CHAPTER 2 - AVERY

~ ~ Avery ~ ~

My hand, reaching for a delicate-looking mug, froze mid-air. The ceramic cup, cool against my fingertips, suddenly felt heavy, precarious. My eyes remained fixed on the silver plaque, the engraved words seeming to burn into my retina. Draco Thorne, Head of Literature Department.

The world tilted.

Head of Literature. That meant… that meant my Literature Department. The one I was enrolled in. The one where I had classes starting next week. The one where I would be seeing him, not across a dimly lit bar, but across a lecture hall. Or worse, in a small seminar room, his storm cloud eyes dissecting my essays.

Fuck.

A cold dread seeped into my bones, chilling me far more effectively than the air conditioning. This wasn't just a random, incredibly hot, incredibly reckless one night stand. This was a direct collision course with my academic future. My scholarship. My entire carefully constructed life.

My mind, usually so sharp, felt like a tangled mess of static. This couldn't be happening. It had to be a different Draco Thorne. A common name, perhaps? No, the photo. The impossibly distinguished man, his hand clasped with the university president, was undeniably him. The same sharp angles, the same intense gaze, just…clothed. And looking far too respectable.

A small, hysterical laugh bubbled up in my throat. This was a nightmare. A really, really hot nightmare.

I tried to rationalize it. What was the worst that could happen? He was a professor, I was a student. People had affairs. It happened. It was scandalous, yes, but… this was him. The man who had made my body sing, who had pushed me to the edge and beyond, who had called me his "little whore" with a voice that had vibrated through my very soul. The thought of never feeling that again, of pretending last night never happened, was almost as terrifying as the realization itself.

I carefully placed the mug back on the shelf, my movements stiff and deliberate. His house. I glanced around the living room, taking it in properly for the first time. It wasn't just tidy; it was vast. High ceilings, polished dark wood floors, floor to ceiling windows that overlooked what appeared to be a meticulously manicured garden stretching for acres. Expensive art adorned the walls. This wasn't just a professor's house; this was an estate. A fortress of quiet, understated wealth. Another layer of the mystery that was Draco Thorne.

I needed to shower. Wash away the lingering scent of last night, even though a part of me desperately wanted it to cling to my skin forever. I found my way back to the master bedroom, the king-sized bed looking impossibly large and rumpled. He was still asleep, a dark arm thrown over the pristine white duvet, his face relaxed in a way I hadn't seen last night. He looked… almost innocent. A dangerous thought.

Stepping into the ensuite bathroom, I turned on the shower, letting the hot water steam up the room. The scent of his expensive soap, a clean, masculine aroma, filled the air. It was everywhere. On the towels, in the air, probably still on my skin. As the water cascaded over me, I closed my eyes, the memories of the night before flooding back.

His hands, strong and demanding. The feel of his tongue, hot and slick. The way he’d plunged into me, filling me completely, every thrust hitting that sweet, blurring spot. My body still thrummed with the echoes of his possession, my clit still sensitive, my inner thighs still slick with the remnants of our combined release.

It had been raw, primal, utterly consuming. Liam had never even come close. This man… this professor… he had awakened something in me I hadn't known existed. A craving for his particular brand of dominance, a hunger for the way he made me feel utterly consumed and adored, even as he pushed me to my limits.

I scrubbed at my skin, trying to wash away the lingering shame and the intoxicating thrill. But the feeling was deeper than skin. It was in my bones, in my blood.

Stepping out of the shower, I wrapped myself in one of his plush, oversized towels. My clothes from last night were a crumpled heap on the floor. A thin, discarded shirt, my jeans, and my panties. The panties were definitely staying discarded.

I looked at my reflection in the large mirror. My hair was damp, curling wildly around my face. My lips were slightly swollen, a faint bruise on my neck where he’d nipped me. My nipples were still hard, aching for his touch. I looked… ravaged. And a part of me, the part that thrilled at the danger, loved it.

What to wear? I couldn't just throw on the same clothes. They felt like a costume from a different life. I spotted a crisp white shirt hanging on a valet stand, clearly his. It was far too big, but the thought of wearing something that smelled so intensely of him, something that had been close to his skin, was oddly appealing.

I pulled it on. It hung loosely, the hem reaching mid-thigh, the sleeves engulfing my hands. It was a provocative choice, almost daring him. A silent challenge. What now, Professor?

I left the top few buttons undone, letting the soft fabric brush against my still-sensitive nipples. My legs were bare, exposed. It was a defiant statement. A "what's the worst that can happen?" attitude, even as a tiny voice in the back of my head screamed that I was playing with fire.

I padded back into the bedroom. He was stirring. His eyes, those storm cloud grey eyes, fluttered open, blinking slowly against the morning light. They landed on me, standing there in his shirt, my damp hair framing my face. A slow, predatory smile spread across his lips.

“Morning, little bird,” he rumbled, his voice still thick with sleep, but laced with that familiar possessive tone. He pushed himself up, leaning on an elbow, the sheet falling to his lean waist, revealing the hard planes of his chest. My eyes were drawn to the faint marks my nails had left on his shoulders. A flush crept up my neck.

“M-morning, Dr-Draco,” I stuttered, my voice betraying my composure. The name felt different now. He was no longer just Draco, the stranger from the bar. He was Draco Thorne.

He extended a hand, beckoning me closer. “Come here.” It wasn’t a request. It was a command, soft but undeniable.

My feet moved before my brain could protest. I sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under my weight. He reached out, his long fingers tracing the line of my jaw, then sliding down my neck, coming to rest just above the open buttons of his shirt. His thumb brushed over the swell of my breast, making my nipple tighten instantly.

“Sleep well?” he asked, his gaze intense, knowing.

“V-very well,” I managed, my breath catching in my throat. The memory of him inside me, the feel of his body against mine, was so vivid it was almost overwhelming.

“Good.” He leaned in, his lips brushing against my ear. “You were quite… vocal.” His breath was warm, smelling faintly of coffee and something uniquely him. A shiver ran down my spine.

I pulled back slightly, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “I… I should go.”

He chuckled, a low, rich sound that vibrated through me. “Already? The night was so short.” His eyes held a dangerous glint, a challenge.

“I have… class prep,” I lied, weakly. My first class wasn't for days, but the lie felt necessary. A flimsy shield.

He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Of course. Academia calls.” The way he said "academia" made it sound like a dirty word, or a secret joke between us. He knew. He knew I knew.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, standing up. My eyes instinctively dropped, taking in his powerful frame, the thick column of his cock, still hard, still glistening slightly. My mouth went dry. He was completely unashamed, utterly comfortable in his nakedness, in his power.

He walked over to a dresser, pulling out a pair of dark trousers. “Coffee?” he offered, his back to me.

“Please,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

He led the way to a sprawling, modern kitchen, filled with gleaming steel and dark granite. He moved with an effortless grace, pouring two cups of coffee. The silence between us was charged, thick with unspoken questions and lingering desire.

He handed me a mug, his fingers brushing mine. The contact sent a jolt through me. “So,” he began, his voice casual, but his eyes were sharp, assessing. “What’s your major, Avery?”

I nearly choked on my coffee. He was playing with me. He knew. He had to. “L-Literature,” I stuttered, my cheeks burning.

His lips curved into that familiar, almost imperceptible smirk. “Ah, a woman of taste.” He took a slow sip of his coffee, his gaze never leaving mine. “I trust you’re looking forward to your classes this semester?”

My heart hammered against my ribs. This was it. The moment of truth. “Y-yes, Professor,” I said, forcing the word out. The title felt alien, forbidden, a collar around my neck.

His eyes darkened, a flash of something unreadable in their depths. “Professor Thorne,” he corrected, his voice low, firm. “In the classroom, that is.” He paused, then added, “Outside of it… you may call me Draco.” The implication hung heavy in the air. The lines were drawn. The rules were set. And they were his.

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. “Understood.”

He finished his coffee, then placed the mug on the counter. “I’ll have a car take you.”

“No!” The word burst out of me, too loud, too desperate. “No, I… I can get a cab. It’s fine.” The last thing I needed was to be seen leaving his palatial estate in a private car. The gossip would be instant.

He merely looked at me, his gaze piercing. “As you wish.” He walked me to the front door, the vastness of the house making me feel small, exposed.

As he opened the heavy oak door, letting in the cool morning air, his hand reached out, cupping the back of my neck. His thumb stroked the sensitive skin just below my ear, sending a jolt through me. His eyes were dark, intense, burning into mine.

“Remember last night, little bird,” he murmured, his voice a low promise, a threat. “And remember who you belong to.”

Then, he released me. The door closed with a soft click, leaving me standing on the sprawling, immaculate driveway, the crisp morning air chilling my bare legs.

I hailed a cab, my mind a whirlwind. The scent of him still clung to his shirt, a potent reminder. He was my professor. My sexy professor. And he had just claimed me.

What had I done?....What was I doing? The thrill of the forbidden, the intoxicating taste of his dominance, warred with the cold, hard reality of the situation. This wasn't just a scandal waiting to happen; this felt like a dangerous game, one I was already deeply, irrevocably entangled in. And a part of me, the reckless, newly awakened part, couldn't wait to play.