CHAPTER 3 - AVERY

~~ Avery ~ ~

The alarm blared, a harsh, unwelcome sound that ripped me from a restless sleep. My eyes snapped open, and for a fleeting second, I was back in his bed, the scent of him on the sheets, the weight of his arm across my waist. Then reality crashed in, cold and unforgiving.

Today was my first day of classes. And today, I would inevitably see him. Professor Draco Thorne. Head of the Literature Department. The man whose scent still clung to the white shirt I’d tossed into my laundry basket, the man whose words, "Remember who you belong to," echoed in my mind.

A shiver, part dread, part thrill, ran through me.

I dragged myself out of bed, the familiar comfort of my dorm room feeling like a flimsy shield against the impending collision. I needed to focus. I needed to be a student. A serious, dedicated student. Not the girl who had spent a night in a professor's sprawling estate, screaming his name as he fucked her senseless.

Getting dressed felt like a strategic operation. I pulled out a black pencil skirt that hugged my hips and fell just above the knee, paired with a silk blouse in a deep, rich plum color. The blouse was soft, clinging in all the right places, and I left the top two buttons undone, a deliberate invitation. It was professional, yes, but it also screamed look at me. It was a subtle defiance, a silent dare. A "what's the worst that can happen?" whisper to myself.

My reflection stared back, a mixture of anxiety and a strange, almost dangerous excitement in my eyes. My lips still felt a little swollen. I ran a hand through my hair, trying to tame the wild curls. This was it. Game on.

The university campus, usually a place of comfort and intellectual curiosity, now felt charged with a different kind of energy. Every corner seemed to hold a potential encounter. Every shadow felt like it might conceal his imposing figure. I walked with my head down, trying to blend into the stream of students, my backpack feeling heavier than usual.

My first class, "Introduction to Modernist Poetry," was mercifully not with him. The lecture hall was packed, the air thick with the murmur of new beginnings. I sat near the back, trying to absorb the professor's droning voice, but my mind kept drifting. To the feel of his hands. To the taste of his mouth. To the way his eyes had looked at me, possessive and knowing.

It was impossible to concentrate. Every time the door opened, I flinched, expecting to see him. Every deep voice from the row behind me made my heart leap. This was going to be harder than I thought. Much, much harder.

The class finally ended, and I hurried out, desperate for the anonymity of the crowded pathways. I had a break before my next class, "Victorian Narratives," which was in the Literature Department building. I debated finding a quiet corner in the library, but a sudden, insistent buzz from my phone made me stop.

It was an email. From the Literature Department.

My stomach dropped.

The subject line read: "Welcome Meeting for New Literature Majors."

My fingers trembled as I opened it. The email was addressed to all incoming Literature majors, inviting us to a brief, individual welcome meeting with the Head of the Department, Professor Draco Thorne. It listed specific time slots. Mine was in thirty minutes.

Thirty minutes.

My breath hitched. This wasn't a coincidence. It couldn't be. He had known my major. He had known my classes. He had known this was coming. This was his move.

A cold wave of fear washed over me, quickly followed by a surge of defiant adrenaline. He wanted to see me. He was commanding me to see him. And a part of me, the part that thrilled at his dominance, was already halfway to his office.

The Literature Department building was old, grand, and imposing. Dark wood paneling lined the corridors, and the air smelled of aged paper and quiet ambition. My footsteps echoed, unnaturally loud, as I made my way to his office. Each step felt heavier than the last. My palms were sweating.

His office door was slightly ajar. I could see the edge of his large, dark wood desk. My stomach clenched. That desk. The cold leather. The memories of our bodies colliding on it flashed through my mind, hot and vivid.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart. This was Professor Thorne. Head of Department. I was Avery. Student. Professional. Composed.

I knocked softly on the open door.

“Come in,” his voice rumbled, deep and familiar. It sent a shiver down my spine.

I pushed the door open fully and stepped inside. The office was exactly as I imagined: impeccably tidy, filled with towering bookshelves crammed with leather-bound volumes, a large, ornate rug covering most of the floor, and a single, plush armchair facing his desk. The same armchair I had been sprawled on just two nights ago.

He was seated behind his desk, looking impossibly distinguished in a dark suit, his tie perfectly knotted. His dark hair was neatly combed, his jawline sharp. He looked every inch the formidable academic. His storm cloud eyes, however, held a glint that was anything but professional. They met mine, and a silent, potent current passed between us.

“Avery,” he said, his voice smooth, devoid of any personal inflection. “Please, have a seat.” He gestured to the armchair.

My legs felt suddenly weak, but I walked forward, forcing myself to maintain eye contact. I sat, perching on the edge of the armchair, acutely aware of the space between us, and the far more intimate space that had been between us just hours ago.

“Thank you, Professor Thorne,” I managed, my voice a little breathless.

He leaned back in his chair, his gaze sweeping over me, lingering for a fraction of a second on my lips, then my neck, then the open buttons of my blouse. A subtle, almost imperceptible flicker in his eyes. He knew exactly what he was doing.

“Welcome to the Literature Department, Avery,” he said, his voice formal, yet with an undertone that only I could hear. “I trust you’re settling in well?”

“Yes, Professor. Very well.” My fingers gripped the arms of the chair.

“Excellent.” He picked up a pen from his desk, a sleek, silver instrument, and began to tap it lightly against the polished wood. The sound was rhythmic, hypnotic. My eyes were drawn to his hand, those long, elegant fingers that had been so intimately exploring my body. The same hand that had gripped my hips, lifting me higher.

“As Head of Department,” he continued, his voice even, “it’s my policy to meet with all new majors. To ensure they feel supported, and to discuss their academic aspirations.” He paused, his eyes still fixed on mine. “What are your aspirations, Avery?”

The question felt loaded. He wasn't just asking about my academic goals. He was asking about my desires. My limits.

“I… I hope to excel, Professor,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “To learn as much as I can. To… explore new ideas.”

He nodded slowly, a faint, almost imperceptible curve to his lips. “New ideas. Yes. That’s what school is all about, isn't it? Pushing boundaries. Exploring the forbidden.”

My breath hitched. Forbidden. He was doing it on purpose. Taunting me. Reminding me.

“Indeed, Professor,” I whispered, my cheeks flushing.

He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the desk. His gaze intensified, making my skin prickle. “I’ve reviewed your application. Your works were… compelling. Particularly your analysis of forbidden texts.” His eyes dropped to my mouth. “You seem to have a natural inclination for… boundaries”

My heart hammered against my ribs. He was talking about my essay on banned literature, but his meaning was clear. He was talking about us. About last night.

“I… I find the psychology of such narratives fascinating,” I stammered, trying to sound academic, trying to sound detached. My body, however, was humming with a dangerous awareness.

“Fascinating, yes.” He picked up a small, leather-bound book from his desk, turning it over in his hands. It looked like a volume of poetry. “Sometimes,” he murmured, his voice dropping slightly, “the most profound lessons are learned outside the conventional syllabus.” He glanced at the book, then back at me, his eyes dark with unspoken meaning. “Don’t you agree?”

The double entendre was almost unbearable. My throat tightened. He was talking about the lessons he had taught me with his body, lessons that had shattered my world and remade it in a single night.

“I… I suppose so, Professor,” I choked out.

He placed the book back down, his gaze unwavering. “Good. Because this department, Avery, aims to provide a truly… immersive experience.” His eyes lingered on mine, a silent promise, a silent threat. “We expect our students to be fully engaged. Fully present.”

His words, "immersive experience" and "fully present," were laced with a meaning that only we shared. He was reminding me of the intensity of our connection, the way he had demanded my complete surrender.

He finally sat back, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes. “Well, that concludes our welcome meeting. I look forward to seeing you in my Victorian Narratives class, Avery.”

He paused, his gaze dropping from my eyes to my lap, then back up. A slow, deliberate smile spread across his lips, a dangerous, predatory curve. “Actually, Avery. Come here.”