The professor

I woke up the next morning to the sound of my alarm blaring. My head throbbed, and my throat felt dry and stuffy.

"Ugh, never again," I groaned, rolling over to hit snooze.

Memories of the night before came back in flashes. Marcus. The tall stranger. The car. The hotel. Everything was not clear enough, the only thing that I truly remembered was his face.

I sat up fast, checking my clothes. I was in my pajamas. Had I walked home? I couldn't remember. I stumbled to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face.

As I patted my skin dry, I caught my reflection in the mirror. There, at the base of my neck, was a mark. It wasn't a purple bruise like a normal hickey. It was a deep, angry red circle with two distinct puncture marks in the center.

"Asshole bit me, but who the fuck bites someone like this, it's called a hickey not a wound" I muttered, touching it. “Ouch,” It felt hot and painful as fuck.

I don't have time for this, I need to coverup now because I'm late with a splitting headache. I covered it with concealer and a turtleneck, grabbed my bag, and ran out the door. I was already late for my first Advanced Law seminar.

I slipped into the lecture hall, keeping my head down as I found a seat in the back row. The room was quiet.

"Glad you could join us, Miss Vance," a voice boomed from the front.

I froze. That voice.

All eyes turned to me, I hate when I'm the center of attention. I looked up. Standing at the podium, wearing a crisp white shirt and glasses that made him look terrifyingly intelligent, was the man from the bar.

"I am Professor Alaric Blackwood," he said, his eyes locking onto mine with zero recognition, only cold authority. "And in this classroom, there are no excuses for being late. See me after class."

My heart hammered against my ribs. It was him. He still looked as handsome as that night, but he looked at me like I was nothing but a smudge on his shoe. I am doomed

I gave a slow nod, looking down at my book, trying to disappear at that moment.

The ninety-minute lecture felt like it was deliberately dragged. I sat in the back row, my hands shaking so hard I couldn’t even take notes. Every time Professor Blackwood spoke, that deep, velvet voice sent a spark straight to my body.

He spoke with so much authority, all the ladies in the classroom kept looking at him with lovey-dovey eyes, well I don't blame them. He paced the front of the room as he spoke, but he never looked at me. Not once. It was like the night in the car—the heat, the tension was nothing, I guess it's better this way, no one needs to know of my foolish mistake.

When the bell finally rang, I scrambled to pack my bag. I just needed to get out of the room. I needed to breathe.

"Miss Vance. A word."

The coldness in his tone stopped me mid-step. The rest of the students filed out, whispering and casting curious glances my way. I waited until the door clicked shut before I turned to face him.

He was sitting at his desk, looking through a folder. He didn't look up.

"Your performance today was pathetic, to say the least," he said, his voice clipped. "You didn't contribute to the discussion. You looked... distracted."

"Distracted?" I marched toward his desk, my temper finally flaring. "You're kidding me, right? You were there. Last night. You chased Marcus away. You took me to your car. You..." I stopped, my face heating up. "You know exactly why I'm distracted."

Alaric finally looked up. Behind his glasses, he gave me a cold stare. "I have no idea what you’re talking about. I spent my evening reviewing case files at the estate. If you’re having personal issues with any boy, keep them out of my lecture hall."

I stared at him, my mouth hanging open. "You’re lying. You’re actually lying to my face. I have the bloody hickey on my neck to prove it!" I moved my clothe apart to give him a clear view

He stood up slowly. He was so much taller than I remembered. He walked around the desk, his presence filling the room until I felt tiny. He stopped just inches away, his cologne sticking out.

"I see a bruise, Elena," he murmured, his voice dropping low. "Perhaps you should be more careful with who you spend your nights with. It looks painful."

"You did this," I whispered, my heart beating against my ribs. "Why are you doing this? Why are you making everything difficult for me like I lost my mind, what do you have to gain?"

"I am doing my job," he said, his gaze dropping to my lips for a split second before snapping back to my eyes. " I don't know what you have stored up in your head, tell me Elena, what do you desire?”

My eyes widened at his question, I had no response immediately, my brain shut down because I don't understand what game he was playing now.

He reached out, his hand hovering near my neck. I froze, my eyes fluttering shut. I expected him to pull away, to keep up the act. Instead, his thumb brushed against the turtleneck I’d used to hide the hickey.

He pulled the fabric down just an inch, his skin making contact with the bruised, sensitive skin.

The contact sent a shiver down my spine, a moan slipped out of my mouth immediately, why is it so sensitive to his touch?

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against the shell of my ear.

"Does it still hurt, Elena?"

The question caught me off guard, the way he said it made me feel some kind of way, I looked at him staring at his eyes as they turned dark, he looked exactly like last night. Before I could even find my voice to answer, he pulled his hand away and straightened his suit jacket.

"We're done for tonight," he said, his voice suddenly ice-cold again as he turned toward the window. "Get out."

I didn't wait. I grabbed my bag and bolted, my skin still screaming from where he’d touched me.