6

Jasmine

I scoffed.

Of course.

“A proposition?” I repeated coldly. “You’re a professor. If this gets out, you could lose your job too.”

His expression barely changed.

“True.”

He stood slowly from his chair, the movement alone shifting the air between us.

“But I can get another position elsewhere,” he said calmly. “I’m a professor, Miss Buston.”

He stopped a few feet away, his gaze dropping briefly to the scholarship badge attached to my bag.

“But you?” he continued quietly. “You’re a scholarship student from a poor background. Lose that, and then what happens?”

Every word landed precisely where it hurt most. My jaw tightened instantly, humiliation burning inside me because I knew he was right—he knew, and I hated him for it.

“What do you want?” I asked. “I’m guessing you want something in return.”

He nodded stiffly before closing the distance between us.

“I want you to model for me, for a private art series,” he said, his gaze locked with mine. “Nude.”

My entire body went rigid.

“What the hell?”

His expression remained frustratingly composed.

“You heard me.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“I’m perfectly serious.”

I let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, stepping backward and putting space between us before I did something stupid, like forget this man was my professor and throw the nearest object at his head.

“You told me to follow you to your office, blackmail me with my scholarship, and now you’re asking me to take my clothes off for you?”

At the word blackmail, something flickered across his face. Almost imperceptible, but I saw it.

His jaw tightened briefly before smoothing over again.

For the first time since this conversation started, something in his composure cracked. Only slightly, though, but it was enough.

“I’m not forcing you to do anything,” he said evenly.

“Oh, please.” I scoffed. “You practically just threatened my future.”

His eyes darkened slightly.

“I just stated the facts. That’s all.”

“Same difference.”

I could hear the distant shuffles of students outside in the hallway. My own heart began to pound too hard beneath my ribs.

Professor Jackson watched me steadily while I tried to piece together how my life had derailed this badly in less than twenty-four hours.

Yesterday morning, I still had a boyfriend.

Now I was standing here, arguing with my lecturer, who happened to be my one-night stand.

“No,” I said finally, my voice firm. “I’m not doing it.”

“You should think carefully before giving me your final answer.”

“I already did,” I responded, my lips set in a thin line.

His gaze lingered on me for a moment.

“I won’t ask twice, Miss Buston.”

“Good.” I adjusted my bag higher onto my shoulder aggressively. “Then you can take your offer and shove it twelve inches up your ass.”

He watched me, one brow lifted lightly.

“I’m serious,” I snapped before he could respond. “I’m not stripping for you, and you can honestly do your worst.”

Heat pulsed through me, the kind that made my hands shake.

I turned sharply toward the door before he could see how badly this conversation was getting under my skin.

Every step away from him felt shaky, but I was determined.

I could survive this.

I’d survived worse.

Maybe.

My fingers had barely touched the door when his voice drifted toward me.

“Scholar and best graduating student of Stanford High, Jasmine Buston, loses her scholarship after having an affair with her professor.”

I paused, my whole body stiffening.

He tsked.

“The headline does sound juicy, don’t you think?”

My grip tightened painfully around the door handle.

For a second, all I could hear was blood rushing loudly through my ears.

This motherfucker.

My jaw tightened.

“I’ll do it,” I said finally, turning toward him again.

He grinned.

“Great choice.”

“But don’t think for a second this means I’m sleeping with you again,” I said immediately, forcing steel back into my tone. “Whatever this arrangement is, that’s not happening.”

A slow smirk touched his mouth.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare.”

The way he said it made heat crawl traitorously beneath my skin.

I looked away before he could notice.

Or worse, before he noticed that despite everything, despite how furious I was, I still wanted him to grab me by the neck and kiss me senseless.

My fingers curled.

“This stays between us.”

“Of course.”

I nodded once. Not because I trusted him, but because I didn’t have much choice.

Then his smile widened.

“Let’s see how long that lasts, sweetheart.”

My stomach tightened. “Excuse me?”

He took a slow step forward.

“Soon enough, you’ll be begging for a repeat of last night.”

I scoffed.

“You’re delusional.”

“Am I?” he asked, brows raised.

The question settled between us.

“Your mind may have forgotten,” he continued quietly, “but your body remembers.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but the words caught somewhere in my throat when his hand brushed lightly against my wrist.

My body betrayed me. Heat rushed through me so suddenly that I hated myself for it.

His eyes darkened with satisfaction.

“See?”

Rage burned inside me hotter than embarrassment. I yanked my hand away and took a step back.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Professor,” I spat harshly.

Yet his smile remained, and my gaze turned into a glare.

Whatever arrangement I’d just agreed to, one thing was certain.

I would rather lose my mind than give him the satisfaction of being right.