Off Campus

CHAPTER 4

The air inside the city’s central public library smelled of old paper, damp wool, and the faint, bitter tang of industrial cleaning fluid. Rain continued to hammer relentless strokes against the high, arched glass roof three stories above, creating a dull, rhythmic roar that drowned out the quiet rustle of pages turning below.

I sat at the end of a long oak table in the reference section, staring at a set of practice matrices. I hadn't solved a single one in forty-five minutes.

My lips still felt raw. Every time I closed my eyes, the ghost of Adrian’s mouth—the brutal, uncompromising weight of him pressed against me in my mother’s library—flooded back with a physical force that made my stomach drop.

My mother had called early this morning, her voice bright and uncharacteristically cheerful over the kitchen speaker. She had been thrilled by Adrian’s glowing assessment of my "sudden breakthrough," entirely unaware that the breakthrough had taken place on top of her mahogany desk. To ensure I wasn't distracted by household errands over the weekend, she had suggested—and paid for—an extended off-campus prep session.

“Mr. Cole was hesitant, but he agreed to host an intensive four-hour session at his residential study,” she had told me before leaving for the airport. 

“He takes your entrance exams very seriously, Maya. Make sure you match his dedication.”

If only she knew what his dedication looked like.

At precisely two o'clock, the chair opposite mine was pulled back.

Adrian sat down. He wore a heavy dark charcoal overcoat over a simple black crewneck sweater—no suit jacket today, no formal tie, no structured barrier. His dark hair was still slightly damp from the storm outside, curling loosely at his collar instead of being slicked back into its usual severe style.

He didn't say hello. He didn't look me in the eye. He simply unzipped his leather satchel, pulled out a thick bound syllabus, and set it down between us.

"Pack your things," he said. His voice was low, flat, and entirely devoid of warmth, designed to carry no further than the edge of our table.

I blinked, my hand freezing over my notebook. "We just got here."

"The noise level in this section is unacceptable," he replied, his gaze fixed firmly on the syllabus. "And I have no intention of discussing your third-quarter evaluations in a space where half the university's undergraduate body is walking past every five minutes."

"My mother said—"

"I know what your mother said, Maya," Adrian interrupted smoothly. He finally looked up, his grey eyes sweeping over my face with a cold, analytical scrutiny that sent a sharp shiver straight down my spine. There were faint, dark shadows beneath his eyes, as if he hadn't slept any better than I had. "My apartment is three blocks away. It is quiet. It is private. And we will not be interrupted."

The word "private" hung in the air between us like a physical weight, thick and heavy with unspoken memory.

I didn't argue. I swept my pens into my bag, zipped it shut, and pulled my heavy coat over my shoulders.

The walk to his building was conducted in total silence. The rain had turned into a thick, misty drizzle, slanting across the pavement and hanging in the cold air. Adrian walked a step ahead of me, his long strides forcing me to keep a rapid pace. He held his umbrella low, shielding both of us from the wind, but he was careful not to let his shoulder touch mine as we navigated the crowded sidewalk.

His building was an older, stone-fronted Victorian conversion tucked away on a quiet side street near the university quarter. The entryway smelled of polished brass and faint mahogany. He led me up a broad flight of carpeted stairs to the third floor, pulling a heavy brass key from his pocket and unlocking a solid oak door marked 3B.

Inside, the apartment was exactly what I had expected: clean, quiet, and overwhelmingly masculine. High ceilings, dark hardwood floors, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined with dense academic volumes, financial records, and leather-bound texts. A large leather sofa sat before a cold fireplace, and in the corner stood a massive executive desk covered in neat stacks of student papers.

"Coat," he said quietly, reaching out a hand as he closed the door behind us.

I unbuttoned my wet coat and handed it to him. As he took it, his fingers brushed against mine. The contact was brief—less than a second—but a visible tension snapped through his shoulders. He hung both our coats on the rack in the foyer, his movements deliberate, almost painfully slow.

"The kitchen is down the hall if you want water," he said, turning back to face me. He kept a strict six feet of distance between us. "Otherwise, take a seat at the desk. We have four hours."

I didn't move toward the desk. Instead, I dropped my leather handbag onto the rug, stepping into his space until the boundary was gone.

"Are we really going to pretend Thursday night didn't happen?" I asked, my voice cutting through the silent room.

Adrian’s jaw tightened. He didn't step back, but his posture went rigid, his chest expanding with a slow, controlled breath. "Thursday night was a severe lapse in professional judgment. It was my responsibility to maintain boundaries, and I failed. It will not happen again."

"A lapse in judgment?" A small, bitter laugh escaped my throat. "You held me against the desk, Adrian. You looked at me like you wanted to tear my clothes off."

"Maya," he warned, his voice dropping into a harsh, dark gravel. "Do not do this."

"Do what? Call you out?" I took another step forward, my chest nearly touching his black sweater. The heat radiating off him was immense, a magnetic pull that made my head spin. "You're terrified because for five minutes you weren't the brilliant, cold Professor Cole. You were just a man who wanted me."

Adrian’s eyes flared, the cool grey turning into a storm of raw, unadulterated possessiveness.

"You think this is a game," he rasped, his voice vibrating deep in his chest. "You think you can poke at a fire and not expect to get burned?"

"Then burn me," I whispered, reaching out to press my palm directly over his heart.

I could feel it—hammering wildly against his ribs, fast and hard, completely betraying the calm mask he wore so effortlessly.

That was the final thread.

Adrian let out a low, dark growl from the back of his throat. His hand shot out, his fingers catching my wrist and yanking my palm away from his chest, but instead of pushing me back, he pulled me flush against his body. Before I could draw breath, his other hand cupped the back of my neck, tilting my head up as his mouth slammed down on mine.

The kiss was entirely different from the library. There was no hesitation here, no fear of my mother walking through the door, no academic decorum to preserve. It was raw, dominant, and utterly consuming.

I gasped against his lips, and he took total advantage, his tongue sliding past my teeth, tasting me with a deep, possessive hunger that made my knees buckle. I reached up, my arms wrapping around his neck, my fingers tangling into the soft, thick dark hair at the nape of his neck, dragging him closer.

Adrian groaned, a low vibration of surrender that rattled against my ribs. He shifted his grip, his large, warm hands dropping to my hips, lifting me effortlessly off the floor.

I instinctively wrapped my legs around his waist, my skirt riding up my thighs. He carried me three strides back until my shoulders hit the solid oak surface of his front door with a soft thud.

"You have no idea," he breathed against my skin, his mouth leaving mine to trail hot, searing kisses down the slope of my jawline to the sensitive skin beneath my ear. "No idea how much time I’ve spent thinking about this. About you."

His hands slid under the hem of my thin sweater, his bare palms rough and burning against the bare skin of my waist. He pushed the fabric up, his fingers digging into my hips, holding me pinned against the door as he devoured my mouth again. Every touch felt like an electric shock, clearing out two years of anxiety, failure, and self-doubt, replacing it with an intoxicating, addictive heat.

"Adrian," I sobbed his name into the quiet apartment, my head falling back against the wooden door as his mouth moved down to the hollow of my throat, biting softly before soothing the skin with his tongue.

"Tell me to stop," he demanded, his voice thick and wrecked, his breath scorching against my neck. His thumb stroked up the side of my ribs, resting just beneath the wire of my bra. "Maya. Tell me to stop right now, or I swear to God I won't."

I looked down at him, my eyes heavy-lidded, my chest heaving as I looked into the eyes of the man who held my entire academic future—and my body—in his hands.

"Don't you dare stop," I whispered.

Adrian didn't hesitate.

He slid his hands down, supporting my thighs as he carried me across the dark hardwood floor, away from the door, away from the desk, and into the shadowy quiet of his bedroom, leaving every remaining boundary behind.