she said, loud enough to be heard over the music.

"I'm selective," I corrected, taking a sip. "There's a difference."

"Selective is just another word for boring." She stole my glass, finished what was left, and set it down with a sharp clink. "I have an idea."

I already regretted coming out.

Lila turned to face me fully, eyes bright with the kind of excitement that never ended well. "Thirty minutes. That's all I'm giving you."

"For what?"

"A dare." She held up one finger. "You seduce one man in this club. Anyone I choose. If you get him interested enough in half an hour, I'll buy you whatever you want. No limit."

I stared at her. "You're drunk."

"I'm rich and bored," she corrected. "Come on, Cherish. You haven't even tried in months. What's the worst that could happen? You get a free bag or a new pair of boots out of it."

I should have said no.

I almost did.

But the old version of me—the one who still needed to prove she could walk away from anything—tilted her head and smirked.

"Fine," I said. "Pick someone."

Lila's smile widened like she'd been waiting for that exact answer. She turned toward the crowd, scanning the room with exaggerated seriousness.

Then her gaze locked on the far end of the bar and stayed there.

"That one."

I followed her stare.

He sat alone.

Even in the middle of the noise and flashing lights, he looked untouched by any of it. Tall. Broad shoulders filling out a black shirt that was clearly expensive. Dark wavy hair that fell just enough to look intentional. A sharp jaw shadowed with light stubble.

He held a glass of something amber in one hand, but he wasn't drinking it. He was simply there, existing in a pocket of silence the rest of the club couldn't reach.

Older.

Definitely older.

I felt the first flicker of hesitation.

"Lila," I said slowly, "he looks like he's waiting for someone. Or like he could buy this entire building without checking his account."

"That's the point." She pushed my lower back. "Go. Clock starts now."

I exhaled through my nose, squared my shoulders, and pushed off the bar.

The walk toward him felt longer than it should have. People moved around me, laughing, dancing, completely unaware that I was about to make a fool of myself. When I reached the empty stool beside him, I didn't sit right away. I rested one hand on the back of it and waited.

He didn't look up.

Up close, he was even more intimidating. The kind of man who didn't need to raise his voice to control a room. Everything about him was controlled—the way he held his glass, the stillness in his posture, the complete lack of interest in anything happening around him.

I cleared my throat lightly.

Nothing.

I tried again, leaning just a little closer. "You look like you're having a terrible time."

His eyes finally lifted.

They were darker than I expected. Calm. Unreadable. He looked at me the way someone might look at a minor interruption—mildly aware, already prepared to dismiss it.

I forced a small smile. "I'm Cherish."

He said nothing.

Heat crept up the back of my neck, but I refused to step back. I signaled the bartender and ordered the same drink he was holding, then nodded toward his glass.

"Another one for him too."

The bartender moved quickly. When the fresh drink was placed in front of him, I shrugged one shoulder.

"It's on me. Consider it an apology for interrupting your quiet night."

For a moment I thought he would ignore that too. Then he set his original glass down and turned his body just enough to face me more fully. The shift was small, but it felt deliberate.

His voice, when it came, was low and even.

"Who dared you to talk to me?"

My stomach dipped.

I kept my expression steady, though my pulse had already started climbing. "What makes you think this is a dare?"

"You're not subtle." His gaze flicked over my face, then down to the crop top and back up. "And you don't look like the type who approaches men for free."

I let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "That's rude."

"It's accurate."

He picked up the new drink but didn't taste it. His eyes stayed on mine, waiting.

I could have walked away. Pride almost let me. Instead I leaned an elbow on the bar and met his stare directly.

"My friend thinks I need to loosen up. She gave me thirty minutes to get your attention. There's a reward involved if I succeed."

"And if you fail?"

"Then I go home and she never lets me forget it."

A faint shift crossed his mouth—almost a smile, but colder. "You're already failing."

The words shouldn't have bothered me. They did.

I straightened slightly. "I bought you a drink. That's more than most people get."

"A drink isn't attention." He set the glass down again, the movement precise. "It's a transaction."

The music swelled around us, bass vibrating through the floor, but the space between our bodies felt strangely quiet. I was suddenly aware of how close I was standing, of the clean, expensive scent of his cologne cutting through the club air.

"Then what would count as attention?" I asked.

He studied me for a long second. There was something assessing in his gaze, like he was deciding whether I was worth the next sentence.

Finally he spoke, voice still calm, almost bored.

"You haven't seduced me yet."

The words landed heavier than they should have.

I felt my pride flare, sharp and immediate. Heat spread across my cheeks, but it wasn't embarrassment. It was something closer to challenge.

The old instinct—the one that hated being dismissed—rose fast and hard.

I tilted my head, letting a slow smile pull at my mouth.

"Is that an invitation?"

He didn't answer. He simply watched me, waiting to see what I would do next.

I could still walk away.

I could tell Lila I tried and let the whole thing die.

But the way he looked at me—like he already knew I wouldn't—made that option feel impossible.

I stepped closer, close enough that my thigh brushed the side of his leg, and lowered my voice so only he could hear it over the music.

"Then I guess I still have time left on the clock."

His eyes darkened just a fraction.

And for the first time since I sat down, I had the distinct feeling that I was no longer the only one playing.