The Line We Crossed

Aria’s POV:

I didn’t go back to my dorm that night.

I didn’t even remember how I got home.

Wolfe carried me, I think. Wrapped me in one of his expensive trench coats, whispered something low against my hair, and slid me into the backseat of a car I didn’t remember calling.

I still needed more.

More of his touch, more of his body, the way he was looking at me. I still needed it.

This man knew how to torture a woman—like, seriously.

The whole ride, I sat in silence with his jacket smelling like him—leather, spice, power.

I held onto his jacket, dying in my fantasies for his touch.

“Oh my god,” I moaned slowly, as I touched my pussy, playing around my clitoris, my voice barely above a whisper. I couldn’t let the driver hear me.

My thighs were still shaking from the force of what he’d done to me. My voice long gone from how hard I’d screamed his name.

But the thing that haunted me most wasn’t the orgasm.

It was the way he’d looked at me afterward.

Not like a Dean.

Not like a Dom.

Like a man.

Like I belonged to him.

And it turned me on every second, every minute.

I needed to stop thinking about him, or else I didn’t know what would happen. I was too young for all this, but how could I control myself?

---

The next morning, Bellmere didn’t feel the same.

Everything was still perfect on the outside—manicured lawns, early fall leaves, the faint scent of overpriced espresso from the campus café. But I felt like I was walking through it naked.

Because I had no idea what we were anymore.

That afternoon, I got a text from an unknown number.

Rm 207. Now.

Immediately, I knew it was from him, Wolfe. I was happy to see it, like I had been waiting for his message.

My pussy was tingling like a dog that saw its master.

“Eh eh,” I giggled; the thought alone made me laugh.

Even people around the campus were looking at me weirdly, but I couldn't feel ashamed because of him.

I needed to meet him there and then or I would go crazy.

I didn’t hesitate.

When I arrived, the door was ajar. Inside, he wasn’t waiting behind the desk.

He was standing by the window, shirt sleeves rolled, tie loosened.

He looked… tense.

“Close the door,” he said without looking.

I did.

He turned slowly.

And that’s when I saw it: the contract.

A full stack of printed paper. Neat. Formal. The title on top read: Behavioral Agreement for Student Compliance.

“This is for me?” I asked.

“No.”

He stepped closer.

“It’s for us.”

I stared.

“Safewords. Rules. Boundaries. But also privileges. Ownership.”

My mouth went dry. “You want to formalize this?”

He nodded. “If we’re going to keep going, we do it my way. No more games. No more gray lines.”

“And if I say no?”

His jaw flexed. “Then we stop.”

It hit me then—how much control I really had.

But it also scared me.

Because I didn’t want to stop.

I wanted to fall deeper.

So I walked to the table, picked up the pen, and signed it.

But at the very bottom, I added one line:

He’s not allowed to fall in love with me.

When I handed it to him, he didn’t say a word.

He just stared at that line for a long, long time.

Then he folded the paper, locked it in a drawer, and said, “Strip.”

I obeyed.

Had been waiting for him to say that word for a very long time.

I wanted him now, even if he wanted to only punish me, without fucking me today.

I just needed him inside me. I wanted him more than the last time we did it.

I wanted him deeper this time inside me. And I was ready to obey his command.

This time, there were no cuffs. No orders. No toys.

Just hands.

His hands.

And the kind of sex that felt like something had broken open inside both of us.

He walked slowly, each step counting, each step he took was walking closer to my pussy.

The way he looked at me now, like a predator who has his prey in his hands.

As he stopped in front of me.

“I want you now.”

He gently placed his lips on me; the touch sent a shiver down my spine.

He kissed me like I was air.

Held me like I was breakable.

Whispered my name like it hurt him.

He was gently rubbing my nipples like I was his prize, his trophy.

And when we finished, he didn’t pull away.

He just rested his forehead against mine and said, “Tell me you didn’t mean that line.”

I should’ve lied.

But I didn’t.

“I meant every word.”

His jaw tightened. His eyes darkened.

And for the first time since this whole twisted thing began—

He looked devastated.

I had just redressed when the knock came.

Wolfe tensed immediately. His mask snapped back into place like a reflex.

One knock. “Who the hell is that?” I wanted to scream; I wanted to slap anyone behind that door that spoiled this moment for me.

Then another. Louder.

“Get in the closet,” he whispered.

I blinked. “Are you seri—”

“Now, Aria.”

I darted into the narrow supply closet just as the door opened.

“Dean Wolfe,” came a saccharine voice. “We need to talk.”

Sloan Maddox.

I didn’t have to see her to know it was her. The tone, the heels, the calculated pause as she stepped inside.

“What is it, Sloan?” Wolfe asked, voice neutral.

“Oh, nothing urgent. Just thought you’d want to know... word around campus is you’ve been very busy.”

I couldn’t see them, but I imagined her circling him like a vulture in heels.

“I’m not interested in rumors,” he said.

“Funny,” Sloan said. “Because they’re not just rumors. Someone said they saw you escorting a girl out of this building. Late. Intimately.”

Silence.

I held my breath.

“Careful, Sloan,” Wolfe said finally. “Accusations like that come with consequences.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No. It’s a warning.”

Her heels clicked once. Then again. Then silence.

“Well,” she said. “Just thought I’d keep you informed.”

The door closed behind her.

Only then did Wolfe open the closet.

His jaw was tight. His eyes unreadable.

“She knows,” I whispered.

He nodded.

“She’s dangerous.”

He reached out, brushing a thumb across my lip.

“So are you.”

And I didn’t know whether to be terrified or proud of that.