CHAPTER 5 - AVERY

I stumbled out of his office, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind me. My legs felt wobbly. Every nerve ending buzzed with pleasure and shame, a terrifying, exhilarating hum.

Next time, don’t be late.

His words echoed, a low, possessive rumble. Next time. There was going to be a next time. He hadn't just met with me; he had claimed me. Right here, in his office, in the very heart of the university. It was audacious. It was insane.

And a part of me, the darkest, most secret part, was already counting down the minutes.

My pussy throbbed, a dull, insistent ache. The sting from his hand still lingered, a phantom burn that made me clench my thighs. It had been shocking. Not truly painful, but firm, undeniable. A sharp jolt. A reminder of his power, of my submission.

And God help me, I had liked it. The sheer audacity. The way it had pushed me over the edge.

I was a mess. A total, utter, drenching mess. My panties, still discarded back at his house, would have been saturated. My skirt felt sticky against my inner thighs. I could feel the wetness seeping through, a hot, shameful flush spreading across my stomach.

This was beyond reckless. This was a full-blown addiction waiting to happen.

And I knew it. I knew myself. My fascination with the forbidden. My hunger for the extreme. My laptop history was a testament to it—the endless tabs of dark erotica, the niche p**n sites, the stories that pushed boundaries most people wouldn’t even consider.

Liam, bless his vanilla heart, had never understood it. He’d barely understood a missionary position on a Tuesday night. But Draco… Draco understood. He didn’t just understand; he fed it. He was a walking, breathing manifestation of every dark fantasy I’d ever scrolled through.

And now he was my professor.

The thought should have sent me running for the hills, transferring departments, changing my major. Instead, it made my clit twitch. My body, always so quick to betray me, was already anticipating the next encounter. The next lesson.

I needed to get out of the building. I walked quickly, almost running, my head down, trying to avoid eye contact. What if someone knew? What if someone had seen? The paranoia was a cold hand gripping my throat.

As I rounded a corner, I nearly collided with someone.

“Whoa, Avery! Where’s the fire?”

It was Chloe. My best friend. Her bright, inquisitive eyes scanned my face. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or just finished a marathon.”

I forced a laugh, trying to sound casual. “Just… first day jitters, you know? And the Lit building is a maze.”

“Tell me about it,” she said, falling into step beside me. “So, how was your first class? And did you manage to avoid Professor Thorne? I heard he’s a total beast in the classroom. Brilliant, but terrifying.”

My heart hammered. “Oh, um, no, I didn’t have him yet. My first class was Modernist Poetry.” The lie tasted like ash.

“Right. Well, you’ve got his class next, don’t you? Victorian Narratives. Good luck, girl. I heard he eats students for breakfast.” She grinned, oblivious.

A cold knot formed in my stomach. Eats students for breakfast. If only she knew how literal that felt right now.

“Yeah, well, I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. My voice was a little too high.

Chloe narrowed her eyes. “Are you okay, though? Seriously. You’re flushed. And you’re practically vibrating.”

“Just… excited for the semester,” I mumbled, forcing a smile. “New experiences and all that.”

“Right. New experiences,” Chloe repeated, her tone skeptical. She knew me too well. She knew something was off. But she didn’t push. Not yet.

We walked in silence for a moment, the campus bustling around us. I kept replaying the scene in his office. His words. His hands. The slap. The way my body had responded. It was disgusting. It was exhilarating. I was disgusted with myself for finding it exhilarating.

“Hey,” Chloe said, breaking the silence. “You want to grab lunch before your next class? I’m starving.”

“Can’t,” I said quickly. “I… I need to go over some notes. Get a head start.”

Chloe shrugged. “Suit yourself. Don’t get too stressed on day one. Remember what they say: C’s get degrees.” I internally rolled my eyes. Easy for her to say.

I offered her a weak smile and veered off, heading towards the library. I didn’t need to study. I needed to breathe. And maybe find a bathroom to splash some cold water on my face.

I found a secluded stall in the library bathroom and leaned against the cool tile, my eyes closed. My body was still humming, a low, persistent vibration that settled deep in my core. The wetness between my legs was undeniable. I was still leaking. Still wanting.

This was dangerous. More dangerous than anything I’d ever done. A professor. A student. The power imbalance was monumental. The professional consequences, if we were caught, would be catastrophic. For him, certainly. But for me? My scholarship, my future, everything I’d worked for. It would all be gone.

But then, the thought of his eyes, dark and possessive, flashed through my mind. The memory of his voice, low and commanding, calling me "little bird." The way his fingers had ravaged me, pushing me to an orgasm so intense it had blurred my vision. The forbidden nature of it all was a potent aphrodisiac, a siren song I couldn't resist.

I splashed cold water on my face, trying to clear my head. It didn’t work. The image of him, standing over me, his hand raised, ready to strike, was burned into my mind. And the way I had craved it. The way my body had betrayed me, arching into the impact.

I was a mess. A beautiful, dangerous mess.

The clock on my phone mocked me. Ten minutes until his class. Ten minutes until I saw him again. Not as Draco, the dominant lover, but as Professor Thorne, the esteemed academic. The man who had just taken me apart on his desk, and now was going to lecture me on literature. The irony was almost too much to bear.

I took a shaky breath and walked out of the bathroom. My reflection in the mirror showed a girl with wide, slightly dilated pupils, a faint flush on her cheeks, and a wild, untamed look in her eyes. I looked like I’d just been fucked. Because I had.

The walk to the lecture hall felt like walking into a lion’s den. Every step was heavy with anticipation. The air in the corridor seemed to thicken, pressing down on me. I could feel my pulse thrumming in my ears.

I pushed open the door to the lecture hall. It was already half-full. Students chatted in low tones, flipping through textbooks. My eyes immediately scanned the front of the room.

He was there. Standing by the podium, his back to the class, arranging his notes. His dark suit was impeccable, his posture commanding. He looked utterly composed, utterly professional. No trace of the man who had just hours ago had his fingers buried inside me, or who had slapped my ass until it burned.

I found an empty seat near the back, trying to be inconspicuous. My hands were clammy. I pulled out my notebook, my pen, trying to look busy, trying to look normal. But my gaze kept drifting back to him.

He turned, facing the class. His eyes swept over the room, a brief, impersonal glance that took in every student. And then, for a fraction of a second, they landed on me.

A flicker. A subtle, almost imperceptible shift in their storm cloud depths. A knowing glint. A silent acknowledgment.

Then, just as quickly, it was gone. His expression was once again impassive, academic.

He cleared his throat. “Good morning, class,” he said, his voice deep, resonant, filling the large hall. It was the voice of a professor, authoritative and clear. But to me, it was the voice of the man who had commanded me to beg, who had groaned my name as he came inside me.

“Welcome to Victorian Narratives.”